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CHARLOTTE BRONTË AND HER CIRCLE

p. vPREFACE

p. viiCONTENTS

p. xiLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

p. xiiiA BRONTË CHRONOLOGY

Patrick Brontë born Patrick Brontë was born	17 March 1777 17 March 1777
Maria Brontë born Maria Brontë was born	1783 1783
Patrick leaves Ireland for Cambridge Patrick moves from Ireland to Cambridge	1802 1802
Degree of A.B. Bachelor's Degree	1806 1806
Curacy at Wetherfield, Essex Curacy in Wetherfield, Essex	1806 1806
„  Dewsbury Yorks „ Dewsbury, Yorkshire	1809 1809
„  Hartshead-cum-Clifton „ Hartshead-cum-Clifton	1811 1811
Publishes ‘Cottage Poems’ (Halifax) Releases ‘Cottage Poems’ (Halifax)	1811 1811
Married to Maria Branwell Married to Maria Branwell	18 Dec. 1812 18 Dec 1812
First Child, Maria, born First Child, Maria, born	1813 1813
Publishes ‘The Rural Minstrel’ Releases ‘The Rural Minstrel’	1813 1813
Elizabeth born Elizabeth was born	1814 1814
Publishes ‘The Cottage in the Wood’ Releases ‘The Cottage in the Wood’	1815 1815
Curacy at Thornton Curacy at Thornton	1816 1816
Charlotte Brontë born at Thornton Charlotte Brontë was born in Thornton	21 April 1816 April 21, 1816
Patrick Branwell Brontë born Patrick Branwell Brontë was born	1817 1817
Emily Jane Brontë born Emily Jane Brontë was born	1818 1818
‘The Maid of Killarney’ published ‘The Maid of Killarney’ released	1818 1818
p. xivAnne Brontë born Anne Brontë was born	1819 1819
Removal to Incumbency of Haworth Transition to Haworth's Leadership	February 1820 February 1820
Mrs. Brontë died Mrs. Brontë passed away	15 September 1821 15 September 1821
Maria and Elizabeth Brontë at Cowan Bridge Maria and Elizabeth Brontë at Cowan Bridge	July 1824 July 1824
Charlotte and Emily  „  „ Charlotte and Emily	September 1824 September 1824
Leave Cowan Bridge Exit Cowan Bridge	1825 1825
Maria Brontë died Maria Brontë passed away	6 May 1825 6 May 1825
Elizabeth Brontë died Elizabeth Brontë passed away	15 June 1825 15 June 1825
Charlotte Brontë at School, Roe Head Charlotte Brontë at School, Roe Head	January 1831 January 1831
Leaves Roe Head School Exits Roe Head School	1832 1832
First Visit to Ellen Nussey at The Rydings First Visit to Ellen Nussey at The Rydings	September 1832 September 1832
Returns to Roe Head as governess Returns to Roe Head as a governess	29 July 1835 29 July 1835
Branwell visits London Branwell goes to London	1835 1835
Emily spends three months at Roe Head, when Anne takes her place and she returns home Emily spends three months at Roe Head, then Anne takes her spot and she goes home	1835 1835
Ellen Nussey visits Haworth in Holidays Ellen Nussey visits Haworth in Holidays	July 1836 July 1836
Miss Wooler’s School removed to Dewsbury Moor Miss Wooler’s School moved to Dewsbury Moor	1836 1836
Emily at a School at Halifax for six months (Miss Patchet of Law Hill) Emily at a School in Halifax for six months (Miss Patchet of Law Hill)	1836 1836
First Proposal of Marriage (Henry Nussey) First Marriage Proposal (Henry Nussey)	March 1839 March 1839
Anne Brontë becomes governess at Blake Hall, (Mrs. Ingham’s) Anne Brontë becomes a governess at Blake Hall, (Mrs. Ingham’s)	April 1839 April 1839
Charlotte governess at Mrs. Sidgwick’s at Stonegappe, and at Swarcliffe, Harrogate Charlotte was a governess at Mrs. Sidgwick’s in Stonegappe, and at Swarcliffe, Harrogate	1839 1839
p. xvSecond Proposal of Marriage (Mr. Price) p. xvSecond Proposal of Marriage (Mr. Price)	1839 1839
Charlotte and Emily at Haworth, Anne at Blake Hall Charlotte and Emily at Haworth, Anne at Blake Hall	1840 1840
Charlotte’s second situation as governess with Mrs. White, Upperwood House, Rawdon Charlotte’s second job as a governess with Mrs. White, Upperwood House, Rawdon	March 1841 March 1841
Charlotte and Emily go to School at Brussels Charlotte and Emily go to school in Brussels	February 1842 February 1842
Miss Branwell died at Haworth Miss Branwell passed away at Haworth	29 Oct. 1842 29 Oct. 1842
Charlotte and Emily return to Haworth Charlotte and Emily come back to Haworth	Nov. 1842 Nov. 1842
Charlotte returns to Brussels Charlotte goes back to Brussels	Jan. 1843 Jan. 1843
Returns to Haworth Back to Haworth	Jan. 1844 Jan. 1844
Anne and Branwell at Thorp Green Anne and Branwell at Thorp Green	1845 1845
Charlotte visits Mary Taylor at Hounsden Charlotte visits Mary Taylor at Hounsden	1845 1845
Visits Miss Nussey at Brookroyd Visits Miss Nussey at Brookroyd	1845 1845
Publication of Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell Publication of Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell	1846 1846
Charlotte Brontë visits Manchester with her father for him to see an Oculist Charlotte Brontë travels to Manchester with her dad so he can see an eye doctor.	Aug. 1846 Aug. 1846
‘Jane Eyre’ published (Smith & Elder) ‘Jane Eyre’ released (Smith & Elder)	Oct. 1847 Oct. 1847
‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Agnes Grey’, (Newby) ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Agnes Grey’, (Newby)	Dec. 1847 Dec. 1847
Charlotte and Emily visit London Charlotte and Emily go to London	June 1848 June 1848
‘Tenant of Wildfell Hall’ *Tenant of Wildfell Hall*	1848 1848
Branwell died Branwell passed away	24 Sept. 1848 24 Sept. 1848
Emily died Emily passed away	19 Dec. 1848 19 Dec 1848
Anne Brontë died at Scarborough Anne Brontë passed away in Scarborough	28 May 1849 28 May 1849
‘Shirley’ published ‘Shirley’ released	1849 1849
Visit to London, first meeting with Thackeray Visit to London, first meeting with Thackeray	Nov. 1849 Nov. 1849
p. xviVisit to London, sits for Portrait to Richmond p. xviTrip to London, poses for Portrait with Richmond	1850 1850
Third Offer of Marriage (James Taylor) Third Marriage Proposal (James Taylor)	1851 1851
Visit to London for Exhibition Trip to London for Exhibit	1851 1851
‘Villette’ published 'Villette' released	1852 1852
Visit to London Trip to London	1853 1853
Visit to Manchester to Mrs. Gaskell Visit to Manchester to Mrs. Gaskell	1853 1853
Marriage Marriage	29 June 1854 29 June 1854
Death Passing	31 March 1855 31 March 1855
Patrick Brontë died Patrick Brontë passed away	7 June 1861 7 June 1861

p. 1PRELIMINARY: MRS. GASKELL

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘20th November, 1849.

20th November, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—You said that if I wished for any copies p. 4of Shirley to be sent to individuals I was to name the parties.  I have thought of one person to whom I should much like a copy to be offered—Harriet Martineau.  For her character—as revealed in her works—I have a lively admiration, a deep esteem.  Will you inclose with the volume the accompanying note?

'Dear Sir,—You mentioned that if I wanted any copies p. 4of Shirley sent to specific people, I should name them. There's one person I’d really like to receive a copy—Harriet Martineau. I hold her in high regard and have great respect for her character as it shines through in her work. Could you please include the attached note with the volume?'

‘The letter you forwarded this morning was from Mrs. Gaskell, authoress of Mary Barton; she said I was not to answer it, but I cannot help doing so.  The note brought the tears to my eyes.  She is a good, she is a great woman.  Proud am I that I can touch a chord of sympathy in souls so noble.  In Mrs. Gaskell’s nature it mournfully pleases me to fancy a remote affinity to my sister Emily.  In Miss Martineau’s mind I have always felt the same, though there are wide differences.  Both these ladies are above me—certainly far my superiors in attainments and experience.  I think I could look up to them if I knew them.—I am, dear sir, yours sincerely,

'The letter you sent me this morning was from Mrs. Gaskell, the author of Mary Barton; she advised against responding, but I can’t help it. The note brought me to tears. She is a wonderful person, a remarkable woman. I'm proud to connect with such noble spirits. In Mrs. Gaskell, I sadly see a distant resemblance to my sister Emily. I’ve always felt similarly about Miss Martineau, despite their differences. Both women are above me—clearly far superior in abilities and experience. I think I would admire them if I knew them.—I am, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 29th, 1849.

November 29th, 1849.

‘Dear Sir,—I inclose two notes for postage.  The note you sent yesterday was from Harriet Martineau; its contents were more than gratifying.  I ought to be thankful, and I trust I am, for such testimonies of sympathy from the first order of minds.  When Mrs. Gaskell tells me she shall keep my works as a treasure for her daughters, and when Harriet Martineau testifies affectionate approbation, I feel the sting taken from the strictures of another class of critics.  My resolution of seclusion withholds me from communicating further with these ladies at present, but I now know how they are inclined to me—I know how my writings have affected their wise and pure minds.  The knowledge is present support and, perhaps, may be future armour.

Dear Sir,—I’m including two notes for mailing. The note you sent yesterday was from Harriet Martineau; it was more than gratifying. I should be thankful, and I hope I am, for such expressions of support from such esteemed individuals. When Mrs. Gaskell tells me she will cherish my works for her daughters, and when Harriet Martineau shows her warm approval, I feel less affected by the harsh criticisms from another group. My decision to withdraw means I can't communicate further with these women right now, but I understand their feelings towards me—I realize how my writings have impacted their wise and pure minds. This understanding provides current support and may serve as future protection.

‘I trust Mrs. Williams’s health and, consequently, your spirits are by this time quite restored.  If all be well, perhaps I shall see you next week.—Yours sincerely,

‘I hope Mrs. Williams is feeling better, and consequently, your spirits are lifted as well. If all is well, maybe I’ll see you next week.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 5TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 5TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘January 1st, 1850.

January 1st, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—May I beg that a copy of Wuthering Heights may be sent to Mrs. Gaskell; her present address is 3 Sussex Place, Regent’s Park.  She has just sent me the Moorland Cottage.  I felt disappointed about the publication of that book, having hoped it would be offered to Smith, Elder & Co.; but it seems she had no alternative, as it was Mr. Chapman himself who asked her to write a Christmas book.  On my return home yesterday I found two packets from Cornhill directed in two well-known hands waiting for me.  You are all very very good.

My dear Sir,—Could you please send a copy of Wuthering Heights to Mrs. Gaskell? Her address is 3 Sussex Place, Regent’s Park. She just sent me Moorland Cottage, and I was a bit disappointed by its publication because I had hoped it would go to Smith, Elder & Co.; but it turns out she had no choice, as Mr. Chapman asked her to write a Christmas book. When I got home yesterday, I found two packages from Cornhill waiting for me, addressed in familiar handwriting. You are all so kind.

‘I trust to have derived benefit from my visit to Miss Martineau.  A visit more interesting I certainly never paid.  If self-sustaining strength can be acquired from example, I ought to have got good.  But my nature is not hers; I could not make it so though I were to submit it seventy times seven to the furnace of affliction, and discipline it for an age under the hammer and anvil of toil and self-sacrifice.  Perhaps if I was like her I should not admire her so much as I do.  She is somewhat absolute, though quite unconsciously so; but she is likewise kind, with an affection at once abrupt and constant, whose sincerity you cannot doubt.  It was delightful to sit near her in the evenings and hear her converse, myself mute.  She speaks with what seems to me a wonderful fluency and eloquence.  Her animal spirits are as unflagging as her intellectual powers.  I was glad to find her health excellent.  I believe neither solitude nor loss of friends would break her down.  I saw some faults in her, but somehow I liked them for the sake of her good points.  It gave me no pain to feel insignificant, mentally and corporeally, in comparison with her.

“I believe I gained a lot from my visit with Miss Martineau. It was surely the most interesting visit I’ve ever had. If we can draw self-sustaining strength from others’ examples, I should have benefited greatly. But I’m not like her; no matter how much hardship I’ve endured or how hard I’ve worked and made sacrifices, I couldn’t change who I am. Maybe if I were more like her, I wouldn’t admire her as much as I do. She has a powerful presence, though she’s unaware of it; still, she's kind, offering quick and consistent affection that feels authentic. It was lovely to sit with her in the evenings and listen to her speak while I remained silent. She communicates with incredible fluency and eloquence. Her energy matches her intellect and never seems to fade. I was glad to see her health is excellent. I don’t think solitude or losing friends would affect her much. I noticed some flaws in her, but strangely, I appreciated those because of her good qualities. It didn’t bother me to feel small, both mentally and physically, next to her.”

‘Trusting that you and yours are well, and sincerely wishing you all a happy new year,—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Hoping that you and your family are doing well, and genuinely wishing you a happy new year,—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘The Briery, Windermere,
‘August 10th, 1850.

‘The Briery, Windermere,
August 10th, 1850.

‘Dear Papa,—I reached this place yesterday evening at eight p. 6o’clock, after a safe though rather tedious journey.  I had to change carriages three times and to wait an hour and a half at Lancaster.  Sir James came to meet me at the station; both he and Lady Shuttleworth gave me a very kind reception.  This place is exquisitely beautiful, though the weather is cloudy, misty, and stormy; but the sun bursts out occasionally and shows the hills and the lake.  Mrs. Gaskell is coming here this evening, and one or two other people.  Miss Martineau, I am sorry to say, I shall not see, as she is already gone from home for the autumn.

Dear Dad,—I arrived here yesterday evening at eight p. 6o’clock, after a long but safe journey. I had to switch trains three times and wait an hour and a half in Lancaster. Sir James met me at the station, and both he and Lady Shuttleworth gave me a warm welcome. This place is incredibly beautiful, even with the cloudy, misty, and stormy weather; but the sun sometimes breaks through, revealing the hills and the lake. Mrs. Gaskell is coming over this evening, along with a couple of other people. Unfortunately, I won't get to see Miss Martineau since she has already left for autumn.

‘Be kind enough to write by return of post and tell me how you are getting on and how you are.  Give my kind regards to Tabby and Martha, and—Believe me, dear papa, your affectionate daughter,

‘Please be kind enough to reply by return mail and let me know how you’re doing and how things are going. Send my best to Tabby and Martha, and—Believe me, dear Dad, your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘Lady Shuttleworth never got out, being confined to the house with a cold; but fortunately there was Mrs. Gaskell, the authoress of Mary Barton, who came to the Briery the day after me.  I was truly glad of her companionship.  She is a woman of the most genuine talent, of cheerful, pleasing, and cordial manners, and, I believe, of a kind and good heart.’

‘Lady Shuttleworth couldn’t go out because she was stuck at home with a cold; fortunately, Mrs. Gaskell, the author of Mary Barton, arrived at the Briery the day after I did. I was really glad to have her company. She’s a genuinely talented woman with a cheerful, lovely, and warm personality, and I believe she has a kind and good heart.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 20th, 1850.

‘September 20th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I herewith send you a very roughly written copy of what I have to say about my sisters.  When you have read it you can better judge whether the word “Notice” or “Memoir” is the most appropriate.  I think the former.  Memoir seems to me to express a more circumstantial and different sort of account.  My aim is to give a just idea of their identity, not to write any narration of their simple, uneventful lives.  I depend on you for faithfully pointing out whatever may strike you as faulty.  I could not write it in the conventional form—that I found impossible.

My dear Sir,—I’m sending you a rough draft of my thoughts about my sisters. Once you’ve read it, you’ll be better able to decide whether "Notice" or "Memoir" fits best. I prefer the former. "Memoir" seems to imply a more detailed and different kind of account. My goal is to genuinely convey who they are, not to tell a story about their simple, uneventful lives. I rely on you to point out anything you think is off. I couldn’t write it in the traditional way—that just didn’t work for me.

‘It gives me real pleasure to hear of your son’s success.  I p. 7trust he may persevere and go on improving, and give his parents cause for satisfaction and honest pride.

I'm really happy to hear about your son’s success. I p. 7hope he continues to work hard and keeps improving, giving his parents reasons to feel satisfied and truly proud.

‘I am truly pleased, too, to learn that Miss Kavanagh has managed so well with Mr. Colburn.  Her position seems to me one deserving of all sympathy.  I often think of her.  Will her novel soon be published?  Somehow I expect it to be interesting.

‘I’m really glad to hear that Miss Kavanagh has done so well with Mr. Colburn. Her situation seems to deserve all the sympathy. I often think about her. Will her novel be published soon? I expect it will be interesting.

‘I certainly did hope that Mrs. Gaskell would offer her next work to Smith & Elder.  She and I had some conversation about publishers—a comparison of our literary experiences was made.  She seemed much struck with the differences between hers and mine, though I did not enter into details or tell her all.  Unless I greatly mistake, she and you and Mr. Smith would get on well together; but one does not know what causes there may be to prevent her from doing as she would wish in such a case.  I think Mr. Smith will not object to my occasionally sending her any of the Cornhill books that she may like to see.  I have already taken the liberty of lending her Wordsworth’s Prelude, as she was saying how much she wished to have the opportunity of reading it.

‘I truly hoped that Mrs. Gaskell would choose to work with Smith & Elder for her next project. We talked about publishers and compared our experiences as writers. She seemed quite intrigued by the differences between her experiences and mine, though I didn’t go into details or share everything. Unless I’m mistaken, she, you, and Mr. Smith would get along well; but it’s hard to know what might prevent her from pursuing what she really wants in such a situation. I think Mr. Smith wouldn’t mind if I occasionally lent her any of the Cornhill books she’d like to check out. I've already taken the liberty of lending her Wordsworth’s Prelude, as she mentioned wanting to read it so much.

‘I do not tack remembrances to Mrs. Williams and your daughters and Miss Kavanagh to all my letters, because that makes an empty form of what should be a sincere wish, but I trust this mark of courtesy and regard, though rarely expressed, is always understood.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I don’t always send greetings to Mrs. Williams, your daughters, and Miss Kavanagh in my letters because it turns genuine sentiment into a routine gesture. However, I hope this sign of respect and care, though seldom voiced, is always understood.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MRS. GASKELL, Manchester

TO MRS. GASKELL, Manchester

‘Haworth, April 14th, 1853.

‘Haworth, April 14th, 1853.

‘My dear Mrs. Gaskell,—Would it suit you if I were to come next Thursday, the 21st?

My dear Mrs. Gaskell,—Would it work for you if I came next Thursday, the 21st?

‘If that day tallies with your convenience, and if my father continues as well as he is now, I know of no engagement on my part which need compel me longer to defer the pleasure of seeing you.

‘If that day is good for you, and if my father is still doing as well as he is now, I don’t have any plans that would stop me from the pleasure of seeing you any longer.

p. 8‘I should arrive by the train which reaches Manchester at 7 o’clock p.m.  That, I think, would be about your tea-time, and, of course, I should dine before leaving home.  I always like evening for an arrival; it seems more cosy and pleasant than coming in about the busy middle of the day.  I think if I stay a week that will be a very long visit; it will give you time to get well tired of me.

p. 8“I should arrive by the train that gets to Manchester at 7 o’clock p.m. That should be around your tea time, and of course, I’ll have dinner before I leave home. I always prefer arriving in the evening; it feels cozier and nicer than coming in during the busy day. I think if I stay for a week, that’ll be quite a long visit; it’ll give you enough time to get well tired of me.”

‘Remember me very kindly to Mr. Gaskell and Marianna.  As to Mesdames Flossy and Julia, those venerable ladies are requested beforehand to make due allowance for the awe with which they will be sure to impress a diffident admirer.  I am sorry I shall not see Meta.—Believe me, my dear Mrs. Gaskell, yours affectionately and sincerely,

‘Please send my warm regards to Mr. Gaskell and Marianna. As for Mesdames Flossy and Julia, those distinguished ladies are kindly asked to think about the awe they are sure to inspire in a shy admirer. I regret that I won’t be seeing Meta. —Believe me, my dear Mrs. Gaskell, yours affectionately and sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, September 8th.

‘Haworth, September 8th.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your letter was truly kind, and made me warmly wish to join you.  My prospects, however, of being able to leave home continue very unsettled.  I am expecting Mrs. Gaskell next week or the week after, the day being yet undetermined.  She was to have come in June, but then my severe attack of influenza rendered it impossible that I should receive or entertain her.  Since that time she has been absent on the Continent with her husband and two eldest girls; and just before I received yours I had a letter from her volunteering a visit at a vague date, which I requested her to fix as soon as possible.  My father has been much better during the last three or four days.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your letter was very kind and made me wish I could be with you. However, I’m still unsure about my ability to leave home. I’m expecting Mrs. Gaskell to visit next week or the week after, but the exact date hasn’t been set yet. She was supposed to come in June, but my serious case of the flu made it impossible for me to host her. Since then, she’s been traveling in Europe with her husband and two oldest daughters; just before I received your letter, I got one from her suggesting a visit at an unspecified time, which I asked her to clarify as soon as possible. My father has been feeling much better over the last three or four days.

‘When I know anything certain I will write to you again.—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours respectfully and affectionately,

‘When I have any confirmed news, I will write to you again.—Trust me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours respectfully and affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO REV. A. B. NICHOLLS

TO REV. A. B. NICHOLLS

‘Brookroyd, June 6th, 1855.

‘Brookroyd, June 6th, 1855.

‘Dear Mr. Nicholls,—I have been much hurt and pained by the perusal of an article in Sharpe for this month, entitled “A Few Words about Jane Eyre.”  You will be certain to see the article, and I am sure both you and Mr. Brontë will feel acutely the misrepresentations and the malignant spirit which characterises it.  Will you suffer the article to pass current without any refutations?  The writer merits the contempt of silence, but there will be readers and believers.  Shall such be left to imbibe a tissue of malignant falsehoods, or shall an attempt be made to do justice to one who so highly deserved justice, whose very name those who best knew her but speak with reverence and affection?  Should not her aged father be defended from the reproach the writer coarsely attempts to bring upon him?

Dear Mr. Nicholls,—I have been genuinely hurt and upset by an article in Sharpe this month titled “A Few Words about Jane Eyre.” You will definitely see the article, and I’m sure both you and Mr. Brontë will be deeply affected by its misrepresentations and malicious tone. Will you let this article circulate without any responses? The writer deserves to be ignored, but some readers will believe it. Should we allow them to absorb a web of harmful lies, or should we try to correct the record for someone who truly deserves it, whose name those who knew her speak of with respect and love? Shouldn’t we protect her aging father from the disgrace the writer crudely tries to impose on him?

‘I wish Mrs. Gaskell, who is every way capable, would undertake a reply, and would give a sound castigation to the writer.  Her personal acquaintance with Haworth, the Parsonage, and its inmates, fits her for the task, and if on other p. 11subjects she lacked information I would gladly supply her with facts sufficient to set aside much that is asserted, if you yourself are not provided with all the information that is needed on the subjects produced.  Will you ask Mrs. Gaskell to undertake this just and honourable defence?  I think she would do it gladly.  She valued dear Charlotte, and such an act of friendship, performed with her ability and power, could only add to the laurels she has already won.  I hope you and Mr. Brontë are well.  My kind regards to both.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I wish Mrs. Gaskell, who is more than capable, would respond and properly scold the writer. Her personal knowledge of Haworth, the Parsonage, and its residents makes her ideal for the job, and if she lacks details on other subjects, I would be happy to provide her with enough information to challenge much of what is claimed, unless you already have all the necessary information on the topics discussed. Will you ask Mrs. Gaskell to take on this just and honorable defense? I believe she would be willing to do it. She cherished dear Charlotte, and such an act of friendship, carried out with her skill and influence, would only enhance her already earned recognition. I hope you and Mr. Brontë are doing well. Best regards to both.—Yours sincerely,

‘E. Nussey.’

‘E. Nussey.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, June 11th, 1855.

‘Haworth, June 11th, 1855.

‘Dear Miss Nussey,—We had not seen the article in Sharpe, and very possibly should not, if you had not directed our attention to it.  We ordered a copy, and have now read the “Few Words about Jane Eyre.”  The writer has certainly made many mistakes, but apparently not from any unkind motive, as he professes to be an admirer of Charlotte’s works, pays a just tribute to her genius, and in common with thousands deplores her untimely death.  His design seems rather to be to gratify the curiosity of the multitude in reference to one who had made such a sensation in the literary world.  But even if the article had been of a less harmless character, we should not have felt inclined to take any notice of it, as by doing so we should have given it an importance which it would not otherwise have obtained.  Charlotte herself would have acted thus; and her character stands too high to be injured by the statements in a magazine of small circulation and little influence—statements which the writer prefaces with the remark that he does not vouch for their accuracy.  The many laudatory notices of Charlotte and her works which appeared since her death may well make us indifferent to the detractions of a few envious or malignant persons, as there ever will be such.

Dear Miss Nussey,—We hadn’t seen the article in Sharpe, and we probably wouldn't have if you hadn’t pointed it out to us. We ordered a copy and have now read “A Few Words about Jane Eyre.” The writer has definitely made several errors, but it doesn’t seem like he meant any harm, as he claims to admire Charlotte's works, acknowledges her talent fairly, and, like many, mourns her tragic passing. His goal seems to be more about satisfying the public's curiosity about someone who stirred the literary world. However, even if the article had been less benign, we wouldn’t feel the need to respond, as that would only give it more significance than it deserves. Charlotte herself would have approached it this way; her reputation is too strong to be tarnished by claims in a magazine with a small readership and limited influence—especially when the writer begins by saying he can’t guarantee their accuracy. The many positive reviews of Charlotte and her works that have appeared since her death should make us dismissive of the criticisms from a few envious or spiteful individuals, as such people will always exist.

‘The remarks respecting Mr. Brontë excited in him only amusement—indeed, I have not seen him laugh as much for p. 12some months as he did while I was reading the article to him.  We are both well in health, but lonely and desolate.

‘The comments about Mr. Brontë only amused him—honestly, I haven't seen him laugh this much in months while I was reading the article to him. We're both healthy, but feeling lonely and down.’

‘Mr. Brontë unites with me in kind regards.—Yours sincerely,

‘Mr. Brontë joins me in sending warm regards.—Yours sincerely,

‘A. B. Nicholls.’

‘A. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, July 24th, 1855.

‘Haworth, July 24th, 1855.

‘Dear Miss Nussey,—Some other erroneous notices of Charlotte having appeared, Mr. Brontë has deemed it advisable that some authentic statement should be put forth.  He has therefore adopted your suggestion and applied to Mrs. Gaskell, who has undertaken to write a life of Charlotte.  Mrs. Gaskell came over yesterday and spent a few hours with us.  The greatest difficulty seems to be in obtaining materials to show the development of Charlotte’s character.  For this reason Mrs. Gaskell is anxious to see her letters, especially those of any early date.  I think I understood you to say that you had some; if so, we should feel obliged by your letting us have any that you may think proper, not for publication, but merely to give the writer an insight into her mode of thought.  Of course they will be returned after a little time.

‘Dear Miss Nussey,—Since some inaccurate reports about Charlotte have surfaced, Mr. Brontë thinks it's a good idea to release an accurate statement. He's taken your suggestion and reached out to Mrs. Gaskell, who has agreed to write a biography of Charlotte. Mrs. Gaskell visited us yesterday and spent a few hours with us. The biggest challenge seems to be gathering materials to illustrate Charlotte’s character development. Because of this, Mrs. Gaskell is eager to see her letters, especially any from her early years. I believe you mentioned that you have some; if that's the case, we would greatly appreciate it if you could share any that you feel are appropriate, not for publication, but just to give the writer insight into her way of thinking. Of course, they will be returned after a short period.

‘I confess that the course most consonant with my own feelings would be to take no steps in the matter, but I do not think it right to offer any opposition to Mr. Brontë’s wishes.

‘I confess that the path that feels most right to me would be to not get involved, but I don’t think it’s fair to go against Mr. Brontë’s wishes.

‘We have the same object in view, but should differ in our mode of proceeding.  Mr. Brontë has not been very well.  Excitement on Sunday (our Rush-bearing) and Mrs. Gaskell’s visit yesterday have been rather much for him.—Believe me, sincerely yours,

‘We have the same goal in mind, but we may approach it differently. Mr. Brontë hasn't been feeling very well. The excitement from Sunday (our Rush-bearing) and Mrs. Gaskell’s visit yesterday have been quite a lot for him.—Trust me, sincerely yours,

‘A. B. Nicholls.’

‘A. B. Nicholls.’

p. 13TO MRS. GASKELL, Manchester

p. 13TO MRS. GASKELL, Manchester

‘Ilkley, July 26th, 1855.

‘Ilkley, July 26th, 1855.

‘My dear Madam,—Owing to my absence from home your letter has only just reached me.  I had not heard of Mr. Brontë’s request, but I am most heartily glad that he has made it.  A letter from Mr. Nicholls was forwarded along with yours, which I opened first, and was thus prepared for your communication, the subject of which is of the deepest interest to me.  I will do everything in my power to aid the righteous work you have undertaken, but I feel my powers very limited, and apprehend that you may experience some disappointment that I cannot contribute more largely the information which you desire.  I possess a great many letters (for I have destroyed but a small portion of the correspondence), but I fear the early letters are not such as to unfold the character of the writer except in a few points.  You perhaps may discover more than is apparent to me.  You will read them with a purpose—I perused them only with interests of affection.  I will immediately look over the correspondence, and I promise to let you see all that I can confide to your friendly custody.  I regret that my absence from home should have made it impossible for me to have the pleasure of seeing you at Brookroyd at the time you propose.  I am engaged to stay here till Monday week, and shall be happy to see you any day you name after that date, or, if more convenient to you to come Friday or Saturday in next week, I will gladly return in time to give you the meeting.  I am staying with our schoolmistress, Miss Wooler, in this place.  I wish her very much to give me leave to ask you here, but she does not yield to my wishes; it would have been pleasanter to me to talk with you among these hills than sitting in my home and thinking of one who had so often been present there.—I am, my dear madam, yours sincerely,

My dear Madam,—Since I’ve been away from home, your letter just reached me. I hadn’t heard about Mr. Brontë’s request, but I’m really glad he made it. A letter from Mr. Nicholls was sent along with yours, which I opened first, so I was prepared for your message, which is something I care deeply about. I’ll do everything I can to support the important work you’ve taken on, but I feel my resources are very limited, and I worry you might be disappointed that I can’t provide more of the information you want. I have a lot of letters (I’ve only destroyed a small part of the correspondence), but I’m afraid the early letters won’t reveal much about the writer except in a few ways. You might notice more than I do. You’ll read them with a purpose—I read them with feelings of affection. I’ll start looking through the correspondence right away, and I promise to share all that I can trust to your kind care. I’m sorry that my being away has made it impossible for me to enjoy seeing you at Brookroyd at the time you suggested. I’m committed to staying here until the Monday after next, but I’d be happy to see you on any day you choose after that, or if it’s more convenient for you to come on Friday or Saturday next week, I’d gladly return in time for our meeting. I’m staying with our schoolmistress, Miss Wooler, here. I really wish she would let me invite you over, but she hasn’t agreed to my wishes; it would have been nicer for me to chat with you among these hills than sitting at home thinking of someone who has often been there. —I am, my dear madam, yours sincerely,

‘Ellen Nussey.’

‘Ellen Nussey.’

TO MRS. GASKELL, Manchester

TO MRS. GASKELL, Manchester

‘Brookroyd, October 22nd, 1856.

‘Brookroyd, October 22nd, 1856.

‘My dear Mrs. Gaskell,—If you go to London pray try what may be done with regard to a portrait of dear Charlotte.  It would greatly enhance the value and interest of the memoir, and be such a satisfaction to people to see something that would settle their ideas of the personal appearance of the dear departed one.  It has been a surprise to every stranger, I think, that she was so gentle and lady-like to look upon.

My dear Mrs. Gaskell,—If you go to London, please see what can be done about getting a portrait of our dear Charlotte. It would really enhance the value and appeal of the memoir, and it would bring so much comfort to people to see something that would give them a clearer idea of how she looked. I think everyone is surprised that she had such a gentle and graceful appearance.

‘Emily Brontë went to Roe Head as pupil when Charlotte went as teacher; she stayed there but two months; she never settled, and was ill from nothing but home-sickness.  Anne took her place and remained about two years.  Emily was a teacher for one six months in a ladies’ school in Halifax or the neighbourhood.  I do not know whether it was conduct or want of finances that prevented Branwell from going to the Royal Academy.  Probably there were impediments of both kinds.

‘Emily Brontë went to Roe Head as a student when Charlotte went to teach there; she only stayed for two months because she never settled in and was homesick. Anne took her place and stayed for about two years. Emily worked as a teacher for six months at a ladies’ school in Halifax or nearby. I'm not sure if it was problems with behavior or a lack of funds that prevented Branwell from attending the Royal Academy. There were probably challenges from both sides.

‘I am afraid if you give me my name I shall feel a prominence in the book that I altogether shrink from.  My very last wish would be to appear in the book more than is absolutely necessary.  If it were possible, I would choose not to be known at all.  It is my friend only that I care to see and recognise, though your framing and setting of the picture will very greatly enhance its value.—I am, my dear Mrs. Gaskell, yours very sincerely,

‘I’m worried that if you include my name, it will draw attention to me in the book, something I want to avoid. My last wish would be to appear in the book any more than necessary. If it were possible, I would prefer not to be recognized at all. It’s only my friend that I want to see remembered and honored, even though your framing and presentation of the picture will greatly increase its value.—I am, my dear Mrs. Gaskell, yours very sincerely,

‘Ellen Nussey.’

‘Ellen Nussey.’

‘Let me renew our long interrupted acquaintance,’ he writes from St. Leonards, under date May 14th, 1857, ‘by complimenting you on poor Miss Brontë’s Life.  You have had a delicate and a great work to do, and you have done it admirably.  Be sure that the book will do good.  It will shame literary people into some stronger belief that a simple, virtuous, practical home life is consistent with high imaginative genius; and it will shame, too, the prudery of a not over cleanly though carefully white-washed age, into believing that purity is now (as in all ages till now) quite compatible with the knowledge of evil.  I confess that the book has made me ashamed of myself.  Jane Eyre I hardly looked into, very seldom reading a work of fiction—yours, indeed, and Thackeray’s, are the only ones I care to open.  Shirley disgusted me at the opening, and I gave up the writer and her books with a notion that she was a person who liked coarseness.  How I misjudged her! and how thankful I am that I never put a word of my misconceptions into print, or recorded my misjudgments of one who is a whole heaven above me.

“Let me reconnect after our long break,” he writes from St. Leonards on May 14th, 1857. “I want to start by praising you for poor Miss Brontë’s Life. You had a delicate and important task, and you handled it beautifully. Rest assured, the book will have a positive effect. It will encourage literary people to believe more firmly that a simple, virtuous, practical home life can exist alongside exceptional imaginative talent; and it will also challenge the prudishness of a polished yet imperfect era to accept that purity is, as it has always been, perfectly compatible with the awareness of evil. I have to admit that the book has made me feel embarrassed about myself. I hardly glanced at Jane Eyre, as I rarely read fiction—yours and Thackeray’s are really the only ones I bother to open. Shirley turned me off from the very beginning, and I dismissed the author and her work, thinking she was someone who enjoyed crudeness. How wrong I was! And how grateful I am that I never published any of my misunderstandings or criticized someone who is so far above me.”

‘Well have you done your work, and given us the picture of a valiant woman made perfect by suffering.  I shall now read carefully and lovingly every word she has written, especially those poems, which ought not to have fallen dead as they did, and which seem to be (from a review in the current Fraser) of remarkable strength and purity.’

“You’ve done a fantastic job with your work, giving us the picture of a brave woman shaped by her suffering. I will now read every word she has written carefully and with love, especially those poems, which shouldn’t have faded away as they did, and which seem to be (according to a review in the current Fraser) remarkably strong and pure.”

‘Haworth, August 17th, 1857.

‘Haworth, August 17th, 1857.

‘I beg leave to state to all whom it may concern, that Nancy and Sarah Garrs, during the time they were in my service, were kind to my children, and honest, and not wasteful, but p. 18sufficiently careful in regard to food, and all other articles committed to their charge.

‘I want to let everyone know that Nancy and Sarah Garrs, during their time working for me, were kind to my children, honest, not wasteful, and sufficiently careful with food and all other items that were entrusted to them. p. 18

P. Brontë, A.B.,
‘Incumbent of Haworth, Yorkshire.’

P. Brontë, A.B.,
‘Incumbent of Haworth, Yorkshire.’

‘Wellington, 30th July 1857.

‘Wellington, 30th July 1857.

‘My dear Mrs. Gaskell,—I am unaccountably in receipt by post of two vols. containing the Life of C. Brontë.  I have pleasure in attributing this compliment to you; I beg, therefore, to thank you for them.  The book is a perfect success, in giving a true picture of a melancholy life, and you have p. 22practically answered my puzzle as to how you would give an account of her, not being at liberty to give a true description of those around.  Though not so gloomy as the truth, it is perhaps as much so as people will accept without calling it exaggerated, and feeling the desire to doubt and contradict it.  I have seen two reviews of it.  One of them sums it up as “a life of poverty and self-suppression,” the other has nothing to the purpose at all.  Neither of them seems to think it a strange or wrong state of things that a woman of first-rate talents, industry, and integrity should live all her life in a walking nightmare of “poverty and self-suppression.”  I doubt whether any of them will.

Dear Mrs. Gaskell,—I unexpectedly received two volumes by mail containing the Life of C. Brontë. I’m glad to attribute this kind gesture to you; thank you for them. The book successfully presents a genuine portrayal of a difficult life, and you have p. 22 almost answered my question about how you would tell her story, given that you couldn’t accurately describe those around her. While it may not be as dire as the reality, it’s probably as grim as people will accept before arguing that it’s exaggerated. I’ve seen two reviews. One summarizes it as “a life of poverty and self-suppression,” while the other strays completely off topic. Neither seems to find it strange or wrong that a woman with exceptional talent, hard work, and integrity would spend her life caught in a constant nightmare of “poverty and self-suppression.” I’m not sure any of them will.

‘It must upset most people’s notions of beauty to be told that the portrait at the beginning is that of an ugly woman. [22]  I do not altogether like the idea of publishing a flattered likeness.  I had rather the mouth and eyes had been nearer together, and shown the veritable square face and large disproportionate nose.

‘It must disturb most people's ideas of beauty to be told that the portrait at the beginning is of an unattractive woman. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ I don’t really like the idea of publishing an overly flattering likeness. I would have preferred the mouth and eyes to have been closer together, showing the true square face and the large, mismatched nose.'

‘I had the impression that Cartwright’s mill was burnt in 1820 not in 1812.  You give much too favourable an account of the black-coated and Tory savages that kept the people down, and provoked excesses in those days.  Old Robertson said he “would wade to the knees in blood rather than the then state of things should be altered,”—a state including Corn law, Test law, and a host of other oppressions.

‘I thought that Cartwright’s mill was burned in 1820, not in 1812. You’re presenting an overly positive view of the black-coated Tory elites who oppressed the people and incited violence back then. Old Robertson said he “would wade to the knees in blood rather than let the state of things change,”—a situation that included the Corn Laws, the Test Acts, and many other forms of oppression.

‘Once more I thank you for the book—the first copy, I believe, that arrived in New Zealand.—Sincerely yours,

‘Once again, thank you for the book—the first copy, I think, that arrived in New Zealand.—Sincerely yours,

‘Mary Taylor.’

‘Mary Taylor.’

‘Your account of Mrs. Gaskell’s book was very interesting,’ she says.  ‘She seems a hasty, impulsive person, and the p. 23needful drawing back after her warmth gives her an inconsistent look.  Yet I doubt not her book will be of great use.  You must be aware that many strange notions as to the kind of person Charlotte really was will be done away with by a knowledge of the true facts of her life.  I have heard imperfectly of farther printing on the subject.  As to the mutilated edition that is to come, I am sorry for it.  Libellous or not, the first edition was all true, and except the declamation all, in my opinion, useful to be published.  Of course I don’t know how far necessity may make Mrs. Gaskell give them up.  You know one dare not always say the world moves.’

"Your thoughts on Mrs. Gaskell’s book were really interesting," she says. "She seems like a hasty, impulsive person, and her need to pull back after her enthusiasm gives her an inconsistent vibe. Still, I have no doubt her book will be very helpful. You have to understand that a lot of strange ideas about what Charlotte was really like will be cleared up by knowing the true facts of her life. I’ve heard some talk about further printing on the topic. As for the edited version that’s coming out, I’m sorry about that. Whether it’s slanderous or not, the first edition was completely true, and aside from the ranting, all of it was worth publishing, in my opinion. Of course, I don’t know how much necessity might force Mrs. Gaskell to compromise. You know, one can’t always say the world is moving forward."

‘The four small scraps of Emily and Anne’s manuscript,’ writes Mr. Nicholls, ‘I found in the small box I send you; the others I found in the bottom of a cupboard tied up in a newspaper, where they had lain for nearly thirty years, and where, had it not been for your visit, they must have remained during my lifetime, and most likely afterwards have been destroyed.’

“I found the four small pieces of Emily and Anne’s manuscript,” Mr. Nicholls writes, “in the small box I’m sending you. The others I discovered at the bottom of a cupboard, wrapped in a newspaper, where they’d been for nearly thirty years. If it hadn’t been for your visit, they would have remained there for my entire life and probably been destroyed afterward.”

p. 27CHAPTER I: PATRICK BRONTË AND MARIA HIS WIFE

an extract of the christian’s pattern: or, a treatise on the imitation of christ.  written in latin by thomas à kempis.  abridged and published in english by john wesley, m.a., london.  printed at the conference office, north green, finsbury square.  g. story, agent.  sold by g. whitfield, city road.  1803.  price bound 1s.

an extract of the Christian’s pattern: or, a treatise on the imitation of Christ. written in Latin by Thomas à Kempis. abridged and published in English by John Wesley, M.A., London. printed at the conference office, North Green, Finsbury Square. G. Story, agent. sold by G. Whitfield, City Road. 1803. price bound 1s.

‘C. Brontë’s book.  This book was given to me in July 1826.  It is not certainly known who is the author, but it is generally supposed that Thomas à Kempis is.  I saw a reward of £10,000 offered in the Leeds Mercury to any one who could find out for a certainty who is the author.’

C. Brontë’s book. I received this book in July 1826. The author isn’t definitely known, but it’s widely thought to be Thomas à Kempis. I noticed a £10,000 reward posted in the Leeds Mercury for anyone who can definitively identify the author.

‘A few days since, a little incident happened which curiously touched me.  Papa put into my hands a little packet of letters and papers, telling me that they were mamma’s, and that I might read them.  I did read them, in a frame of mind I cannot describe.  The papers were yellow with time, all having been written before I was born.  It was strange now to peruse, for the first time, the records of a mind whence my own sprang; and most strange, and at once sad and sweet, to find that mind of a truly fine, pure, and elevated order.  They were written to papa before they were married.  There is a rectitude, a refinement, a constancy, a modesty, a sense, a gentleness about them indescribable.  I wish she had lived, and that I had known her.’

A few days ago, something happened that really moved me. Dad gave me a small bundle of letters and papers, saying they were Mom’s and that I could read them. I read them and felt something I can't quite put into words. The papers were old and yellowed, all written before I was born. It was strange to read the thoughts of someone whose mind I came from for the first time; even stranger, and both sad and sweet, to realize that her mind was genuinely good, pure, and elevated. They were written to Dad before they got married. There’s a sense of righteousness, refinement, steadiness, modesty, sensibility, and a gentle quality to them that’s hard to describe. I wish she had lived and that I had known her.

‘The above was written by my dear wife, and is for insertion in one of the periodical publications.  Keep it as a memorial of her.’

The text above was written by my dear wife, and is intended for publication in one of the magazines. Keep it as a remembrance of her.

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, August 26th, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, August 26th, 1812.

‘My dear Friend,—This address is sufficient to convince you p. 35that I not only permit, but approve of yours to me—I do indeed consider you as my friend; yet, when I consider how short a time I have had the pleasure of knowing you, I start at my own rashness, my heart fails, and did I not think that you would be disappointed and grieved at it, I believe I should be ready to spare myself the task of writing.  Do not think that I am so wavering as to repent of what I have already said.  No, believe me, this will never be the case, unless you give me cause for it.  You need not fear that you have been mistaken in my character.  If I know anything of myself, I am incapable of making an ungenerous return to the smallest degree of kindness, much less to you whose attentions and conduct have been so particularly obliging.  I will frankly confess that your behaviour and what I have seen and heard of your character has excited my warmest esteem and regard, and be assured you shall never have cause to repent of any confidence you may think proper to place in me, and that it will always be my endeavour to deserve the good opinion which you have formed, although human weakness may in some instances cause me to fall short.  In giving you these assurances I do not depend upon my own strength, but I look to Him who has been my unerring guide through life, and in whose continued protection and assistance I confidently trust.

‘My dear Friend,—This address shows that I not only accept but appreciate your messages. I truly see you as my friend; however, given how little time we've spent together, I feel a bit anxious. If I didn’t think it would upset you, I might even consider stopping my writing. Please don’t think I’m indecisive or regret my words so far. No, trust me, that won’t happen unless you give me a reason to feel that way. You don’t need to worry that you’ve misunderstood me. If anything, I know that I can’t be ungrateful for any kindness, especially from you, considering how thoughtful you've been. I must admit that your kindness and everything I’ve learned about you have inspired my deepest respect and admiration, and you can be sure you will never regret trusting me. I will always try to live up to the good impression you have of me, even if my human flaws sometimes get in the way. I’m not relying solely on my strength; instead, I rely on Him who has guided me through life and in whose ongoing support I place my confidence.

‘I thought on you much on Sunday, and feared you would not escape the rain.  I hope you do not feel any bad effects from it?  My cousin wrote you on Monday and expects this afternoon to be favoured with an answer.  Your letter has caused me some foolish embarrassment, tho’ in pity to my feelings they have been very sparing of their raillery.

‘I thought about you a lot on Sunday and worried you’d get caught in the rain. I hope it hasn’t affected you negatively? My cousin wrote to you on Monday and is hoping for a reply this afternoon. Your letter made me blush a bit, but they’ve been quite gentle with their teasing out of kindness to my feelings.’

‘I will now candidly answer your questions.  The politeness of others can never make me forget your kind attentions, neither can I walk our accustomed rounds without thinking on you, and, why should I be ashamed to add, wishing for your presence.  If you knew what were my feelings whilst writing this you would pity me.  I wish to write the truth and give you satisfaction, yet fear to go too far, and exceed the bounds of propriety.  But whatever I may say or write I will never deceive you, or exceed the truth.  If you think I have not placed the utmost confidence in p. 36you, consider my situation, and ask yourself if I have not confided in you sufficiently, perhaps too much.  I am very sorry that you will not have this till after to-morrow, but it was out of my power to write sooner.  I rely on your goodness to pardon everything in this which may appear either too free or too stiff; and beg that you will consider me as a warm and faithful friend.

‘Now I will honestly answer your questions. The politeness of others can never make me forget your kind attentions, nor can I walk our usual routes without thinking of you and wishing for your presence. If you knew how I felt while writing this, you would feel sorry for me. I want to share the truth and make you happy, yet I fear going too far and crossing the line of propriety. But whatever I say or write, I will never deceive you or exceed the truth. If you think I haven’t placed my utmost confidence in you, consider my situation. Ask yourself if I haven’t confided in you enough, maybe even too much. I’m really sorry you won’t have this until after tomorrow, but I couldn’t write sooner. I trust in your kindness to forgive anything that might seem too casual or too formal; and I ask that you see me as a warm and loyal friend.

‘My uncle, aunt, and cousin unite in kind regards.

‘My uncle, aunt, and cousin all send their best wishes.

‘I must now conclude with again declaring myself to be yours sincerely,

‘I must now conclude by once again declaring myself to be yours sincerely,

‘Maria Branwell.’

‘Maria Branwell.’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B, Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B, Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, September 5th, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, September 5th, 1812.

My dearest Friend,—I have just received your affectionate and very welcome letter, and although I shall not be able to send this until Monday, yet I cannot deny myself the pleasure of writing a few lines this evening, no longer considering it a task, but a pleasure, next to that of reading yours.  I had the pleasure of hearing from Mr. Fennell, who was at Bradford on Thursday afternoon, that you had rested there all night.  Had you proceeded, I am sure the walk would have been too much for you; such excessive fatigue, often repeated, must injure the strongest constitution.  I am rejoiced to find that our forebodings were without cause.  I had yesterday a letter from a very dear friend of mine, and had the satisfaction to learn by it that all at home are well.  I feel with you the unspeakable obligations I am under to a merciful Providence—my heart swells with gratitude, and I feel an earnest desire that I may be enabled to make some suitable return to the Author of all my blessings.  In general, I think I am enabled to cast my care upon Him, and then I experience a calm and peaceful serenity of mind which few things can destroy.  In all my addresses to the throne of grace I never ask a blessing for myself but I beg the same for you, and considering the important station which you are called to fill, my prayers are proportionately fervent that you may be favoured with all the gifts and graces requisite for such calling.  O my dear friend, let us pray much that we may live lives holy and useful to each other and all around us!

My dearest Friend,—I just received your thoughtful and very welcome letter, and even though I can't send this until Monday, I can't resist the joy of writing a few lines this evening. It’s no longer a task for me, but a pleasure—just like reading your letter. I heard from Mr. Fennell, who was in Bradford on Thursday afternoon, that you stayed there all night. If you had continued on, I’m sure the walk would have been too much for you; extreme fatigue can harm even the strongest health if it happens often. I'm relieved to find that our worries were unfounded. Yesterday, I received a letter from a dear friend, and I was glad to learn that everyone at home is well. I share your deep gratitude towards a merciful Providence—my heart is full of thankfulness, and I really want to give back to the Source of all my blessings. Generally, I feel I can place my worries in His hands, and then I feel calm and at peace, which not much can disturb. In all my prayers, I never ask for a blessing just for myself; I always include you as well. Considering the significant role you have to fulfill, my prayers are particularly fervent that you receive all the gifts and strengths needed for such a calling. Oh my dear friend, let’s pray often that we live lives that are holy and beneficial to each other and everyone around us!

p. 37‘Monday morn.—My cousin and I were yesterday at Coverley church, where we heard Mr. Watman preach a very excellent sermon from “learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart.”  He displayed the character of our Saviour in a most affecting and amiable light.  I scarcely ever felt more charmed with his excellencies, more grateful for his condescension, or more abased at my own unworthiness; but I lament that my heart is so little retentive of those pleasing and profitable impressions.

p. 37‘Monday morning.—My cousin and I went to Coverley church yesterday, where we heard Mr. Watman deliver a truly excellent sermon based on “learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart.” He presented our Savior's character in a very touching and admirable way. I hardly ever felt more enchanted by his virtues, more thankful for his humility, or more aware of my own unworthiness; but I regret that my heart struggles to hold onto those uplifting impressions.

‘I pitied you in your solitude, and felt sorry that it was not in my power to enliven it.  Have you not been too hasty in informing your friends of a certain event?  Why did you not leave them to guess a little longer?  I shrink from the idea of its being known to every body.  I do, indeed, sometimes think of you, but I will not say how often, lest I raise your vanity; and we sometimes talk of you and the doctor.  But I believe I should seldom mention your name myself were it not now and then introduced by my cousin.  I have never mentioned a word of what is past to any body.  Had I thought this necessary I should have requested you to do it.  But I think there is no need, as by some means or other they seem to have a pretty correct notion how matters stand betwixt us; and as their hints, etc., meet with no contradiction from me, my silence passes for confirmation.  Mr. Fennell has not neglected to give me some serious and encouraging advice, and my aunt takes frequent opportunities of dropping little sentences which I may turn to some advantage.  I have long had reason to know that the present state of things would give pleasure to all parties.  Your ludicrous account of the scene at the Hermitage was highly diverting, we laughed heartily at it; but I fear it will not produce all that compassion in Miss Fennell’s breast which you seem to wish.  I will now tell you what I was thinking about and doing at the time you mention.  I was then toiling up the hill with Jane and Mrs. Clapham to take our tea at Mr. Tatham’s, thinking on the evening when I first took the same walk with you, and on the change which had taken place in my circumstances and views since then—not wholly without a wish that I had your arm to assist me, and your conversation to shorten the walk.  Indeed, all our walks p. 38have now an insipidity in them which I never thought they would have possessed.  When I work, if I wish to get forward I may be glad that you are at a distance.  Jane begs me to assure you of her kind regards.  Mr. Morgan is expected to be here this evening.  I must assume a bold and steady countenance to meet his attacks!

‘I felt sorry for you in your loneliness and wished I could lift your spirits. Have you been too quick to tell your friends about a certain event? Why didn’t you let them speculate a bit longer? I really don’t like the idea of it being common knowledge. I do think about you, but I won't say how often, so I don't inflate your ego; and we sometimes mention you and the doctor. But honestly, I probably wouldn’t bring up your name at all if my cousin didn't occasionally slip it into the conversation. I haven’t discussed the past with anyone. If I thought it was necessary, I would have asked you to handle it. However, I think it’s unnecessary since they seem to have a pretty clear understanding of our situation; my lack of denial only confirms it. Mr. Fennell has given me some serious and encouraging advice, and my aunt often drops hints I can use to my advantage. I’ve known for a long time that the current situation would make everyone happy. Your funny story about the scene at the Hermitage was really entertaining; we had a good laugh, but I worry it won’t stir up the sympathy in Miss Fennell that you seem to hope for. Now, let me share what I was thinking and doing at the time you mentioned. I was trudging up the hill with Jane and Mrs. Clapham to have tea at Mr. Tatham’s, reminiscing about the first time I took that walk with you and reflecting on how much my circumstances and opinions have changed since then—not without wishing I had your arm for support and your chat to make the walk feel shorter. In truth, all our walks p. 38feel dull now, something I never thought would happen. When I work, if I want to make progress, I might sometimes be glad that you’re far away. Jane insists I send you her warm regards. Mr. Morgan is expected to arrive this evening. I’ll have to put on a brave face to face his criticisms!

‘I have now written a pretty long letter without reserve or caution, and if all the sentiments of my heart are not laid open to you, believe me it is not because I wish them to be concealed, for I hope there is nothing there that would give you pain or displeasure.  My most sincere and earnest wishes are for your happiness and welfare, for this includes my own.  Pray much for me that I may be made a blessing and not a hindrance to you.  Let me not interrupt your studies nor intrude on that time which ought to be dedicated to better purposes.  Forgive my freedom, my dearest friend, and rest assured that you are and ever will be dear to

‘I’ve written a pretty long letter without holding back, and if I haven’t shared everything on my mind, trust me, it’s not because I want to keep anything hidden. I hope there’s nothing in my heart that would upset you. My sincerest wishes are for your happiness and well-being, as your happiness also brings me joy. Please pray for me so I can be a blessing and not a burden to you. I don’t want to disrupt your studies or take away from the time that should be dedicated to more important things. Forgive my straightforwardness, my dear friend, and know that you will always be dear to me.

Maria Branwell.

Maria Branwell.

‘Write very soon.’

‘Write very soon.’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, September 11th, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, September 11th, 1812.

‘My dearest Friend,—Having spent the day yesterday at Miry Shay, a place near Bradford, I had not got your letter till my return in the evening, and consequently have only a short time this morning to write if I send it by this post.  You surely do not think you trouble me by writing?  No, I think I may venture to say if such were your opinion you would trouble me no more.  Be assured, your letters are and I hope always will be received with extreme pleasure and read with delight.  May our Gracious Father mercifully grant the fulfilment of your prayers!  Whilst we depend entirely on Him for happiness, and receive each other and all our blessings as from His hands, what can harm us or make us miserable?  Nothing temporal or spiritual.

My dearest Friend,—I spent yesterday at Miry Shay, near Bradford, and I didn’t get your letter until I returned in the evening. So, I only have a short time this morning to write if I want to send it by this post. Surely you don’t think you trouble me by writing? I can honestly say that if you felt that way, you wouldn’t trouble me anymore. Rest assured, your letters are and I hope always will be received with great pleasure and read with joy. May our Gracious Father kindly grant the fulfillment of your prayers! While we rely completely on Him for happiness and accept each other and all our blessings as coming from His hands, what could harm us or make us unhappy? Nothing, whether in this life or the next.

‘Jane had a note from Mr. Morgan last evening, and she desires me to tell you that the Methodists’ service in church hours is to commence next Sunday week.  You may expect frowns and hard words from her when you make your appearance here p. 39again, for, if you recollect, she gave you a note to carry to the Doctor, and he has never received it.  What have you done with it?  If you can give a good account of it you may come to see us as soon as you please and be sure of a hearty welcome from all parties.  Next Wednesday we have some thoughts, if the weather be fine, of going to Kirkstall Abbey once more, and I suppose your presence will not make the walk less agreeable to any of us.

‘Jane got a note from Mr. Morgan last night, and she wants me to tell you that the Methodists’ service during church hours will start next Sunday week. You can expect her to give you frowns and harsh words when you show up here again, because, if you remember, she gave you a note to take to the Doctor, and he never received it. What did you do with it? If you can explain it well, you can come see us whenever you want, and we’ll all give you a warm welcome. Next Wednesday, if the weather is nice, we’re thinking of going to Kirkstall Abbey again, and I’m sure having you with us will make the walk more enjoyable for all of us.

‘The old man is come and waits for my letter.  In expectation of seeing you on Monday or Tuesday next,—I remain, yours faithfully and affectionately,

‘The old man has arrived and is waiting for my letter. I look forward to seeing you on Monday or Tuesday next,—I remain, yours faithfully and affectionately,

‘M. B.’

‘M. B.’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, September 18th, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, September 18th, 1812.

‘How readily do I comply with my dear Mr. B’s request!  You see, you have only to express your wishes and as far as my power extends I hesitate not to fulfil them.  My heart tells me that it will always be my pride and pleasure to contribute to your happiness, nor do I fear that this will ever be inconsistent with my duty as a Christian.  My esteem for you and my confidence in you is so great, that I firmly believe you will never exact anything from me which I could not conscientiously perform.  I shall in future look to you for assistance and instruction whenever I may need them, and hope you will never withhold from me any advice or caution you may see necessary.

‘How easily I agree to my dear Mr. B’s request! You see, you just have to share your wishes, and as far as I can, I won’t hesitate to fulfill them. My heart tells me that it will always be my pride and pleasure to contribute to your happiness, and I don't fear that this will ever conflict with my duty as a Christian. My respect for you and my trust in you are so strong that I truly believe you will never ask anything of me that I couldn’t do with a clear conscience. From now on, I will look to you for help and guidance whenever I need it, and I hope you will never hold back any advice or warnings that you think are necessary.

[‘For some years I have been perfectly my own mistress, subject to no control whatever—so far from it, that my sisters who are many years older than myself, and even my dear mother, used to consult me in every case of importance, and scarcely ever doubted the propriety of my opinions and actions.  Perhaps you will be ready to accuse me of vanity in mentioning this, but you must consider that I do not boast of it, I have many times felt it a disadvantage; and although, I thank God, it never led me into error, yet in circumstances of perplexity and doubt, I have deeply felt the want of a guide and instructor.] [39]

[‘For several years, I've been completely in charge of my own life, free from any control—in fact, my sisters, who are much older than I am, and even my dear mother, often seek my advice on important matters, almost always trusting my judgment without question. You might think I'm being vain for bringing this up, but you should know I’m not boasting about it; I've often found it to be a disadvantage. And although, thank God, it never led me astray, in moments of confusion and uncertainty, I've felt the lack of a mentor and guide.] [39]

‘At such times I have seen and felt the necessity of supernatural p. 40aid, and by fervent applications to a throne of grace I have experienced that my heavenly Father is able and willing to supply the place of every earthly friend.  I shall now no longer feel this want, this sense of helpless weakness, for I believe a kind Providence has intended that I shall find in you every earthly friend united; nor do I fear to trust myself under your protection, or shrink from your control.  It is pleasant to be subject to those we love, especially when they never exert their authority but for the good of the subject.  How few would write in this way!  But I do not fear that you will make a bad use of it.  You tell me to write my thoughts, and thus as they occur I freely let my pen run away with them.

‘In times like this, I've realized how much I need some divine help, and through heartfelt prayers, I've found that my heavenly Father can and wants to fill the gap left by every earthly friend. I won’t feel this sense of helplessness anymore, because I believe that kind Providence has brought me to find every earthly friend in you; nor will I hesitate to trust myself in your care or shy away from your guidance. It's nice to be under the authority of those we love, especially when they use their power only for our benefit. How few people would express themselves this way! But I’m not worried that you will misuse it. You encourage me to share my thoughts, so I'm letting my pen flow freely as they come to mind.

‘Sat. morn.—I do not know whether you dare show your face here again or not after the blunder you have committed.  When we got to the house on Thursday evening, even before we were within the doors, we found that Mr. and Mrs. Bedford had been there, and that they had requested you to mention their intention of coming—a single hint of which you never gave!  Poor I too came in for a share in the hard words which were bestowed upon you, for they all agreed that I was the cause of it.  Mr. Fennell said you were certainly mazed, and talked of sending you to York, etc.  And even I begin to think that this, together with the note, bears some marks of insanity!  However, I shall suspend my judgment until I hear what excuse you can make for yourself, I suppose you will be quite ready to make one of some kind or another.

Sat. morn.—I don’t know if you’re brave enough to show your face here again after the mistake you made. When we arrived at the house on Thursday evening, even before we got inside, we found out that Mr. and Mrs. Bedford had been there and that they had asked you to mention they were coming—a hint you never gave! I ended up getting blamed too, as everyone decided I was to blame for it. Mr. Fennell said you were definitely mazed and talked about sending you to York, etc. I’m starting to think that this, along with the note, shows some signs of insanity! However, I’ll hold off on my judgment until I hear what excuse you can come up with; I suppose you’ll be ready to come up with something.

‘Yesterday I performed a difficult and yet a pleasing task in writing to my sisters.  I thought I never should accomplish the end for which the letter was designed; but after a good deal of perambulation I gave them to understand the nature of my engagement with you, with the motives and inducements which led me to form such an engagement, and that in consequence of it I should not see them again so soon as I had intended.  I concluded by expressing a hope that they would not be less pleased with the information than were my friends here.  I think they will not suspect me to have made a wrong step, their partiality for me is so great.  And their affection for me will p. 41lead them to rejoice in my welfare, even though it should diminish somewhat of their own.  I shall think the time tedious till I hear from you, and must beg you will write as soon as possible.  Pardon me, my dear friend, if I again caution you against giving way to a weakness of which I have heard you complain.  When you find your heart oppressed and your thoughts too much engrossed by one subject, let prayer be your refuge—this you no doubt know by experience to be a sure remedy, and a relief from every care and error.  Oh, that we had more of the spirit of prayer!  I feel that I need it much.

‘Yesterday I tackled a challenging yet satisfying task by writing to my sisters. I thought I would never achieve the purpose of the letter, but after a lot of back and forth, I made them understand the nature of my commitment to you, the reasons and motivations that led me to make such a commitment, and that because of it, I wouldn’t see them as soon as I had planned. I finished by sharing my hope that they would be just as pleased with the news as my friends here are. I believe they won’t suspect that I’ve made a mistake, given how much they care for me. Their love for me will encourage them to celebrate my happiness, even if it means sacrificing a bit of their own. I will find the time drag until I hear from you, and I must ask you to write back as soon as you can. Please forgive me, my dear friend, if I caution you again against succumbing to a weakness you've mentioned before. When you feel weighed down and consumed by one thought, let prayer be your refuge—this, as you already know from experience, is a reliable remedy and relief from every worry and mistake. Oh, how I wish we had more of the spirit of prayer! I feel that I really need it.’

‘Breakfast-time is near, I must bid you farewell for the time, but rest assured you will always share in the prayers and heart of your own

'Breakfast is almost ready, so I must say goodbye for now, but be assured that you will always be in the prayers and thoughts of your own.'

Maria.

Maria.

‘Mr. Fennell has crossed my letter to my sisters.  With his usual goodness he has supplied my deficiencies, and spoken of me in terms of commendation of which I wish I were more worthy.  Your character he has likewise displayed in the most favourable light; and I am sure they will not fail to love and esteem you though unknown.

‘Mr. Fennell has shared my letter with my sisters. With his usual kindness, he has filled in my shortcomings and praised me in ways I wish I truly deserved. He has also portrayed your character in the best possible way, and I am confident they will love and respect you even though they haven't met you yet.

‘All here unite in kind regards.  Adieu.’

‘Everyone here sends their best wishes. Goodbye.’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, September 23rd, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, September 23rd, 1812.

‘My dearest Friend,—Accept of my warmest thanks for your kind affectionate letter, in which you have rated mine so highly that I really blush to read my own praises.  Pray that God would enable me to deserve all the kindness you manifest towards me, and to act consistently with the good opinion you entertain of me—then I shall indeed be a helpmeet for you, and to be this shall at all times be the care and study of my future life.  We have had to-day a large party of the Bradford folks—the Rands, Fawcets, Dobsons, etc.  My thoughts often strayed from the company, and I would have gladly left them to follow my present employment.  To write to and receive letters from my friends were always among my chief enjoyments, but none ever gave me so much pleasure as those which I receive from and p. 42write to my newly adopted friend.  I am by no means sorry you have given up all thought of the house you mentioned.  With my cousin’s help I have made known your plans to my uncle and aunt.  Mr. Fennell immediately coincided with that which respects your present abode, and observed that it had occurred to him before, but that he had not had an opportunity of mentioning it to you.  My aunt did not fall in with it so readily, but her objections did not appear to me to be very weighty.  For my own part, I feel all the force of your arguments in favour of it, and the objections are so trifling that they can scarcely be called objections.  My cousin is of the same opinion.  Indeed, you have such a method of considering and digesting a plan before you make it known to your friends, that you run very little risque of incurring their disapprobations, or of having your schemes frustrated.  I greatly admire your talents this way—may they never be perverted by being used in a bad cause!  And whilst they are exerted for good purposes, may they prove irresistible!  If I may judge from your letter, this middle scheme is what would please you best, so that if there should arise no new objection to it, perhaps it will prove the best you can adopt.  However, there is yet sufficient time to consider it further.  I trust in this and every other circumstance you will be guided by the wisdom that cometh from above—a portion of which I doubt not has guided you hitherto.  A belief of this, added to the complete satisfaction with which I read your reasonings on the subject, made me a ready convert to your opinions.  I hope nothing will occur to induce you to change your intention of spending the next week at Bradford.  Depend on it you shall have letter for letter; but may we not hope to see you here during that time, surely you will not think the way more tedious than usual?  I have not heard any particulars respecting the church since you were at Bradford.  Mr. Rawson is now there, but Mr. Hardy and his brother are absent, and I understand nothing decisive can be accomplished without them.  Jane expects to hear something more to-morrow.  Perhaps ere this reaches you, you will have received some intelligence respecting it from Mr. Morgan.  If you have no other apology to make for your blunders p. 43than that which you have given me, you must not expect to be excused, for I have not mentioned it to any one, so that however it may clear your character in my opinion it is not likely to influence any other person.  Little, very little, will induce me to cover your faults with a veil of charity.  I already feel a kind of participation in all that concerns you.  All praises and censures bestowed on you must equally affect me.  Your joys and sorrows must be mine.  Thus shall the one be increased and the other diminished.  While this is the case we shall, I hope, always find “life’s cares” to be “comforts.”  And may we feel every trial and distress, for such must be our lot at times, bind us nearer to God and to each other!  My heart earnestly joins in your comprehensive prayers.  I trust they will unitedly ascend to a throne of grace, and through the Redeemer’s merits procure for us peace and happiness here and a life of eternal felicity hereafter.  Oh, what sacred pleasure there is in the idea of spending an eternity together in perfect and uninterrupted bliss!  This should encourage us to the utmost exertion and fortitude.  But whilst I write, my own words condemn me—I am ashamed of my own indolence and backwardness to duty.  May I be more careful, watchful, and active than I have ever yet been!

My dearest Friend,—Thank you so much for your kind and affectionate letter. You praised mine so much that I actually feel embarrassed to read my own compliments. I pray that God helps me deserve all the kindness you show me and live up to the good opinion you have of me—then I will truly be a partner to you, and being this will always be my focus and goal in life. We had a big gathering today with the Bradford folks—the Rands, Fawcets, Dobsons, and others. My mind often wandered from the crowd, and I would have happily left them to pursue my current task. Writing to and receiving letters from my friends has always been one of my greatest pleasures, but none make me as happy as those from my newly adopted friend. I’m definitely glad you’ve let go of the idea of the house you mentioned. With my cousin’s help, I shared your plans with my uncle and aunt. Mr. Fennell immediately agreed with your living situation and said it had crossed his mind before, but he hadn’t had the chance to mention it. My aunt was a bit hesitant, but her objections didn’t seem very strong. For my part, I completely understand your arguments, and the objections are so minor that they barely count as objections. My cousin feels the same way. You have such a knack for considering and developing a plan before you share it with your friends, so you rarely risk their disapproval or have your schemes go awry. I really admire your talent in this area—may it never be misused! And as long as it’s used for good purposes, may it be truly powerful! If I can take a cue from your letter, this middle plan seems to be what would make you happiest, so if no new objections come up, it might just be the best choice for you. However, there’s still plenty of time to think it over. I trust that in this and every situation, you’ll be guided by the wisdom that comes from above—a portion of which I’m sure has led you up to this point. Believing this, along with the satisfaction I feel when reading your reasoning on the matter, made me quickly agree with you. I hope nothing happens to change your decision to spend the next week in Bradford. Rest assured you’ll get a letter for every letter you send; but can we hope to see you here during that time? Surely you won’t think the journey more tedious than usual? I haven't heard any updates about the church since you were in Bradford. Mr. Rawson is there now, but Mr. Hardy and his brother are away, and I understand nothing significant can be resolved without them. Jane expects to hear more tomorrow. By the time this reaches you, maybe you’ll have received some news from Mr. Morgan. If you have no other excuse for your mistakes than what you’ve given me, you can’t expect to be forgiven, as I haven’t mentioned it to anyone else. So, while it may clear your name in my opinion, it likely won’t influence anyone else. Very little will convince me to cover your faults with a veil of charity. I already feel a connection to everything concerning you. All praise and blame directed at you must also affect me. Your happiness and sadness must be mine too. In this way, our joys will multiply and our sorrows will lessen. As long as this is true, I hope we’ll always find “life’s cares” to be “comforts.” And may every trial and distress we face—such as we will at times—draw us closer to God and to each other! My heart sincerely joins in your heartfelt prayers. I trust they will rise together to a throne of grace, and that through the Redeemer’s merits, they will bring us peace and happiness here and eternal joy in the hereafter. Oh, what a sacred pleasure it is to think about spending eternity together in perfect bliss! This thought should motivate us to give our utmost effort and courage. But as I write, my own words shame me—I’m embarrassed by my own laziness and reluctance to fulfill my duties. May I be more careful, vigilant, and active than I have ever been!

‘My uncle, aunt, and Jane request me to send their kind regards, and they will be happy to see you any time next week whenever you can conveniently come down from Bradford.  Let me hear from you soon—I shall expect a letter on Monday.  Farewell, my dearest friend.  That you may be happy in yourself and very useful to all around you is the daily earnest prayer of yours truly,

‘My uncle, aunt, and Jane send their best wishes and look forward to seeing you anytime next week when it’s convenient for you to come down from Bradford. Let me hear from you soon—I’ll be expecting a letter on Monday. Goodbye, my dear friend. I pray every day that you find happiness in yourself and are a great support to everyone around you. Yours truly,

‘Maria Branwell.’

‘Maria Branwell.’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, October 3rd, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, October 3rd, 1812.

‘How could my dear friend so cruelly disappoint me?  Had he known how much I had set my heart on having a letter this afternoon, and how greatly I felt the disappointment when the bag arrived and I found there was nothing for me, I am sure he would not have permitted a little matter to hinder him.  But whatever was the reason of your not writing, I cannot p. 44believe it to have been neglect or unkindness, therefore I do not in the least blame you, I only beg that in future you will judge of my feelings by your own, and if possible never let me expect a letter without receiving one.  You know in my last which I sent you at Bradford I said it would not be in my power to write the next day, but begged I might be favoured with hearing from you on Saturday, and you will not wonder that I hoped you would have complied with this request.  It has just occurred to my mind that it is possible this note was not received; if so, you have felt disappointed likewise; but I think this is not very probable, as the old man is particularly careful, and I never heard of his losing anything committed to his care.  The note which I allude to was written on Thursday morning, and you should have received it before you left Bradford.  I forget what its contents were, but I know it was written in haste and concluded abruptly.  Mr. Fennell talks of visiting Mr. Morgan to-morrow.  I cannot lose the opportunity of sending this to the office by him as you will then have it a day sooner, and if you have been daily expecting to hear from me, twenty-four hours are of some importance.  I really am concerned to find that this, what many would deem trifling incident, has so much disturbed my mind.  I fear I should not have slept in peace to-night if I had been deprived of this opportunity of relieving my mind by scribbling to you, and now I lament that you cannot possibly receive this till Monday.  May I hope that there is now some intelligence on the way to me? or must my patience be tried till I see you on Wednesday?  But what nonsense am I writing?  Surely after this you can have no doubt that you possess all my heart.  Two months ago I could not possibly have believed that you would ever engross so much of my thoughts and affections, and far less could I have thought that I should be so forward as to tell you so.  I believe I must forbid you to come here again unless you can assure me that you will not steal any more of my regard.  Enough of this; I must bring my pen to order, for if I were to suffer myself to revise what I have written I should be tempted to throw it in the fire, but I have determined that p. 45you shall see my whole heart.  I have not yet informed you that I received your serio-comic note on Thursday afternoon, for which accept my thanks.

‘How could my dear friend disappoint me so cruelly? If you had known how much I was looking forward to receiving a letter this afternoon and how deeply I felt the disappointment when the mail came and there was nothing for me, I’m sure you wouldn’t have let something trivial stop you. But whatever the reason you didn’t write, I can’t believe it was out of neglect or unkindness, so I don’t blame you at all. I only ask that in the future you consider my feelings alongside your own and, if possible, don’t let me expect a letter without actually receiving one. You know in my last letter that I sent you at Bradford, I mentioned it wouldn’t be possible for me to write the next day but asked if I could please hear from you on Saturday. You won’t be surprised that I hoped you would fulfill this request. It just occurred to me that this note might not have reached you; if that’s the case, then you’ve felt disappointed too. However, I think that’s unlikely since the old man is particularly careful, and I’ve never heard of him losing anything entrusted to him. The note I’m referring to was written on Thursday morning, and you should have received it before you left Bradford. I don’t remember its contents, but I know it was written in a hurry and ended abruptly. Mr. Fennell plans to visit Mr. Morgan tomorrow. I can’t miss the chance to send this to the office with him since you’ll receive it a day sooner, and if you’ve been expecting to hear from me every day, twenty-four hours can make a difference. I’m genuinely concerned that this seemingly trivial incident has upset me so much. I fear I wouldn’t have slept well tonight if I hadn’t had this chance to relieve my mind by writing to you, and now I regret that you won’t be able to receive this until Monday. Can I hope there’s some news on the way to me? Or must I wait until I see you on Wednesday? But what nonsense am I writing? After all this, you can’t doubt that you have my whole heart. Two months ago, I could never have believed that you would occupy so much of my thoughts and feelings, and I certainly never imagined I’d be bold enough to admit it. I believe I must forbid you from coming here again unless you can assure me that you won’t take any more of my affection. Enough of this; I need to bring my pen back under control because if I let myself revise what I’ve written, I’d be tempted to throw it in the fire. But I’m determined that you shall see my whole heart. I haven’t yet told you that I received your serio-comic note on Thursday afternoon, so please accept my thanks.’

‘My cousin desires me to say that she expects a long poem on her birthday, when she attains the important age of twenty-one.  Mr. Fennell joins with us in requesting that you will not fail to be here on Wednesday, as it is decided that on Thursday we are to go to the Abbey if the weather, etc., permits.

‘My cousin wants me to say she’s looking forward to a long poem for her birthday when she turns twenty-one. Mr. Fennell also asks that you make sure to be here on Wednesday, since we’ve decided that if the weather allows, we will go to the Abbey on Thursday.

‘Sunday morning.—I am not sure if I do right in adding a few lines to-day, but knowing that it will give you pleasure I wish to finish that you may have it to-morrow.  I will just say that if my feeble prayers can aught avail, you will find your labours this day both pleasant and profitable, as they concern your own soul and the souls of those to whom you preach.  I trust in your hours of retirement you will not forget to pray for me.  I assure you I need every assistance to help me forward; I feel that my heart is more ready to attach itself to earth than heaven.  I sometimes think there never was a mind so dull and inactive as mine is with regard to spiritual things.

Sunday morning.—I’m not sure if it’s right for me to add a few lines today, but I want to because I know it will make you happy, so I’ll finish this for you to have tomorrow. I want to just say that if my weak prayers can help at all, you’ll find your work today both enjoyable and rewarding, as it’s for your own soul and the souls of those you preach to. I hope that during your quiet time, you won't forget to pray for me. I really need all the help I can get to move forward; I feel like my heart is more tied to the earth than to heaven. Sometimes I think there’s never been a mind as dull and inactive as mine when it comes to spiritual matters.

‘I must not forget to thank you for the pamphlets and tracts which you sent us from Bradford.  I hope we shall make good use of them.  I must now take my leave.  I believe I need scarcely assure you that I am yours truly and very affectionately,

‘I must not forget to thank you for the pamphlets and tracts that you sent us from Bradford. I hope we can make good use of them. I must now take my leave. I don't need to assure you that I am yours truly and very affectionately,

‘Maria Branwell.’

‘Maria Branwell.’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, October 21st 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, October 21st, 1812.

‘With the sincerest pleasure do I retire from company to converse with him whom I love beyond all others.  Could my beloved friend see my heart he would then be convinced that the affection I bear him is not at all inferior to that which he feels for me—indeed I sometimes think that in truth and constancy it excels.  But do not think from this that I entertain any suspicions of your sincerity—no, I firmly believe you to be sincere and generous, and doubt not in the least that you feel all you express.  In return, I entreat that you p. 46will do me the justice to believe that you have not only a very large portion of my affection and esteem, but all that I am capable of feeling, and from henceforth measure my feelings by your own.  Unless my love for you were very great how could I so contentedly give up my home and all my friends—a home I loved so much that I have often thought nothing could bribe me to renounce it for any great length of time together, and friends with whom I have been so long accustomed to share all the vicissitudes of joy and sorrow?  Yet these have lost their weight, and though I cannot always think of them without a sigh, yet the anticipation of sharing with you all the pleasures and pains, the cares and anxieties of life, of contributing to your comfort and becoming the companion of your pilgrimage, is more delightful to me than any other prospect which this world can possibly present.  I expected to have heard from you on Saturday last, and can scarcely refrain from thinking you unkind to keep me in suspense two whole days longer than was necessary, but it is well that my patience should be sometimes tried, or I might entirely lose it, and this would be a loss indeed!  Lately I have experienced a considerable increase of hopes and fears, which tend to destroy the calm uniformity of my life.  These are not unwelcome, as they enable me to discover more of the evils and errors of my heart, and discovering them I hope through grace to be enabled to correct and amend them.  I am sorry to say that my cousin has had a very serious cold, but to-day I think she is better; her cough seems less, and I hope we shall be able to come to Bradford on Saturday afternoon, where we intend to stop till Tuesday.  You may be sure we shall not soon think of taking such another journey as the last.  I look forward with pleasure to Monday, when I hope to meet with you, for as we are no longer twain separation is painful, and to meet must ever be attended with joy.

‘With the sincerest joy, I step away from others to talk with the one I love more than anyone else. If my dear friend could see my heart, he would realize that the love I have for him matches, if not surpasses, what he feels for me—sometimes I even think my love is truer and more constant. But please don’t think that this makes me doubt your honesty—no, I genuinely believe you are sincere and generous, and I have no doubt that you feel everything you say. In return, I ask you to believe that you hold not only a large part of my affection and respect but all that I am capable of feeling, and from now on, measure my feelings by your own. If my love for you wasn’t incredibly strong, how could I so willingly give up my home and friends—a home I cherished so much that I often thought nothing could persuade me to leave it for long, and friends with whom I have shared so many ups and downs? Yet, these attachments have lost their hold over me, and though I can't always think of them without a sigh, the thought of sharing all of life's joys and sorrows, taking care of you, and being by your side is more appealing than anything else this world could offer. I expected to hear from you last Saturday, and I can hardly avoid feeling you’ve been unkind by keeping me in suspense for two extra days. However, it’s probably good for my patience to be tested sometimes, or I might entirely lose it, which would indeed be a significant loss! Recently, I’ve felt a noticeable increase in hopes and fears that disrupt the peaceful routine of my life. These aren’t unwelcome, as they help me uncover the flaws and mistakes in my heart, and by recognizing them, I hope to have the grace to fix and improve them. I’m sorry to share that my cousin has been quite ill with a bad cold, but I think she is feeling better today; her cough seems to be easing, and I hope we can make it to Bradford on Saturday afternoon, where we plan to stay until Tuesday. You can be sure we won't be planning another trip like the last one anytime soon. I look forward to Monday with excitement, as I hope to see you, because now that we’re no longer apart, separation is painful, and meeting again brings only joy.’

‘Thursday morning.—I intended to have finished this before breakfast, but unfortunately slept an hour too long.  I am every moment in expectation of the old man’s arrival.  I hope my cousin is still better to-day; she requests me to say that she is p. 47much obliged to you for your kind inquiries and the concern you express for her recovery.  I take all possible care of her, but yesterday she was naughty enough to venture into the yard without her bonnet!  As you do not say anything of going to Leeds I conclude you have not been.  We shall most probably hear from the Dr. this afternoon.  I am much pleased to hear of his success at Bierly!  O that you may both be zealous and successful in your efforts for the salvation of souls, and may your own lives be holy, and your hearts greatly blessed while you are engaged in administering to the good of others!  I should have been very glad to have had it in my power to lessen your fatigue and cheer your spirits by my exertions on Monday last.  I will hope that this pleasure is still reserved for me.  In general, I feel a calm confidence in the providential care and continued mercy of God, and when I consider his past deliverances and past favours I am led to wonder and adore.  A sense of my small returns of love and gratitude to him often abases me and makes me think I am little better than those who profess no religion.  Pray for me, my dear friend, and rest assured that you possess a very very large portion of the prayers, thoughts, and heart of yours truly,

Thursday morning.—I planned to finish this before breakfast, but unfortunately overslept by an hour. I’m anxiously waiting for the old man to arrive. I hope my cousin is feeling better today; she asked me to say she is very grateful for your kind inquiries and concern for her recovery. I'm doing my best to take care of her, but yesterday she was bold enough to go into the yard without her bonnet! Since you haven't mentioned going to Leeds, I assume you haven't gone. We will likely hear from the doctor this afternoon. I'm really pleased to hear about his success at Bierly! Oh, that you both may be passionate and successful in your efforts to save souls, and may your lives be holy, and your hearts be greatly blessed while you serve others! I would have loved to ease your fatigue and lift your spirits with my efforts last Monday. I hope I still have the chance to do that. Overall, I feel calm confidence in God’s care and constant mercy, and when I think about His past help and kindness, it fills me with wonder and gratitude. Sometimes, I feel ashamed of how little I return His love, and it makes me think I’m not much better than those who don’t practice any religion. Please pray for me, my dear friend, and know that you have a very large place in my prayers, thoughts, and heart, yours truly,

‘M. Branwell.

‘M. Branwell.

‘Mr. Fennell requests Mr. Bedford to call on the man who has had orders to make blankets for the Grove and desire him to send them as soon as possible.  Mr. Fennell will be greatly obliged to Mr. Bedford if he will take this trouble.’

‘Mr. Fennell asks Mr. Bedford to visit the man who has been instructed to make blankets for the Grove and to urge him to send them as soon as possible. Mr. Fennell would greatly appreciate it if Mr. Bedford could take on this task.’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, November 18th, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, November 18th, 1812.

‘My dear saucy Pat,—Now don’t you think you deserve this epithet far more than I do that which you have given me?  I really know not what to make of the beginning of your last; the winds, waves, and rocks almost stunned me.  I thought you were giving me the account of some terrible dream, or that you had had a presentiment of the fate of my poor box, having no idea that your lively imagination could make so much of the slight reproof conveyed in my last.  What will you say when you get a real, downright scolding?  Since you show such a readiness to atone p. 48for your offences after receiving a mild rebuke, I am inclined to hope you will seldom deserve a severe one.  I accept with pleasure your atonement, and send you a free and full forgiveness.  But I cannot allow that your affection is more deeply rooted than mine.  However, we will dispute no more about this, but rather embrace every opportunity to prove its sincerity and strength by acting in every respect as friends and fellow-pilgrims travelling the same road, actuated by the same motives, and having in view the same end.  I think if our lives are spared twenty years hence I shall then pray for you with the same, if not greater, fervour and delight that I do now.  I am pleased that you are so fully convinced of my candour, for to know that you suspected me of a deficiency in this virtue would grieve and mortify me beyond expression.  I do not derive any merit from the possession of it, for in me it is constitutional.  Yet I think where it is possessed it will rarely exist alone, and where it is wanted there is reason to doubt the existence of almost every other virtue.  As to the other qualities which your partiality attributes to me, although I rejoice to know that I stand so high in your good opinion, yet I blush to think in how small a degree I possess them.  But it shall be the pleasing study of my future life to gain such an increase of grace and wisdom as shall enable me to act up to your highest expectations and prove to you a helpmeet.  I firmly believe the Almighty has set us apart for each other; may we, by earnest, frequent prayer, and every possible exertion, endeavour to fulfil His will in all things!  I do not, cannot, doubt your love, and here I freely declare I love you above all the world besides.  I feel very, very grateful to the great Author of all our mercies for His unspeakable love and condescension towards us, and desire “to show forth my gratitude not only with my lips, but by my life and conversation.”  I indulge a hope that our mutual prayers will be answered, and that our intimacy will tend much to promote our temporal and eternal interest.

My dear cheeky Pat,—Don’t you think you deserve this nickname far more than I deserve the one you gave me? I honestly don’t know what to make of the start of your last message; the winds, waves, and rocks nearly overwhelmed me. I thought you were telling me about some terrible dream or that you sensed the fate of my poor box, not realizing your vivid imagination could create so much out of the mild criticism in my last note. What will you say when you actually get a real, serious scolding? Since you seem eager to make up for your mistakes after a gentle reprimand, I’m hopeful you won’t often deserve a harsh one. I happily accept your apology and give you my full and free forgiveness. But I can’t agree that your affection runs deeper than mine. However, let’s not argue about this anymore; instead, let’s embrace every chance to show the sincerity and strength of our friendship by acting together as fellow travelers on the same journey with the same motives, aiming for the same goal. I believe that if we’re still around in twenty years, I’ll pray for you with the same, if not greater, intensity and joy as I do now. I’m glad you’re confident in my honesty since knowing you suspected I lacked this quality would upset and embarrass me. I don’t take any credit for having it; it’s just part of who I am. However, I think where honesty exists, it usually comes with other virtues, and where it’s lacking, there’s reason to question the presence of nearly every other quality. As for the other traits you say I have, I’m happy to know you think so highly of me, but I’m embarrassed to realize how little I actually possess them. I’ll make it my enjoyable mission in life to gain the grace and wisdom needed to meet your highest expectations and be a true partner to you. I firmly believe the Almighty has brought us together; may we, through earnest prayer and every effort we can muster, strive to fulfill His will in everything! I truly do not doubt your love, and here I openly declare I love you above everyone else in the world. I feel tremendously grateful to the great Author of all our blessings for His love and kindness towards us, and I want to express my gratitude not just with my words but through my actions and behavior. I hold onto the hope that our prayers for one another will be answered and that our closeness will greatly benefit our earthly and eternal well-being.

[‘I suppose you never expected to be much the richer for me, but I am sorry to inform you that I am still poorer than I p. 49thought myself.  I mentioned having sent for my books, clothes, etc.  On Saturday evening about the time you were writing the description of your imaginary shipwreck, I was reading and feeling the effects of a real one, having then received a letter from my sister giving me an account of the vessel in which she had sent my box being stranded on the coast of Devonshire, in consequence of which the box was dashed to pieces with the violence of the sea, and all my little property, with the exception of a very few articles, swallowed up in the mighty deep.  If this should not prove the prelude to something worse, I shall think little of it, as it is the first disastrous circumstance which has occurred since I left my home], [49] and having been so highly favoured it would be highly ungrateful in me were I to suffer this to dwell much on my mind.

[‘I guess you never expected to benefit much from me, but I’m sorry to say that I’m still poorer than I p. 49thought I was. I mentioned that I had sent for my books, clothes, etc. On Saturday evening, around the time you were writing about your imagined shipwreck, I was reading and feeling the impact of a real one. I had just received a letter from my sister informing me that the vessel she used to send my box had run aground on the coast of Devonshire. As a result, the box was smashed to pieces by the force of the sea, and all my belongings, except for a few items, were lost. If this doesn’t turn out to be the start of something worse, I won’t think much of it since it's the first unfortunate event that has happened since I left home], __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ and considering how fortunate I’ve been, it would be ungrateful of me to let this weigh heavily on my mind.

‘Mr. Morgan was here yesterday, indeed he only left this morning.  He mentioned having written to invite you to Bierly on Sunday next, and if you complied with his request it is likely that we shall see you both here on Sunday evening.  As we intend going to Leeds next week, we should be happy if you would accompany us on Monday or Tuesday.  I mention this by desire of Miss Fennell, who begs to be remembered affectionately to you.  Notwithstanding Mr. Fennell’s complaints and threats, I doubt not but he will give you a cordial reception whenever you think fit to make your appearance at the Grove.  Which you may likewise be assured of receiving from your ever truly affectionate,

‘Mr. Morgan was here yesterday; he just left this morning. He mentioned he wrote to invite you to Bierly next Sunday, and if you accept his invitation, we’ll likely see you both here on Sunday evening. Since we plan to go to Leeds next week, we would be glad if you could join us on Monday or Tuesday. I’m mentioning this at Miss Fennell’s request, who sends her warmest regards to you. Despite Mr. Fennell’s complaints and threats, I have no doubt he will warmly welcome you whenever you visit the Grove. You can also expect the same from your ever truly affectionate,

Maria.

Maria.

‘Both the doctor and his lady very much wish to know what kind of address we make use of in our letters to each other.  I think they would scarcely hit on this!!’

‘Both the doctor and his lady are really curious about what kind of address we use in our letters to each other. I doubt they would ever guess this!!’

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

TO REV. PATRICK BRONTË, A.B., Hartshead

‘Wood House Grove, December 5th, 1812.

‘Wood House Grove, December 5th, 1812.

‘My dearest Friend,—So you thought that perhaps I might expect to hear from you.  As the case was so doubtful, and you p. 50were in such great haste, you might as well have deferred writing a few days longer, for you seem to suppose it is a matter of perfect indifference to me whether I hear from you or not.  I believe I once requested you to judge of my feelings by your own—am I to think that you are thus indifferent?  I feel very unwilling to entertain such an opinion, and am grieved that you should suspect me of such a cold, heartless, attachment.  But I am too serious on the subject; I only meant to rally you a little on the beginning of your last, and to tell you that I fancied there was a coolness in it which none of your former letters had contained.  If this fancy was groundless, forgive me for having indulged it, and let it serve to convince you of the sincerity and warmth of my affection.  Real love is ever apt to suspect that it meets not with an equal return; you must not wonder then that my fears are sometimes excited.  My pride cannot bear the idea of a diminution of your attachment, or to think that it is stronger on my side than on yours.  But I must not permit my pen so fully to disclose the feelings of my heart, nor will I tell you whether I am pleased or not at the thought of seeing you on the appointed day.

My dearest Friend—So you thought that maybe I might expect to hear from you. Since it was just a guess, and you were in such a hurry, you could have waited a few more days to write because you seem to think it doesn’t matter to me whether I hear from you or not. I believe I once asked you to assess my feelings based on your own—should I think that you are so indifferent? I really don’t want to believe that, and I’m upset that you might think I have such a cold attachment. But I’m being too serious about this; I just intended to tease you a bit about the start of your last letter and mention that I thought there was a distance in it I haven’t seen in your previous letters. If this impression was unfounded, please forgive me and let it show you how sincere and warm my feelings are. True love often worries about what it receives in return; so you shouldn’t be surprised that my fears sometimes flare up. I can’t stand the idea that your feelings for me might be less than they used to be or that mine are stronger than yours. But I shouldn’t let my writing reveal too much of what I feel, and I won’t say whether I’m happy or not about seeing you on the agreed day.

‘Miss Fennell desires her kind regards, and, with her father, is extremely obliged to you for the trouble you have taken about the carpet, and has no doubt but it will give full satisfaction.  They think there will be no occasion for the green cloth.

‘Miss Fennell sends her best wishes and is very grateful for the effort you put into the carpet. She is confident it will meet their expectations. They don’t think they’ll need the green cloth.

‘We intend to set about making the cakes here next week, but as the fifteen or twenty persons whom you mention live probably somewhere in your neighbourhood, I think it will be most convenient for Mrs. B. to make a small one for the purpose of distributing there, which will save us the difficulty of sending so far.

‘We plan to start making the cakes here next week, but since the fifteen or twenty people you mentioned likely live nearby, I think it would be easier for Mrs. B. to make a small one to give out there, saving us the hassle of sending it so far.

‘You may depend on my learning my lessons as rapidly as they are given me.  I am already tolerably perfect in the A B C, etc.  I am much obliged to you for the pretty little hymn which I have already got by heart, but cannot promise to sing it scientifically, though I will endeavour to gain a little more assurance.

‘You can count on me to learn my lessons quickly. I’m already pretty good at the ABCs, etc. I really appreciate the nice little hymn you gave me; I’ve already memorized it, but I can’t promise to sing it perfectly. However, I’ll try to be a bit more confident.’

p. 51‘Since I began this Jane put into my hands Lord Lyttelton’s Advice to a Lady.  When I read those lines, “Be never cool reserve with passion joined, with caution choose, but then be fondly kind, etc.” my heart smote me for having in some cases used too much reserve towards you.  Do you think you have any cause to complain of me?  If you do, let me know it.  For were it in my power to prevent it, I would in no instance occasion you the least pain or uneasiness.  I am certain no one ever loved you with an affection more pure, constant, tender, and ardent than that which I feel.  Surely this is not saying too much; it is the truth, and I trust you are worthy to know it.  I long to improve in every religious and moral quality, that I may be a help, and if possible an ornament to you.  Oh let us pray much for wisdom and grace to fill our appointed stations with propriety, that we may enjoy satisfaction in our own souls, edify others, and bring glory to the name of Him who has so wonderfully preserved, blessed, and brought us together.

p. 51“Since I started this, Jane gave me Lord Lyttelton’s Advice to a Lady. When I read those lines, 'Never be cool while feeling passionate; choose wisely, but also be affectionately kind, etc.,' I felt bad for being too reserved with you at times. Do you think you have any reason to be upset with me? If you do, please tell me. If I could help it, I would never want to cause you any pain. I truly believe no one loves you with a more pure, constant, tender, and passionate affection than I do. Surely that’s not too much to say; it’s the truth, and I hope you feel deserving of it. I want to grow in every spiritual and moral quality to be a help and, if possible, a blessing to you. Oh, let’s pray a lot for wisdom and grace to fulfill our roles properly, so we can find peace in our own hearts, uplift others, and bring glory to Him who has so wonderfully preserved, blessed, and united us.”

‘If there is anything in the commencement of this which looks like pettishness, forgive it; my mind is now completely divested of every feeling of the kind, although I own I am sometimes too apt to be overcome by this disposition.

‘If there’s anything at the start of this that seems like petulance, please forgive it; my mind is now totally free of any such feelings, even though I admit I can sometimes be a bit prone to that attitude.

‘Let me have the pleasure of hearing from you again as soon as convenient.  This writing is uncommonly bad, but I too am in haste.

‘Please get in touch again as soon as you can. This writing is really poor, but I'm also in a rush.

‘Adieu, my dearest.—I am your affectionate and sincere

‘Goodbye, my dearest.—I am your loving and genuine

‘Maria.’

‘Maria.’

‘Great numbers of people had collected in the churchyard, and a few minutes before noon the corpse was brought out through the eastern gate of the garden leading into the churchyard.  The Rev. Dr. Burnet, Vicar of Bradford, read the funeral service, and led the way into the church, and the following clergymen were the bearers of the coffin: The Rev. Dr. Cartman of Skipton; Rev. Mr. Sowden of Hebden Bridge; the Incumbents of Cullingworth, Oakworth, Morton, Oxenhope, and St. John’s Ingrow.  The chief mourners were the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, son-in-law of the deceased; Martha Brown, the housekeeper; and her sister; Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Wainwright.  There were several gentlemen followed the corpse whom we did not know.  All the shops in Haworth were closed, and the people filled every pew, and the aisles in the church, and many shed tears during the impressive reading of the service for the burial of the dead, by the vicar.  The body of Mr. Brontë was laid within the altar rails, by the side of his daughter Charlotte.  He is the last that can be interred inside of Haworth Church.  On the coffin was this inscription: “Patrick Brontë, died June 7th, 1861, aged 84 years.”’

A large crowd had gathered in the churchyard, and just before noon, the body was brought out through the eastern gate of the garden into the churchyard. The Rev. Dr. Burnet, Vicar of Bradford, read the funeral service and led the procession into the church. The following clergymen served as pallbearers: The Rev. Dr. Cartman of Skipton, Rev. Mr. Sowden of Hebden Bridge, and the Incumbents of Cullingworth, Oakworth, Morton, Oxenhope, and St. John’s Ingrow. The main mourners included the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, the deceased’s son-in-law; Martha Brown, the housekeeper; her sister, Mrs. Brown; and Mrs. Wainwright. Several gentlemen followed the coffin whom we didn’t recognize. All the shops in Haworth were closed, and people filled every pew and aisle in the church, with many shedding tears during the touching reading of the burial service by the vicar. Mr. Brontë's body was laid within the altar rails, next to his daughter Charlotte. He is the last person to be buried inside Haworth Church. The inscription on the coffin read: “Patrick Brontë, died June 7th, 1861, aged 84 years.”

Being of sound mind and judgment, in the name of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I, Patrick Brontë, B.A., Incumbent of Haworth, in the Parish of Bradford and county of York, make this my last Will and Testament: I leave forty pounds to be equally divided amongst all my brothers and sisters to whom I gave considerable sums in times past; And I direct the same sum of forty pounds to be sent for distribution to Mr. Hugh Brontë, Ballinasceaugh, near Loughbrickland, Ireland; I leave thirty pounds to my servant, Martha Brown, as a token of regard for long and faithful services to me and my children; To my beloved and esteemed son-in-law, the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, B.A., I leave and bequeath the residue of my personal estate of every description which I shall be possessed of at my death for his own absolute benefit; And I make him my sole executor; And I revoke all former and other Wills, in witness whereof I, the said Patrick Brontë, have to this my last Will, contained in this sheet of paper, set my hand this twentieth day of June, one thousand eight hundred and fifty-five.

Being of sound mind and judgment, in the name of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I, Patrick Brontë, B.A., the current Incumbent of Haworth, in the Parish of Bradford and county of York, declare this to be my last Will and Testament: I leave forty pounds to be split equally among all my brothers and sisters, to whom I have given significant amounts in the past; I also direct that the same sum of forty pounds be sent for distribution to Mr. Hugh Brontë, Ballinasceaugh, near Loughbrickland, Ireland; I bequeath thirty pounds to my servant, Martha Brown, as a gesture of gratitude for her long and loyal service to me and my children; To my beloved and respected son-in-law, the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, B.A., I leave all the remaining personal estate I own at my death for his full benefit; And I appoint him as my sole executor; I revoke all previous Wills, in witness whereof I, the said Patrick Brontë, have signed this Will, which is on this sheet of paper, on this twentieth day of June, 1855.

Patrick Brontë.—Signed and acknowledged by the said Patrick Brontë as his Will in the presence of us present at the same time, and who in his presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto subscribed our names as witnesses: Joseph Redman, Eliza Brown.

Patrick Brontë.—Signed and acknowledged by the mentioned Patrick Brontë as his Will in the presence of all of us at the same time, and we, in his presence and in the presence of each other, have signed our names as witnesses: Joseph Redman, Eliza Brown.

p. 56CHAPTER II: CHILDHOOD

p. 57Maria Brontë finished this Sampler on the 16th of May at the age of eight years

p. 57Maria Brontë finished this sampler on May 16th when she was eight years old

Elizabeth Brontë finished this Sampler the 27th of July at the age of seven years.

Elizabeth Brontë finished this sampler on July 27th when she was seven years old.

Haworth, a populous manufacturing village, in the honour of Pontefract, Morley wapentake, and in the parish of Bradford, is four miles south of Keighley, containing, by the census of 1821, 4668 inhabitants.

Haworth, a bustling manufacturing village, located near Pontefract, in the Morley wapentake, and within the parish of Bradford, is four miles south of Keighley, with 4,668 residents based on the 1821 census.

Gentry and Clergy: Brontë, Rev. Patrick, Haworth; Heaton, Robert, gent., Ponden Hall; Miles, Rev. Oddy, Haworth; Saunders, Rev. Moses, Haworth.

Local Gentry and Clergy: Brontë, Rev. Patrick, Haworth; Heaton, Robert, gentleman, Ponden Hall; Miles, Rev. Oddy, Haworth; Saunders, Rev. Moses, Haworth.

Haworth is a chapelry, comprising the hamlets of Haworth, Stanbury, and Near and Far Oxenhope, in the parish of Bradford, and wapentake of Morley, West Riding—Haworth being ten miles from Bradford, about the same distance from Halifax, Colne, and Skipton, three and a half miles S. from Keighley, and eight from Hebden Bridge, at which latter place is a station on the Leeds and Manchester railway.  Haworth is situated on the side of a hill, and consists of one irregularly built street—the habitations in that part called Oxenhope being yet more scattered, and Stanbury still farther distant; the entire chapelry occupying a wide space.  The spinning of worsted, and the manufacture of stuffs, are branches which here prevail extensively.

Haworth is a parish, which includes the small communities of Haworth, Stanbury, and Near and Far Oxenhope, located in the Bradford area, and the wapentake of Morley, West Riding. Haworth is ten miles from Bradford, about the same distance from Halifax, Colne, and Skipton, three and a half miles south of Keighley, and eight miles from Hebden Bridge, where there is a station on the Leeds and Manchester railway. Haworth is situated on the side of a hill, and has one winding street. The homes in the area known as Oxenhope are more spread out, and Stanbury is even farther away; the entire parish covers a large area. The spinning of worsted and the production of textiles are industries that are common here.

The Church or rather chapel (subject to Bradford), dedicated to St. Michael, was rebuilt in 1757: the living is a perpetual curacy, in the presentation of the vicar of Bradford and certain trustees; the present curate is the Rev. Patrick p. 59Brontë.  The other places of worship are two chapels for baptists, one each for primitive and Wesleyan methodists, and another at Oxenhope for the latter denomination.  There are two excellent free schools—one at Stanbury, the other, called the Free Grammar School, near Oxenhope; besides which there are several neat edifices erected for Sunday teaching.  There are three annual fairs: they are held on Easter-Monday, the second Monday after St. Peter’s day (old style), and the first Monday after Old Michaelmas day.  The chapelry of Haworth, and its dependent hamlets, contained by the returns for 1831, 5835 inhabitants; and by the census taken in June, 1841, the population amounted to 6301.

The church, or chapel (under Bradford), dedicated to St. Michael, was rebuilt in 1757. This position is a perpetual curacy, appointed by the vicar of Bradford and certain trustees; the current curate is the Rev. Patrick p. 59Brontë. Other places of worship include two chapels for Baptists, one each for Primitive and Wesleyan Methodists, and another at Oxenhope for the latter denomination. There are two excellent free schools—one at Stanbury, and the other, called the Free Grammar School, near Oxenhope; in addition, there are several neat buildings set up for Sunday teaching. There are three annual fairs: they occur on Easter Monday, the second Monday after St. Peter’s Day (Old Style), and the first Monday after Old Michaelmas Day. The chapelry of Haworth, along with its dependent hamlets, had 5835 inhabitants according to the returns for 1831; and by the census taken in June, 1841, the population increased to 6301.

‘Lord Charles,’ said Mr. Rundle to me one afternoon lately, p. 63‘I have an engagement to drink tea with an old college chum this evening, so I shall give you sixty lines of the Æneid to get ready during my absence.  If it is not ready by the time I come back you know the consequences.’  ‘Very well, Sir,’ said I, bringing out the books with a prodigious bustle, and making a show as if I intended to learn a whole book instead of sixty lines of the Æneid.  This appearance of industry, however, lasted no longer than until the old gentleman’s back was turned.  No sooner had he fairly quitted the room than I flung aside the musty tomes, took my cap, and speeding through chamber, hall, and gallery, was soon outside the gates of Waterloo Palace.’

“Lord Charles,” Mr. Rundle said to me one afternoon not too long ago, p. 63 “I have plans to meet an old college friend for tea this evening, so I’m giving you sixty lines of the Æneid to prepare while I’m gone. If it’s not ready by the time I get back, you know what will happen.” “Sure thing, Sir,” I replied, pulling out the books with a lot of fuss, pretending I was about to study an entire book instead of just sixty lines of the Æneid. This act of hard work, however, didn’t last long after the old gentleman left the room. As soon as he was out of sight, I tossed aside the dusty books, grabbed my cap, and rushed through the rooms, halls, and gallery, quickly finding myself outside the gates of Waterloo Palace.

p. 64AN ADVENTURE IN IRELAND

p. 64AN ADVENTURE IN IRELAND

During my travels in the south of Ireland the following adventure happened to me.  One evening in the month of August, after a long walk, I was ascending the mountain which overlooks the village of Cahill, when I suddenly came in sight of a fine old castle.  It was built upon a rock, and behind it was a large wood and before it was a river.  Over the river there was a bridge, which formed the approach to the castle.  When I arrived at the bridge I stood still awhile to enjoy the prospect around me: far below was the wide sheet of still water in which the reflection of the pale moon was not disturbed by the smallest wave; in the valley was the cluster of cabins which is known by the appellation of Cahin, and beyond these were the mountains of Killala.  Over all, the grey robe of twilight was now stealing with silent and scarcely perceptible advances.  No sound except the hum of the distant village and the sweet song of the nightingale in the wood behind me broke upon the stillness of the scene.  While I was contemplating this beautiful prospect, a gentleman, whom I had not before observed, accosted me with ‘Good evening, sir; are you a stranger in these parts?’  I replied that I was.  He then asked me where I was going to stop for the night; I answered that I intended to sleep somewhere in the village.  ‘I am afraid you will find very bad accommodation there,’ said the gentleman; ‘but if you will take up your quarters with me at the castle, you are welcome.’  I thanked him for his kind offer, and accepted it.

During my travels in southern Ireland, I had this adventure. One evening in August, after a long walk, I was climbing the mountain overlooking the village of Cahill when I suddenly spotted a beautiful old castle. It was built on a rock, with a large forest behind it and a river in front. There was a bridge over the river leading to the castle. When I reached the bridge, I paused for a moment to take in the view: far below was a wide, calm lake reflecting the pale moon, undisturbed by even the slightest wave; in the valley was a group of cabins known as Cahin, and beyond them were the mountains of Killala. The grey cloak of twilight was quietly settling in. The only sounds that broke the stillness were the distant hum of the village and the sweet song of a nightingale in the woods behind me. While I admired this beautiful scene, a gentleman I hadn’t noticed before approached me and said, “Good evening, sir; are you a stranger here?” I replied that I was. He then asked where I planned to stay for the night, and I told him I intended to find a place in the village. “I’m afraid you’ll find very poor accommodations there,” he said, “but if you’d like to stay with me at the castle, you’re welcome.” I thanked him for his kind offer and accepted.

When we arrived at the castle I was shown into a large parlour, in which was an old lady sitting in an arm-chair by the fireside, knitting.  On the rug lay a very pretty tortoise-shell cat.  As soon as mentioned, the old lady rose; and when Mr. O’Callaghan (for that, I learned, was his name) told her who I was, she said in the most cordial tone that I was welcome, and asked me to sit down.  In the course of conversation I learned that she was Mr. O’Callaghan’s mother, and that his father had been dead about a year.  We p. 65had sat about an hour, when supper was announced, and after supper Mr. O’Callaghan asked me if I should like to retire for the night.  I answered in the affirmative, and a little boy was commissioned to show me to my apartment.  It was a snug, clean, and comfortable little old-fashioned room at the top of the castle.  As soon as we had entered, the boy, who appeared to be a shrewd, good-tempered little fellow, said with a shrug of the shoulder, ‘If it was going to bed I was, it shouldn’t be here that you’d catch me.’  ‘Why?’ said I.  ‘Because,’ replied the boy, ‘they say that the ould masther’s ghost has been seen sitting on that there chair.’  ‘And have you seen him?’  ‘No; but I’ve heard him washing his hands in that basin often and often.’  ‘What is your name, my little fellow?’  ‘Dennis Mulready, please your honour.’  ‘Well, good-night to you.’  ‘Good-night, masther; and may the saints keep you from all fairies and brownies,’ said Dennis as he left the room.

When we arrived at the castle, I was led into a large parlor where an elderly lady was sitting in an armchair by the fire, knitting. On the rug was a very cute tortoiseshell cat. As soon as she was mentioned, the old lady stood up, and when Mr. O’Callaghan (which I learned was his name) told her who I was, she warmly welcomed me and invited me to sit down. During our conversation, I discovered that she was Mr. O’Callaghan’s mother and that his father had passed away about a year ago. We had been sitting for about an hour when supper was announced, and after we ate, Mr. O’Callaghan asked if I wanted to turn in for the night. I said yes, and a little boy was asked to show me to my room. It was a cozy, clean, and comfortable little old-fashioned room at the top of the castle. As soon as we entered, the boy, who seemed like a clever and cheerful little guy, said with a shrug, “If I were going to bed, I wouldn't want to be here.” “Why?” I asked. “Because,” he replied, “they say the old master's ghost has been seen sitting in that chair.” “And have you seen him?” “No; but I’ve heard him washing his hands in that basin many times.” “What’s your name, little buddy?” “Dennis Mulready, if it pleases you.” “Well, goodnight to you.” “Goodnight, master; and may the saints keep you safe from all fairies and brownies,” Dennis said as he left the room.

As soon as I had laid down I began to think of what the boy had been telling me, and I confess I felt a strange kind of fear, and once or twice I even thought I could discern something white through the darkness which surrounded me.  At length, by the help of reason, I succeeded in mastering these, what some would call idle fancies, and fell asleep.  I had slept about an hour when a strange sound awoke me, and I saw looking through my curtains a skeleton wrapped in a white sheet.  I was overcome with terror and tried to scream, but my tongue was paralysed and my whole frame shook with fear.  In a deep hollow voice it said to me, ‘Arise, that I may show thee this world’s wonders,’ and in an instant I found myself encompassed with clouds and darkness.  But soon the roar of mighty waters fell upon my ear, and I saw some clouds of spray arising from high falls that rolled in awful majesty down tremendous precipices, and then foamed and thundered in the gulf beneath as if they had taken up their unquiet abode in some giant’s cauldron.  But soon the scene changed, and I found myself in the mines of Cracone.  There were high pillars and stately arches, whose glittering splendour was never excelled by the brightest fairy palaces.  There were not many lamps, only p. 66those of a few poor miners, whose rough visages formed a striking contrast to the dazzling figures and grandeur which surrounded them.  But in the midst of all this magnificence I felt an indescribable sense of fear and terror, for the sea raged above us, and by the awful and tumultuous noises of roaring winds and dashing waves, it seemed as if the storm was violent.  And now the mossy pillars groaned beneath the pressure of the ocean, and the glittering arches seemed about to be overwhelmed.  When I heard the rushing waters and saw a mighty flood rolling towards me I gave a loud shriek of terror.  The scene vanished, and I found myself in a wide desert full of barren rocks and high mountains.  As I was approaching one of the rocks, in which there was a large cave, my foot stumbled and I fell.  Just then I heard a deep growl, and saw by the unearthly light of his own fiery eyes a royal lion rousing himself from his kingly slumbers.  His terrible eye was fixed upon me, and the desert rang and the rocks echoed with the tremendous roar of fierce delight which he uttered as he sprang towards me.  ‘Well, masther, it’s been a windy night, though it’s fine now,’ said Dennis, as he drew the window-curtain and let the bright rays of the morning sun into the little old-fashioned room at the top of O’Callaghan Castle.

As soon as I lay down, I started thinking about what the boy had told me, and I admit I felt a strange kind of fear. A couple of times, I even thought I could see something white in the darkness around me. Eventually, using my reason, I managed to calm what some might call idle fancies, and I fell asleep. I had been asleep for about an hour when a strange sound woke me up, and I saw a skeleton wrapped in a white sheet looking through my curtains. I was paralyzed with terror and tried to scream, but my tongue felt frozen and my entire body shook with fear. In a deep, hollow voice, it said to me, ‘Get up, so I can show you the wonders of this world,’ and in an instant, I found myself surrounded by clouds and darkness. But soon, the roar of powerful waters reached my ears, and I saw clouds of spray rising from towering waterfalls that cascaded majestically down steep cliffs, then foamed and thundered in the gulf below as if they'd found a restless home in a giant’s cauldron. But soon the scene changed, and I found myself in the mines of Cracone. There were tall pillars and grand arches, their sparkling brilliance unmatched by even the brightest fairy palaces. There weren’t many lamps, just a few from poor miners whose rough faces contrasted starkly with the dazzling beauty around them. But amid all this grandeur, I felt a deep sense of fear and dread, for the sea roared above us, and the horrible noise of howling winds and crashing waves suggested the storm was fierce. Now the mossy pillars groaned under the weight of the ocean, and the shimmering arches seemed close to being overwhelmed. When I heard the rushing water and saw a massive flood rolling toward me, I let out a loud scream of terror. The scene disappeared, and I found myself in a vast desert filled with barren rocks and towering mountains. As I approached one of the rocks with a large cave, I stumbled and fell. Just then, I heard a deep growl and saw, by the eerie light of its own fiery eyes, a royal lion waking from its regal sleep. Its terrifying gaze was fixed on me, and the desert echoed with the tremendous roar of fierce delight as it lunged toward me. ‘Well, master, it’s been a windy night, though it’s lovely now,’ said Dennis as he pulled aside the window curtain and let the bright morning sun into the little old-fashioned room at the top of O’Callaghan Castle.

C. Brontë.
April the 28th, 1829.

C. Brontë.
April the 28th, 1829.

All that is written in this book must be in a good, plain, and legible hand.—P. B.

Everything in this book should be written in clear, simple, and readable handwriting.—P. B.

TO THE REV. P. BRONTË

TO THE REV. P. BRONTË

‘Parsonage House, Crosstone,
September 23rd, 1829.

‘Parsonage House, Crosstone,
September 23rd, 1829.

‘My dear Papa,—At Aunt’s request I write these lines to inform you that “if all be well” we shall be at home on Friday by dinner-time, when we hope to find you in good health.  On account of the bad weather we have not been out much, but notwithstanding we have spent our time very pleasantly, between reading, working, and learning our lessons, which Uncle Fennell has been so kind as to teach us every day.  Branwell has taken two sketches from nature, and Emily, Anne, and myself have likewise each of us drawn a piece from some views of the lakes which Mr. Fennell brought with him from Westmoreland.  The whole of these he intends keeping.  Mr. Fennell is sorry he cannot accompany us to Haworth on Friday, for want of room, p. 68but hopes to have the pleasure of seeing you soon.  All unite in sending their kind love with your affectionate daughter,

Dear Dad,—At Aunt’s request, I’m writing to let you know that “if everything goes well,” we should be home on Friday by dinner time, and we hope you're doing well. Because of the bad weather, we haven’t been out much, but we’ve had a wonderful time reading, working, and doing our lessons, which Uncle Fennell has kindly been teaching us every day. Branwell has made two sketches from nature, and Emily, Anne, and I have each drawn pictures inspired by some views of the lakes that Mr. Fennell brought back from Westmoreland. He plans to keep all of these. Mr. Fennell is disappointed he can’t come with us to Haworth on Friday because there isn’t enough room, p. 68 but he hopes to see you soon. Everyone sends their love along with your affectionate daughter,

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

UNPUBLISHED BRONTË LITERATURE.
BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË

UNPUBLISHED BRONTË WRITINGS.
BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË

The Young Men’s Magazines.  In Six Numbers The Young Men’s Magazines. In Six Issues [Only four out of these six numbers appear to have been preserved.] [Only four of these six numbers seem to have been preserved.]	1829 1829
The Search after Happiness: A Tale.  By Charlotte Brontë The Search for Happiness: A Story. By Charlotte Brontë	1829 1829
Two Romantic Tales; viz. The Twelve Adventures, and An Adventure in Ireland Two Romantic Tales; namely The Twelve Adventures, and An Adventure in Ireland	1829 1829
Characters of Great Men of the Present Age, Dec. 17th Characters of Great Men of the Present Age, Dec. 17th	1829 1829
Tales of the Islanders.  By Charlotte Brontë:— Tales of the Islanders.  By Charlotte Brontë:—
Vol. i.    dated June 31, 1829 Vol. 1, dated June 31, 1829
Vol. ii.  dated December 2, 1829 Vol. II. dated December 2, 1829
Vol. iii.  dated May 8, 1830 Vol. 3, dated May 8, 1830
Vol. iv.  dated July 30, 1830 Vol. IV. dated July 30, 1830
[Accompanying these volumes is a one-page document detailing ‘The Origin of the Islanders.’  Dated March 12, 1829.] [Accompanying these volumes is a one-page document detailing ‘The Origin of the Islanders.’ Dated March 12, 1829.]
The Evening Walk: A Poem.  By the Marquis Douro The Evening Walk: A Poem. By the Marquis Douro	1830 1830
A Translation into English Verse of the First Book of Voltaire’s Henriade.  By Charlotte Brontë A Translation into English Verse of the First Book of Voltaire’s Henriade. By Charlotte Brontë	1830 1830
Albion and Marina: A Tale.  By Lord Wellesley Albion and Marina: A Tale.  By Lord Wellesley	1830 1830
The Adventures of Ernest Alembert: A Fairy Tale.  By Charlotte Brontë The Adventures of Ernest Alembert: A Fairy Tale. By Charlotte Brontë	1830 1830
The Violet: A Poem.  With several smaller Pieces.  By the Marquess of Douro.  Published by Seargeant Tree.  Glasstown, 1830 The Violet: A Poem.  With several smaller Pieces.  By the Marquess of Douro.  Published by Seargeant Tree.  Glasstown, 1830	1830 1830
The Bridal.  By C. Brontë The Bridal. By C. Brontë	1832 1832
p. 69Arthuriana; or, Odds and Ends: Being a Miscellaneous Collection of Pieces in Prose and Verse.  By Lord Charles A. F. Wellesley p. 69Arthuriana; or, Odds and Ends: Being a Miscellaneous Collection of Pieces in Prose and Verse.  By Lord Charles A. F. Wellesley	1833 1833
Something about Arthur.  Written by Charles Albert Florian Wellesley Something about Arthur.  Written by Charles Albert Florian Wellesley	1833 1833
The Vision.  By Charlotte Brontë The Vision. By Charlotte Brontë	1833 1833
The Secret and Lily Hart: Two Tales.  By Lord Charles Wellesley The Secret and Lily Hart: Two Tales. By Lord Charles Wellesley [The first page of this book is given in facsimile in vol. i. of Mrs. Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë.] [The first page of this book is shown in facsimile in vol. i. of Mrs. Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë.]	1833 1833
Visits in Verdopolis.  By the Honourable Charles Albert Florian Wellesley.  Two vols. Visits in Verdopolis. By the Honorable Charles Albert Florian Wellesley. Two volumes.	1833 1833
The Green Dwarf: A Tale of the Perfect Tense.  By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley.  Charlotte Brontë. The Green Dwarf: A Tale of the Perfect Tense.  By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley.  Charlotte Brontë.	1833 1833
The Foundling: A Tale of our own Times.  By Captain Tree The Foundling: A Tale of Our Times. By Captain Tree	1833 1833
Richard Cœur de Lion and Blondel.  By Charlotte Brontë, 8vo, pp. 20.  Signed in full Charlotte Brontë, and dated Haworth, near Bradford, Dec. 27th, 1833 Richard Cœur de Lion and Blondel. By Charlotte Brontë, 8vo, pp. 20. Signed in full Charlotte Brontë, and dated Haworth, near Bradford, Dec. 27th, 1833	1833 1833
My Angria and the Angrians.  By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley My Angria and the Angrians. By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley	1834 1834
A Leaf from an Unopened Volume; or, The Manuscript of an Unfortunate Author.  Edited by Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley A Leaf from an Unopened Volume; or, The Manuscript of an Unfortunate Author.  Edited by Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley	1834 1834
Corner Dishes: Being a small Collection of . . . Trifles in Prose and Verse.  By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley Corner Dishes: A Small Collection of . . . Short Pieces in Prose and Verse. By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley	1834 1834
The Spell: An Extravaganza.  By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley.  Signed Charlotte Brontë, June 21st, 1834.  The contents include: 1. Preface, half page; 2. The Spell, 26 pages; 3. High Life in Verdopolis: or The Difficulties of Annexing a Suitable Title to a Work Practically Illustrated in Six Chapters.  By Lord C. A. F. Wellesley, March 20, 1834, 22 pages; 4. The Scrap-Book: A Mingling of Many Things.  Compiled by Lord C. A. F. Wellesley.  C. Brontë, March 17th, 1835, 31 pages. The Spell: An Extravaganza. By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley. Signed Charlotte Brontë, June 21st, 1834. The contents include: 1. Preface, half page; 2. The Spell, 26 pages; 3. High Life in Verdopolis: or The Challenges of Adding a Suitable Title to a Work Practically Illustrated in Six Chapters. By Lord C. A. F. Wellesley, March 20, 1834, 22 pages; 4. The Scrap-Book: A Collection of Various Things. Compiled by Lord C. A. F. Wellesley. C. Brontë, March 17th, 1835, 31 pages. [This volume is in the British Museum.] [This volume is in the British Museum.]
p. 70Death of Darius Cadomanus: A Poem.  By Charlotte Brontë.  Pp. 24.  Signed in full, and dated p. 70Death of Darius Cadomanus: A Poem. By Charlotte Brontë. Pp. 24. Signed in full, and dated	1835 1835
Saul and Memory: Two Poems.  By C. Brontë.  Pp. 12 Saul and Memory: Two Poems. By C. Brontë. Pp. 12	1835 1835
Passing Events Current Events	1836 1836
‘We Wove a Web in Childhood’: A poem (pp. vi.), signed C. Brontë, Haworth, Dec’br. 19th, 1835 ‘We Wove a Web in Childhood’: A poem (pp. vi.), signed C. Brontë, Haworth, Dec’br. 19th, 1835	1835 1835
The Wounded Stag, and other Poems.  Signed C. Brontë.  Jan’y. 19, 1836.  Pp. 20 The Wounded Stag, and other Poems. Signed C. Brontë. Jan. 19, 1836. Pp. 20	1836 1836
Lord Douro: A Story.  Signed C. Brontë.  July 21st, 1837 Lord Douro: A Story. Signed C. Brontë. July 21st, 1837	1837 1837
Poems.  By C. Brontë.  Pp. 16 Poems. By C. Brontë. Pp. 16	1838 1838
Lettre d’Invitation à un Ecclésiastique.  Signed Charlotte Brontë.  Le 21 Juillet, 1842.  Large 8vo, pp. 4.  A French exercise written at Brussels Letter of Invitation to a Clergyman. Signed Charlotte Brontë. On July 21, 1842. Large 8vo, pp. 4. A French exercise written in Brussels.	1842 1842
John Henry.  By Charlotte Brontë, Crown 8vo, pp. 36, written in pencil John Henry.  By Charlotte Brontë, Crown 8vo, pp. 36, written in pencil	circa 1852 around 1852
Willie Ellin.  By Charlotte Brontë.  Crown 8vo, pp. 18 Willie Ellin. By Charlotte Brontë. Crown 8vo, pp. 18	May and June 1853 May and June 1853
The following, included in Charlotte’s ‘Catalogue of my Books’ printed by Mrs. Gaskell, are not now forthcoming: The following, listed in Charlotte’s ‘Catalogue of my Books’ printed by Mrs. Gaskell, are not available now:
Leisure Hours: A Tale, and two Fragments Leisure Time: A Story, and two Pieces	July 6th, 1829 July 6, 1829
The Adventures of Edward de Crak: A Tale The Adventures of Edward de Crak: A Tale	Feb. 2nd, 1830 Feb. 2, 1830
An Interesting Incident in the Lives of some of the most eminent Persons of the Age: A Tale An Interesting Incident in the Lives of some of the most eminent Persons of the Age: A Tale	June 10th, 1830 June 10, 1830
The Poetaster: A Drama.  In two volumes, The Poetaster: A Drama. In two volumes,	July 12th, 1830 July 12, 1830
A Book of Rhymes, finished A Book of Rhymes, done	December 17th, 1829 December 17, 1829
Miscellaneous Poems, finished Miscellaneous Poems, completed [These Miscellaneous Poems are probably poems written upon separate sheets, and not forming a complete book—indeed, some half dozen such separate poems are still extant.  The last item given in Charlotte’s list of these Miscellaneous Poems is The Evening Walk, 1820; this is a separate book, and is included in the list above.] [These Miscellaneous Poems were likely written on separate sheets and don’t make up a complete book—actually, about six of these standalone poems still exist. The last work mentioned in Charlotte’s list of these Miscellaneous Poems is The Evening Walk, 1820; this is a separate book and is included in the list above.]	May 3rd, 1830 May 3, 1830

BY EMILY BRONTË

BY EMILY BRONTË

A volume of Poems, 8vo, pp. 29; signed (at the top of the first page) E. J. B.  Transcribed February 1814.  p. 71Each poem is headed with the date of its composition.  Of the poems included in this book four are still unprinted, the remainder were published in the Poems of 1846.  The whole are written in microscopic characters A collection of Poems, 8vo, pp. 29; signed (at the top of the first page) E. J. B. Transcribed February 1814. p. 71Each poem is labeled with the date it was written. Out of the poems in this book, four are still unpublished; the rest were released in the Poems of 1846. All of them are written in tiny print.	1844 1844
A volume of Poems, square 8vo, pp. 24.  Each poem is dated, and the first is signed E. J. Brontë, August 19th, 1837.  Written in an ordinary, and not a minute, handwriting.  All unpublished A book of Poems, square 8vo, pp. 24. Each poem has a date, and the first is signed E. J. Brontë, August 19th, 1837. Written in a regular, not overly neat, handwriting. All unpublished	1837-1839 1837-1839
A series of poems written in a minute hand upon both sides of fourteen or fifteen small slips of paper of various sizes.  All unpublished A collection of poems written in a handwritten style on both sides of fourteen or fifteen small pieces of paper of different sizes. All unpublished.	1833-1839 1833-1839
Lettre and Réponse.  An exercise in French.  Large 8vo, pp. 4.  Signed E. J. Brontë, and dated 16 Juillet Letter and Response. An exercise in French. Large 8vo, pp. 4. Signed E. J. Brontë, and dated 16 July	1842 1842
L’Amour Filial.  An exercise in French.  Small quarto, pp. 4.  Signed in full Emily J. Brontë, and dated 5 Aout L’Amour Filial. An exercise in French. Small quarto, pp. 4. Signed in full Emily J. Brontë, and dated 5 August	1842 1842

BY ANNE BRONTË.

BY ANNE BRONTË.

Verses by Lady Geralda, and other poems.  A crown 8vo volume of 28 pages.  Each poem is signed (or initialled) and dated, the dates extending from 1836 to 1837.  The poems are all unpublished Verses by Lady Geralda and other poems. A crown 8vo volume of 28 pages. Each poem is signed (or initialed) and dated, with dates ranging from 1836 to 1837. All the poems are unpublished.	1836-1837 1836-1837
The North Wind, and other poems.  A crown 8vo volume of 26 pages.  Each poem is signed (or initialled) and dated, some having in addition to her own name the nom-de-guerre Alexandrina Zenobia or Olivia Vernon.  The dates extend from 1838 to 1840.  The poems are all unpublished The North Wind, and other poems. A crown 8vo volume of 26 pages. Each poem is signed (or initialed) and dated, with some including the pen names Alexandrina Zenobia or Olivia Vernon. The dates range from 1838 to 1840. All the poems are unpublished.	1838-1840 1838-1840
To Cowper, and other poems.  8vo, pp. 22.  Of the nine poems contained in this volume three are signed Anne Brontë, four are signed A. Brontë, and two are initialled ‘A. B.’  All are dated.  Part of these Poems are unpublished, the remainder appeared in the Poems of 1846 To Cowper, and other poems.  8vo, pp. 22.  Of the nine poems in this collection, three are signed Anne Brontë, four are signed A. Brontë, and two are initialled ‘A. B.’  All are dated.  Some of these poems are unpublished, while the rest were published in the Poems of 1846.	1842-1845 1842-1845
A thin 8vo volume of poems (mostly dated 1845), pp. 14, each being signed A. Brontë, or simply p. 72‘A. B.’—some having in addition to, or instead of, her own name the nom-de-guerre Zerona.  A few of these poems are unprinted; the remainder are a portion of Anne’s contribution to the Poems of 1846 A small 8vo book of poems (mostly from 1845), pp. 14, each signed A. Brontë, or just p. 72‘A. B.’—some also using the pen name Zerona. A few of these poems have never been published; the rest are part of Anne’s contribution to the Poems of 1846.	circa 1845 around 1845
Song: ‘Should Life’s first feelings be forgot’ (one octavo leaf) Song: ‘Should we forget life’s first feelings’ (one octavo leaf) [A fair copy (2 pp. 8vo) of a poem by Branwell Brontë, in the hand-writing of Anne Brontë.] [A fair copy (2 pp. 8vo) of a poem by Branwell Brontë, in the handwriting of Anne Brontë.]	1845 1845
The Power of Love, and other poems.  Post octavo, pp. 26.  Each poem is signed (or initialled) and dated The Power of Love, and other poems. Post octavo, pp. 26. Each poem is signed (or initialed) and dated.	1845-1846 1845-1846
Self Communion, a Poem.  8vo, pp. 19.  Signed ‘A. B.’ and dated April 17th, 1848 Self Communion, a Poem. 8vo, pp. 19. Signed ‘A. B.’ and dated April 17th, 1848	1848 1848

BY BRANWELL BRONTË.

BY BRANWELL BRONTË.

The Battle of Washington.  By P. B. Brontë.  With full-page coloured illustrations The Battle of Washington. By P. B. Brontë. With full-page color illustrations. [An exceedingly childish production, and the earliest of all the Brontë manuscripts.] [An extremely childish work, and the earliest of all the Brontë manuscripts.]	1827 1827
History of the Rebellion in my Army History of the Rebellion in my Army	1828 1828
The Travels of Rolando Segur: Comprising his Adventures throughout the Voyage, and in America, Europe, the South Pole, etc.  By Patrick Branwell Brontë.  In two volumes The Travels of Rolando Segur: Including his Adventures during the Voyage, and in America, Europe, the South Pole, etc. By Patrick Branwell Brontë. In two volumes	1829 1829
A Collection of Poems.  By Young Soult the Rhymer.  Illustrated with Notes and Commentaries by Monsieur Chateaubriand.  In two volumes A Collection of Poems. By Young Soult the Rhymer. Illustrated with Notes and Commentaries by Monsieur Chateaubriand. In two volumes	1829 1829
The Liar Detected.  By Captain Bud The Liar Detected. By Captain Bud	1830 1830
Caractacus: A Dramatic Poem.  By Young Soult Caractacus: A Dramatic Poem. By Young Soult	1830 1830
The Revenge: A Tragedy, in three Acts.  By Young Soult.  P. B. Brontë.  In two volumes.  Glasstown The Revenge: A Tragedy, in three Acts.  By Young Soult.  P. B. Brontë.  In two volumes.  Glasstown [Although the title page reads ‘in two volumes,’ the book is complete in one volume only.] [Although the title page says ‘in two volumes,’ the book is complete in just one volume.]	1830 1830
The History of the Young Men.  By John Bud The History of the Young Men. By John Bud	1831 1831
Letters from an Englishman.  By Captain John Flower.  In six volumes Letters from an Englishman. By Captain John Flower. In six volumes	1830-1832 1830-1832
p. 73The Monthly Intelligencer.  No. 1 The Monthly Intelligencer. No. 1 [The only number produced of a projected manuscript newspaper, by Branwell Brontë.  The MS. consists of 4 pp. 4to, arranged in columns, precisely after the manner of an ordinary journal.] [The only issue created of a planned manuscript newspaper by Branwell Brontë. The manuscript has 4 pages in 4to format, laid out in columns, just like a regular journal.]	March 27, 1833 March 27, 1833
Real Life in Verdopolis: A Tale.  By Captain John Flower, M.P.  In two volumes.  P. B. Brontë Real Life in Verdopolis: A Tale. By Captain John Flower, M.P. In two volumes. P. B. Brontë	1833 1833
The Politics of Verdopolis: A Tale.  By Captain John Flower.  P. B. Brontë The Politics of Verdopolis: A Tale.  By Captain John Flower.  P. B. Brontë	1833 1833
The Pirate: A Tale.  By Captain John Flower The Pirate: A Tale.  By Captain John Flower [The most pretentious of Branwell’s prose stories.] [The most pretentious of Branwell’s prose stories.]	1833 1833
Thermopylae: A Poem.  By P. B. Brontë.  8vo, pp. 14 Thermopylae: A Poem. By P. B. Brontë. 8vo, pp. 14	1834 1834
And the Weary are at Rest: A Tale.  By P. B. Brontë And the Weary are at Rest: A Tale. By P. B. Brontë	1834 1834
The Wool is Rising: An Angrian Adventure.  By the Right Honourable John Baron Flower The Wool is Rising: An Angrian Adventure. By the Right Honourable John Baron Flower	1834 1834
Ode to the Polar Star, and other Poems.  By P. B. Brontë.  Quarto, pp. 24 Ode to the Polar Star, and other Poems.  By P. B. Brontë.  Quarto, pp. 24	1834 1834
The Life of Field Marshal the Right Honourable Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland.  In two volumes.  By John Bud.  P. B. Brontë The Life of Field Marshal the Right Honourable Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland.  In two volumes.  By John Bud.  P. B. Brontë	1835 1835
The Rising of the Angrians: A Tale.  By P. B. Brontë The Rising of the Angrians: A Tale.  By P. B. Brontë	1836 1836
A Narrative of the First War.  By P. B. Brontë A Narrative of the First War. By P. B. Brontë	1836 1836
The Angrian Welcome: A Tale.  By P. B. Brontë The Angrian Welcome: A Tale.  By P. B. Brontë	1836 1836
Percy: A Story.  By P. B. Brontë Percy: A Story. By P. B. Brontë A packet containing four small groups of Poems, of about six or eight pages each, mostly without titles, but all either signed or initialled, and dated from 1836 to 1838 A packet containing four small groups of Poems, each about six or eight pages long, mostly untitled, but all either signed or initialed, dated from 1836 to 1838.	1837 1837
Love and Warfare: A Story.  By P. B. Brontë Love and Warfare: A Story. By P. B. Brontë	1839 1839
Lord Nelson, and other Poems.  By P. B. Brontë.  Written in pencil.  Small 8vo, pp. 26 Lord Nelson, and other Poems. By P. B. Brontë. Written in pencil. Small 8vo, pp. 26 [This book contains a full-page pencil portrait of Branwell Brontë, drawn by himself, as well as four carefully finished heads.  These give an excellent idea of the extent of Branwell’s artistic skill.] [This book features a full-page pencil portrait of Branwell Brontë, created by him, along with four well-crafted heads. These provide a great insight into the range of Branwell’s artistic talent.]	1844 1844

p. 74CHAPTER III: SCHOOL AND GOVERNESS LIFE

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, July 21st, 1832.

‘Haworth, July 21st, 1832.

‘My dearest Ellen,—Your kind and interesting letter gave me the sincerest pleasure.  I have been expecting to hear from you almost every day since my arrival at home, and I at length began to despair of receiving the wished-for letter.  You ask me to give you a description of the manner in which I have passed every day since I left school.  This is soon done, as an account of one day is an account of all.  In the mornings, from nine o’clock to half-past twelve, I instruct my sisters and draw, then we walk till dinner; after dinner I sew till tea-time, and after tea I either read, write, do a little fancy-work, or draw, as I please.  Thus in one delightful, though somewhat monotonous course, my life is passed.  I have only been out to tea twice since I came home.  We are expecting company this afternoon, and on Tuesday next we shall have all the female teachers of the Sunday school to tea.  I do hope, my dearest Ellen, that you will return to school again for your own sake, though for mine I would rather that you would remain at home, as we shall then have more frequent opportunities of correspondence with each other.  Should your friends decide against your returning to school, I know you have too much good-sense and right feeling not to strive earnestly for your own improvement.  Your natural abilities are excellent, and under the direction of a judicious and able friend (and I know you have many such), you might acquire a decided taste for elegant literature, and even poetry, which, indeed, is included under that general term.  I was very much disappointed by your not sending the hair; you may be sure, my p. 77dearest Ellen, that I would not grudge double postage to obtain it, but I must offer the same excuse for not sending you any.  My aunt and sisters desire their love to you.  Remember me kindly to your mother and sisters, and accept all the fondest expressions of genuine attachment, from your real friend

My dearest Ellen,—Your thoughtful and engaging letter truly made me happy. I've been waiting to hear from you almost every day since I got home, and I was starting to lose hope of receiving the letter I longed for. You asked me to describe how I've spent each day since leaving school. That can be summed up quickly since each day is pretty much the same. In the mornings, from nine until twelve-thirty, I teach my sisters and draw; then we go for a walk until lunch. After lunch, I sew until tea time, and after tea, I either read, write, do a little craft work, or draw, depending on my mood. So, my days pass in a pleasant but somewhat repetitive routine. I've only gone out for tea twice since I came home. We're expecting guests this afternoon, and next Tuesday, all the female Sunday school teachers will come for tea. I really hope, my dearest Ellen, that you decide to return to school for your own benefit, although, for my sake, I’d prefer you to stay home so we can correspond more often. If your friends decide against you going back, I know you have too much common sense and good judgment not to work hard on improving yourself. You have great natural abilities, and with the guidance of a wise and capable friend (and I know you have many), you could develop a real appreciation for fine literature, even poetry, which falls under that broader category. I was really disappointed that you didn’t send the hair; believe me, my p. 77dearest Ellen, I wouldn’t mind paying extra postage to get it, but I have to use the same excuse for not sending you any. My aunt and sisters send their love to you. Please give my regards to your mother and sisters, and accept all the warmest expressions of genuine affection from your true friend.

‘Charlotte Brontë.

‘Charlotte Brontë.

‘P.S.—Remember the mutual promise we made of a regular correspondence with each other.  Excuse all faults in this wretched scrawl.  Give my love to the Miss Taylors when you see them.  Farewell, my dear, dear, dear Ellen.’

P.S.—Don’t forget the promise we made to stay in touch regularly. Sorry for any mistakes in this messy writing. Please say hi to the Miss Taylors when you see them. Goodbye, my dear, dear, dear Ellen.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Dewsbury Moor, August 24th, 1837.

‘Dewsbury Moor, August 24th, 1837.

‘My dear Ellen,—I have determined to write lest you should begin to think I have forgotten you, and in revenge resolve to forget me.  As you will perceive by the date of this letter, I am again engaged in the old business—teach, teach, teach.  Miss and Mrs. Wooler are coming here next Christmas.  Miss Wooler will then relinquish the school in favour of her sister Eliza, but I am happy to say worthy Miss Wooler will continue to reside in the house.  I should be sorry indeed to part with her.  When will you come home?  Make haste, you have been at Bath long enough for all purposes.  By this time you have acquired polish enough, I am sure.  If the varnish is laid on much thicker, I am afraid the good wood underneath will be quite concealed, and your old Yorkshire p. 78friends won’t stand that.  Come, come, I am getting really tired of your absence.  Saturday after Saturday comes round, and I can have no hope of hearing your knock at the door and then being told that “Miss E. N. is come.”  Oh dear! in this monotonous life of mine that was a pleasant event.  I wish it would recur again, but it will take two or three interviews before the stiffness, the estrangement of this long separation will quite wear away.  I have nothing at all to tell you now but that Mary Taylor is better, and that she and Martha are gone to take a tour in Wales.  Patty came on her pony about a fortnight since to inform me that this important event was in contemplation.  She actually began to fret about your long absence, and to express the most eager wishes for your return.  My own dear Ellen, good-bye.  If we are all spared I hope soon to see you again.  God bless you.

My dear Ellen,—I’ve decided to write so you don’t start thinking I’ve forgotten you or that I’ve chosen to ignore you out of spite. As you can see from the date on this letter, I’m back to my normal routine—teaching, teaching, teaching. Miss and Mrs. Wooler are coming here next Christmas. Miss Wooler will step down from managing the school for her sister Eliza, but I’m happy to say that the wonderful Miss Wooler will continue living in the house. I would be very sad to lose her. When are you coming home? Hurry up, you’ve been in Bath long enough! By now, I’m sure you’ve polished yourself up nicely. If you overdo it, I’m afraid the good wood underneath will be completely hidden, and your old Yorkshire friends won’t accept that. Come on, I’m really getting tired of you being away. Saturday follows Saturday, and I have no hope of hearing your knock at the door with the news that “Miss E. N. has arrived.” Oh dear! In this dull life of mine, that was a happy moment. I wish it would happen again, but it will take a couple of meetings for the stiffness and awkwardness from this long separation to fade completely. I don’t have much to tell you now except that Mary Taylor is feeling better, and she and Martha have gone on a trip to Wales. About two weeks ago, Patty rode her pony over to share this important news. She was actually starting to get worried about your long absence and expressed eager wishes for your return. My own dear Ellen, goodbye. If we’re all still here, I hope to see you soon. God bless you.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Dewsbury Moor, January 4th, 1838.

‘Dewsbury Moor, January 4th, 1838.

‘Your letter, Ellen, was a welcome surprise, though it contained something like a reprimand.  I had not, however, forgotten our agreement.  You were right in your conjectures respecting the cause of my sudden departure.  Anne continued wretchedly ill, neither the pain nor the difficulty of breathing left her, and how could I feel otherwise than very miserable.  I looked on her case in a different light to what I could wish or expect any uninterested person to view it in.  Miss Wooler thought me a fool, and by way of proving her opinion treated me with marked coldness.  We came to a little éclaircissement one evening.  I told her one or two rather plain truths, which set her a-crying; and the next day, unknown to me, she wrote papa, telling him that I had reproached her bitterly, taken her severely to task, etc.  Papa sent for us the day after he had received her letter.  Meantime I had formed a firm resolution to quit Miss Wooler and her concerns for ever; but just before I went away, she took me to her room, and giving way to her p. 79feelings, which in general she restrains far too rigidly, gave me to understand that in spite of her cold, repulsive manners, she had a considerable regard for me, and would be very sorry to part with me.  If any body likes me, I cannot help liking them; and remembering that she had in general been very kind to me, I gave in and said I would come back if she wished me.  So we are settled again for the present, but I am not satisfied.  I should have respected her far more if she had turned me out of doors, instead of crying for two days and two nights together.  I was in a regular passion; my “warm temper” quite got the better of me, of which I don’t boast, for it was a weakness; nor am I ashamed of it, for I had reason to be angry.

‘Your letter, Ellen, was a nice surprise, even though it felt a bit like a reprimand. I hadn't forgotten our agreement. You were right about why I left so suddenly. Anne was still very sick; the pain and trouble with breathing hadn’t gone away, and it made me feel quite miserable. I viewed her situation in a way that I hope a neutral person wouldn’t. Miss Wooler thought I was being foolish, and to show it, she treated me with obvious coldness. We had a moment one evening. I shared a few honest truths that made her cry, and the next day, without my knowing, she wrote to Dad, saying I had harshly criticized her and such. Dad called us in the day after getting her letter. In the meantime, I had firmly decided to leave Miss Wooler and everything connected to her behind, but just before I left, she took me to her room. Letting her emotions out, which she usually keeps in check, she made it clear that despite her cold and uninviting demeanor, she actually cared about me a lot and would be quite upset to see me go. If someone likes me, I can't help but like them back; and remembering that she had generally been kind to me, I gave in and said I would come back if she wanted me to. So, we're in a good place for now, but I'm not completely happy. I would have respected her much more if she had just kicked me out instead of crying for two days and nights. I was really angry; my “warm temper” took over, which I don’t brag about because it’s a weakness; nor am I ashamed of it, since I had a reason to be mad.

‘Anne is now much better, though she still requires a great deal of care.  However, I am relieved from my worst fears respecting her.  I approve highly of the plan you mention, except as it regards committing a verse of the Psalms to memory.  I do not see the direct advantage to be derived from that.  We have entered on a new year.  Will it be stained as darkly as the last with all our sins, follies, secret vanities, and uncontrolled passions and propensities?  I trust not; but I feel in nothing better, neither humbler nor purer.  It will want three weeks next Monday to the termination of the holidays.  Come to see me, my dear Ellen, as soon as you can; however bitterly I sometimes feel towards other people, the recollection of your mild, steady friendship consoles and softens me.  I am glad you are not such a passionate fool as myself.  Give my best love to your mother and sisters.  Excuse the most hideous scrawl that ever was penned, and—Believe me always tenderly yours,

‘Anne is doing much better now, although she still needs a lot of care. However, I’m relieved about my worst fears concerning her. I really like the plan you mentioned, except for the part about memorizing a verse from the Psalms. I don’t see any clear benefit from that. We’ve entered a new year. Will it be as tainted as the last one with all our sins, foolishness, hidden vanities, and uncontrolled passions? I hope not; but I don’t feel any better—neither humbler nor purer. There are three weeks left next Monday until the holidays end. Please come see me, my dear Ellen, as soon as you can; no matter how bitter I sometimes feel towards others, remembering your gentle, steady friendship comforts and soothes me. I’m glad you’re not as much of a passionate fool as I am. Please give my love to your mother and sisters. Sorry for the awful handwriting that’s ever been written, and—Believe me always tenderly yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 80TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

p. 80TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Stonegappe, June 8th, 1839.

‘Stonegappe, June 8th, 1839.

‘Dearest Lavinia,—I am most exceedingly obliged to you for the trouble you have taken in seeking up my things and sending them all right.  The box and its contents were most acceptable.  I only wish I had asked you to send me some letter-paper.  This is my last sheet but two.  When you can send the other articles of raiment now manufacturing, I shall be right down glad of them.

‘Dearest Lavinia,—I’m really thankful for all the effort you made to find my things and send them to me safely. The box and everything inside were perfect. I just wish I had asked you to include some letter paper. This is my last sheet but two. When you can send the other clothing items you’re making, I’d be very happy to receive them.

‘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, alack-a-day! there is such a thing as seeing all beautiful around you—pleasant woods, winding white paths, green lawns, and blue sunshiny sky—and not having a free moment or a free thought left to enjoy them in.  The children are constantly with me, and more riotous, perverse, unmanageable cubs never grew.  As for correcting them, I soon quickly found that was entirely out of the question: they are to do as they like.  A complaint to Mrs. Sidgwick brings only black looks upon oneself, and unjust, partial excuses to screen the children.  I have tried that plan once.  It succeeded so notably that I shall try it no more.  I said in my last letter that Mrs. Sidgwick did not know me.  I now begin to find that she does not intend to know me, that she cares nothing in the world about me except to contrive how the greatest possible quantity of labour may be squeezed out of me, and to that end she overwhelms me with oceans of needlework, yards of cambric 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 see now more clearly than I have ever done before that a private governess has no existence, is not considered as a living and rational being except as connected with the wearisome duties she has to fulfil.  While she is teaching the children, working for them, amusing them, it is all right.  If she steals a moment for herself she is a nuisance.  p. 81Nevertheless, Mrs. Sidgwick is universally considered an amiable woman.  Her manners are fussily affable.  She talks a great deal, but as it seems to me not much to the purpose.  Perhaps I may like her better after a while.  At present I have no call to her.  Mr. Sidgwick is in my opinion a hundred times better—less profession, less bustling condescension, but a far kinder heart.  It is very seldom that he speaks to me, but when he does I always feel happier and more settled for some minutes after.  He never asks me to wipe the children’s smutty noses or tie their shoes or fetch their pinafores or set them a chair.  One of the pleasantest afternoons I have spent here—indeed, the only one at all pleasant—was when Mr. Sidgwick walked out with his children, and I had orders to follow a little behind.  As he strolled on through his fields with his magnificent Newfoundland dog at his side, he looked very like what a frank, wealthy, Conservative gentleman ought to be.  He spoke freely and unaffectedly 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.

‘I’ve worked hard to be content in my new situation. The countryside, the house, and the grounds are beautiful, as I’ve mentioned. But, oh dear! You can see all the beauty around you—lovely woods, winding white paths, green lawns, and a bright blue sky—and still not have a single moment or thought to enjoy them. The children are always with me, and they are the most rowdy, stubborn, unmanageable kids you can imagine. As for disciplining them, I quickly realized that’s completely out of the question: they do whatever they want. Complaining to Mrs. Sidgwick only earns me dirty looks and unfair excuses for the kids. I tried that once. It went so badly that I won’t do it again. I mentioned in my last letter that Mrs. Sidgwick didn’t know me. I now see that she doesn’t plan to get to know me, and couldn’t care less about me except to figure out how to maximize my work. To achieve that, she burdens me with endless sewing, yards of fabric to hem, muslin nightcaps to make, and, above all, dolls to dress. I don’t think she likes me at all because I can’t help being shy in this totally new situation, surrounded by unfamiliar and constantly changing faces. I now understand more clearly than ever that a private governess doesn’t really exist; she isn’t seen as a person, just as someone tied to the exhausting duties she must perform. While she’s teaching, working for, or entertaining the children, everything is fine. If she steals a moment for herself, she’s a nuisance. p. 81Still, people generally consider Mrs. Sidgwick a nice woman. She is overly friendly and chatters a lot, but it seems to me that she doesn’t say much of substance. Maybe I’ll like her more over time. Right now, I have no reason to seek her out. In my opinion, Mr. Sidgwick is a hundred times better—less showy, less condescending, but he has a much kinder heart. He hardly ever talks to me, but when he does, I always feel happier and more settled afterward. He never asks me to wipe the kids’ dirty noses or tie their shoes or fetch their pinafores or set out a chair for them. One of the nicest afternoons I’ve spent here—indeed, the only one that was at all pleasant—was when Mr. Sidgwick took his children out for a walk, and I was told to follow along a little behind. As he strolled through the fields with his magnificent Newfoundland dog by his side, he looked just like what a straightforward, wealthy, conservative gentleman should be. He spoke casually and naturally to the people he met, and even though he indulged his children a bit too much and let them tease him, he wouldn’t allow them to rudely insult others.

‘I am getting quite to have a regard for the Carter family.  At home I should not care for them, but here they are friends.  Mr. Carter was at Mirfield yesterday and saw Anne.  He says she was looking uncommonly well.  Poor girl, she must indeed wish to be at home.  As to Mrs. Collins’ report that Mrs. Sidgwick intended to keep me permanently, I do not think that such was ever her design.  Moreover, I would not stay without some alterations.  For instance, this burden of sewing would have to be removed.  It is too bad for anything.  I never in my whole life had my time so fully taken up.  Next week we are going to Swarcliffe, Mr. Greenwood’s place near Harrogate, to stay three weeks or a month.  After that time I hope Miss Hoby will return.  Don’t show this letter to papa or aunt, only to Branwell.  They will think I am never satisfied wherever I am.  I complain to you because it is a relief, and really I have had some unexpected mortifications to put up with.  However, things may mend, but Mrs. p. 82Sidgwick expects me to do things that I cannot do—to love her children and be entirely devoted to them.  I am really very well.  I am so sleepy that I can write no more.  I must leave off.  Love to all.—Good-bye.

‘I’m starting to really care about the Carter family. Back home, I wouldn’t think much of them, but here they are friends. Mr. Carter was at Mirfield yesterday and saw Anne. He says she was looking incredibly well. Poor girl, she must really wish she could be at home. Regarding Mrs. Collins’ report that Mrs. Sidgwick intended to keep me for good, I don’t think that was ever her plan. Besides, I wouldn’t stay without making some changes. For example, this heavy burden of sewing has to go. It’s just too much. I’ve never had my time so completely filled. Next week, we’re going to Swarcliffe, Mr. Greenwood’s place near Harrogate, to stay for three weeks or a month. After that, I hope Miss Hoby will come back. Don’t show this letter to Dad or Aunt, just to Branwell. They’ll think I’m never satisfied wherever I am. I tell you this to vent, and honestly, I’ve had some unexpected annoyances to deal with. However, things might improve, but Mrs. Sidgwick expects me to do things that I can’t do—to love her children and be completely devoted to them. I’m doing alright. I’m so sleepy that I can’t write anymore. I have to stop. Love to all.—Goodbye.

‘Direct your next dispatch—J. Greenwood, Esq., Swarcliffe, near Harrogate.

‘Send your next message to J. Greenwood, Esq., Swarcliffe, near Harrogate.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Swarcliffe, June 15th, 1839.

‘Swarcliffe, June 15th, 1839.

‘My dearest Ellen,—I am writing a letter to you with pencil because I cannot just now procure ink without going into the drawing-room, where I do not wish to go.  I only received your letter yesterday, for we are not now residing at Stonegappe but at Swarcliffe, a summer residence of Mr. Greenwood’s, Mrs. Sidgwick’s father; it is near Harrogate and Ripon.  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 wondering 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, of 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 pour 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, proud as peacocks and wealthy as Jews, at a time when they were particularly gay, when the house was filled with company—all strangers: people whose faces I had never seen before.  In this state I had a charge given of a set of horrid children, whom I was expected constantly to amuse, as well as instruct.  I soon found that the constant demand on my stock of animal spirits reduced them to the lowest state of exhaustion; at times I felt—and, I suppose seemed—depressed.  To my astonishment, I was taken to task on the subject by Mrs. Sidgwick, with a sternness of manner and a harshness of language scarcely credible.  Like a fool, I cried most bitterly.  I could not help it; my spirits quite failed me at first.  p. 83I 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 for giving all up and going home.  But after a little reflection, I determined to summon what energy I had, and to weather the storm.  I said to myself, “I had 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.  Mrs. Sidgwick is generally considered an agreeable woman; so she is, I doubt not, in general society.  Her health is sound, her animal spirits good, consequently she is cheerful in company.  But oh! does this compensate for the absence of every fine feeling, of every gentle and delicate sentiment?  She behaves somewhat more civilly to me now than 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 when she was scolding me.  I have no wish to be pitied, except by yourself.  If I were talking to you I could tell you much more.  Good-bye, dear, dear Ellen.  Write to me again very soon, and tell me how you are.

My dearest Ellen,—I’m writing this letter with a pencil because I can’t get ink right now without going into the drawing-room, and I really don’t want to do that. I just received your letter yesterday, as we’re no longer at Stonegappe but at Swarcliffe, a summer place owned by Mr. Greenwood, Mrs. Sidgwick’s father; it’s near Harrogate and Ripon. I should have written to you much earlier and shared every detail about this completely new situation I’m in, but I’ve been waiting every day for a letter from you and feeling sad that you didn’t write, since it was your turn. I don’t want to trouble you too much with my problems, which I’m afraid you’ve heard about already. If you were closer, I might feel tempted to share everything, to become self-absorbed, and recount the lengthy story of a private governess’s struggles and challenges in her first job. As it stands, I can only ask you to imagine the misery of a reserved person like me suddenly thrown into the middle of a large family, proud as peacocks and wealthy, during a particularly lively time when the house was filled with strangers—faces I’d never seen before. In this situation, I was given the task of looking after a bunch of awful children whom I was expected to entertain and teach constantly. I soon realized that the relentless demand on my energy left me completely drained; at times I felt—and I suppose looked—depressed. To my surprise, Mrs. Sidgwick scolded me for it, with a sternness and harshness that was hard to believe. Like an idiot, I cried uncontrollably. I couldn’t help it; my spirits just felt low at first. I thought I’d done my best, stretched every nerve to please her; and being treated that way just because I was shy and sometimes melancholic felt so unfair. At first, I considered giving up and going home. But after some reflection, I decided to gather whatever energy I had and weather the storm. I told myself, “I’ve never left a place without making a friend; adversity is a good teacher; the poor are meant to work, and the dependent to endure.” I resolved to be patient, control my feelings, and take whatever comes; I figured the ordeal wouldn’t last long, and I hoped it would do me good. I remembered the fable of the willow and the oak; I bent quietly, and now I hope the storm is passing. Mrs. Sidgwick is generally seen as a pleasant woman; I’m sure she is in social settings. She’s healthy, has good energy, and is cheerful around others. But oh! does that make up for her lack of any fine feelings or gentle sentiments? She treats me a bit more civilly now than she did at first, and the children are a little easier to handle; but she still doesn’t know who I really am, and she doesn’t care to find out. I’ve never had a five-minute conversation with her since I arrived, except when she was scolding me. I don’t want anyone’s pity, except yours. If we were talking, I could share so much more. Goodbye, dear Ellen. Please write to me again very soon and tell me how you are.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, July 26th, 1839.

‘Haworth, July 26th, 1839.

‘Dear Ellen,—I left Swarcliffe a week since.  I never was so glad to get out of a house in my life; but I’ll trouble you with no complaints at present.  Write to me directly; explain your plans more fully.  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.—Good-bye, yours faithfully,

Dear Ellen,—I left Swarcliffe a week ago. I’ve never been so happy to leave a place in my life, but I won’t bother you with any complaints right now. Write to me directly; explain your plans in more detail. Let me know when you’re going, and I’ll be able to say for sure in my reply whether I can join you or not. I have to, I want to, I’m determined—I’ll be stubborn and push through any objections.—Goodbye, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 24th, 1840.

‘Haworth, January 24th, 1840.

‘My dear Ellen,—You could never live in an unruly, violent family of modern children, such for instance as those at Blake Hall.  Anne is not to return.  Mrs. Ingham is a placid, mild woman; but as for the children, it was one struggle of life-wearing exertion to keep them in anything like decent order.  I am miserable when I allow myself to dwell on the necessity of spending my life as a governess.  The chief requisite for that station seems to me to be the power of taking things easily as they come, and of making oneself comfortable and at home wherever we may chance to be—qualities in which all our family are singularly deficient.  I know I cannot live with a person like Mrs. Sidgwick, but I hope all women are not like her, and my motto is “try again.”  Mary Taylor, I am sorry to hear, is ill—have you seen her or heard anything of her lately?  Sickness seems very general, and death too, at least in this neighbourhood.—Ever yours,

‘My dear Ellen—You could never tolerate the chaotic, unruly family of modern kids at Blake Hall. Anne isn’t coming back. Mrs. Ingham is a calm, gentle woman, but the kids are a constant challenge to manage. I feel miserable thinking about spending my life as a governess. The main requirement for that job seems to be the ability to go with the flow and make yourself feel at home wherever you are—traits our family seriously lacks. I know I can’t live with someone like Mrs. Sidgwick, but I hope not all women are like her, and my motto is “try again.” I’m sorry to hear Mary Taylor is ill—have you seen or heard from her lately? Sickness seems pretty common, as does death, at least around here.—Ever yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Upperwood House, April 1st, 1841.

‘Upperwood House, April 1st, 1841.

‘My dear Nell,—It is twelve o’clock at night, but I must just write to you a word before I go to bed.  If you think I am going to refuse your invitation, or if you sent it me with that idea, you’re mistaken.  As soon as I read your shabby little note, I gathered up my spirits directly, walked on the impulse of the moment into Mrs. White’s presence, popped the question, and for two minutes received no answer.  Will she refuse me when I work so hard for her? thought I.  “Ye-e-es” was said in a reluctant, cold tone.  “Thank you, m’am,” said I, with extreme cordiality, and was marching from the room when she recalled me with: “You’d better go on Saturday afternoon then, when the children have holiday, and if you return in time for them to have all their lessons on Monday morning, I don’t see that much will be lost.”  You are a genuine Turk, thought I, but again I assented.  Saturday after next, then, is the day appointed—not next Saturday, mind.  I do not quite know whether the offer about the gig is not entirely out of your own head or if George has given his consent to it—whether that consent has not been wrung from him by the most persevering and irresistible teasing on the part of a certain young person of my acquaintance.  I make no manner of doubt that if he does send the conveyance (as Miss Wooler used to denominate all wheeled vehicles) it will be to his own extreme detriment and inconvenience, but for once in my life I’ll not mind this, or bother my head about it.  I’ll come—God knows with a thankful and joyful heart—glad of a day’s reprieve from labour.  If you don’t send the gig I’ll walk.  Now mind, I am not coming to Brookroyd with the idea of dissuading Mary Taylor from going to New Zealand.  I’ve said everything I mean to say on that subject, and she has a perfect right to decide for herself.  I am coming to taste the pleasure of liberty, a bit of pleasant congenial talk, and a p. 86sight of two or three faces I like.  God bless you.  I want to see you again.  Huzza for Saturday afternoon after next!  Good-night, my lass.

My dear Nell,—It’s midnight, but I have to quickly write you a note before sleep takes over. If you think I'm going to decline your invitation, or if that’s what you intended, you’re mistaken. As soon as I read your note, I gathered myself and impulsively walked into Mrs. White’s room, asked her, and then waited two minutes for her to respond. Will she really say no when I’m trying so hard for her? I thought. “Ye-e-es” came the reluctant, cold reply. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said cheerfully, and just as I was leaving, she called me back: “You should probably go on Saturday afternoon when the kids have a break, and if you come back in time for them to have their lessons on Monday morning, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” You are truly something else, I thought, but I agreed again. So, the planned day is the Saturday after next—not this coming Saturday, just to clarify. I’m not sure if the carriage offer is entirely your idea or if George actually agreed to it—whether he was nudged into it by a certain determined young person I know. I have no doubt if he sends the carriage (as Miss Wooler used to refer to all wheeled vehicles), it’ll be a huge hassle for him, but for once, I won’t let that bother me. I’m coming—God knows with a grateful and happy heart—glad to take a break from work. If you don’t send the carriage, I’ll walk. Just so you know, I’m not going to Brookroyd to try to convince Mary Taylor not to go to New Zealand. I’ve said everything I needed to on that topic, and she has every right to make her own choice. I’m coming for the freedom, to engage in some pleasant, meaningful conversations, and to see a few friendly faces. God bless you. I want to see you again. Cheers for Saturday afternoon after next! Good night, my dear.

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Have you lit your pipe with Mr. Weightman’s valentine?’

‘Have you used Mr. Weightman’s valentine to light your pipe?’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Upperwood House, May 4th, 1841.

‘Upperwood House, May 4th, 1841.

‘Dear Nell,—I have been a long time without writing to you; but I think, knowing as you do how I am situated in the matter of time, you will not be angry with me.  Your brother George will have told you that he did not go into the house when we arrived at Rawdon, for which omission of his Mrs. White was very near blowing me up.  She went quite red in the face with vexation when she heard that the gentleman had just driven within the gates and then back again, for she is very touchy in the matter of opinion.  Mr. White also seemed to regret the circumstance from more hospitable and kindly motives.  I assure you, if you were to come and see me you would have quite a fuss made over you.  During the last three weeks that hideous operation called “a thorough clean” has been going on in the house.  It is now nearly completed, for which I thank my stars, as during its progress I have fulfilled the twofold character of nurse and governess, while the nurse has been transmuted into cook and housemaid.  That nurse, by-the-bye, is the prettiest lass you ever saw, and when dressed has much more the air of a lady than her mistress.  Well can I believe that Mrs. White has been an exciseman’s daughter, and I am convinced also that Mr. White’s extraction is very low.  Yet Mrs. White talks in an amusing strain of pomposity about his and her family and connections, and affects to look down with wondrous hauteur on the whole race of tradesfolk, as she terms men of business.  I was beginning to think Mrs. White a good sort of body in spite of all her bouncing and boasting, her bad grammar and worse orthography, but I have had experience of one little trait in her character which condemns her a long way with me.  After treating a person in the most familiar terms of equality for a long time, if any little thing goes wrong she does p. 87not scruple to give way to anger in a very coarse, unladylike manner.  I think passion is the true test of vulgarity or refinement.

Dear Nell,—I haven’t written to you in a while; but I hope you understand how busy I’ve been, so you won’t be upset with me. Your brother George probably told you that he didn’t go into the house when we arrived at Rawdon, which almost got me in trouble with Mrs. White. She flushed with frustration when she found out he just drove through the gates and back again, because she’s very sensitive about what others think. Mr. White also seemed to feel guilty about it for sincere reasons. I promise you, if you visited me, you’d be treated like royalty. For the past three weeks, we’ve been putting up with that dreadful process called “a thorough clean” in the house. Thankfully, it’s nearly done, and I couldn’t be more grateful, as I’ve been managing the roles of nurse and governess while the nurse has turned into a cook and housemaid. By the way, that nurse is the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen, and when she dresses up, she looks much more like a lady than her employer does. I can totally believe that Mrs. White is the daughter of an exciseman, and I’m convinced Mr. White comes from humble beginnings too. Yet, Mrs. White talks in this funny, pompous way about her family and connections and pretends to look down on all tradespeople, as she refers to businesspeople. I started to think Mrs. White was a decent person, despite her bragging, bad grammar, and worse spelling, but I’ve noticed a little trait in her character that really puts me off. After treating someone equally for a while, if anything goes wrong, she doesn’t hesitate to unleash her anger in a very rude, unladylike manner. I believe that how someone reacts in anger is the true measure of their refinement, or lack thereof.

‘This place looks exquisitely beautiful just now.  The grounds are certainly lovely, and all is as green as an emerald.  I wish you would just come and look at it.  Mrs. White would be as proud as Punch to show it you.  Mr. White has been writing an urgent invitation to papa, entreating him to come and spend a week here.  I don’t at all wish papa to come, it would be like incurring an obligation.  Somehow, I have managed to get a good deal more control over the children lately—this makes my life a good deal easier; also, by dint of nursing the fat baby, it has got to know me and be fond of me.  I suspect myself of growing rather fond of it.  Exertion of any kind is always beneficial.  Come and see me if you can in any way get, I want to see you.  It seems Martha Taylor is fairly gone.  Good-bye, my lassie.—Yours insufferably,

‘This place looks absolutely stunning right now. The grounds are definitely beautiful, and everything is as green as an emerald. I really wish you would just come and see it. Mrs. White would be so proud to show it to you. Mr. White has been writing a heartfelt invitation to Dad, pleading with him to come and spend a week here. I really don’t want Dad to come; it would feel like taking on an obligation. Somehow, I’ve managed to gain quite a bit more control over the kids lately, which makes my life a lot easier. Plus, by taking care of the chubby baby, it has started to recognize me and like me. I think I’m getting quite attached to it. Any effort is always appreciated. Please come and see me if you can; I really want to see you. It seems Martha Taylor is quite ill. Goodbye, my dear.—Yours always,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY, Earnley Rectory

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY, Earnley Rectory

‘Upperwood House, Rawdon,
‘May 9th, 1841.

‘Upperwood House, Rawdon,
‘May 9th, 1841.

‘Dear Sir,—I am about to employ part of a Sunday evening in answering your last letter.  You will perhaps think this hardly right, and yet I do not feel that I am doing wrong.  Sunday evening is almost my only time of leisure.  No one would blame me if I were to spend this spare hour in a pleasant chat with a friend—is it worse to spend it in a friendly letter?

Dear Sir,—I’m about to spend part of a Sunday evening responding to your last letter. You might think that’s not quite appropriate, but I don’t feel like I’m doing anything wrong. Sunday evening is nearly my only free time. No one would judge me for using this hour to have a nice conversation with a friend—so is it really any worse to spend it writing a friendly letter?

‘I have just seen my little noisy charges deposited snugly in their cribs, and I am sitting alone in the school-room with the quiet of a Sunday evening pervading the grounds and gardens outside my window.  I owe you a letter—can I choose a better time than the present for paying my debt?  Now, Mr. Nussey, you need not expect any gossip or news, I have none to tell you—even if I had I am not at present in the mood to communicate them.  You will excuse an unconnected letter.  If I had thought you critical or captious I would have declined the task of corresponding with you.  When I reflect, indeed, it p. 88seems strange that I should sit down to write without a feeling of formality and restraint to an individual with whom I am personally so little acquainted as I am with yourself; but the fact is, I cannot be formal in a letter—if I write at all I must write as I think.  It seems Ellen has told you that I am become a governess again.  As you say, it is indeed a hard thing for flesh and blood to leave home, especially a good home—not a wealthy or splendid one.  My home is humble and unattractive to strangers, but to me it contains what I shall find nowhere else in the world—the profound, the intense affection which brothers and sisters feel for each other when their minds are cast in the same mould, their ideas drawn from the same source—when they have clung to each other from childhood, and when disputes have never sprung up to divide them.

‘I just put my little noisy charges down in their cribs, and now I’m sitting alone in the schoolroom with the calm of a Sunday evening wrapping around the grounds and gardens outside my window. I owe you a letter—can I find a better time than now to pay my debt? Now, Mr. Nussey, don’t expect any gossip or news; I don’t have any to share—even if I did, I’m not in the mood to communicate. Please excuse my scattered thoughts in this letter. If I had expected you to be critical or picky, I would have opted not to write to you. When I think about it, it seems odd that I would sit down to write to someone I don’t know very well without feeling a sense of formality and restraint; but the truth is, I can’t be formal in a letter—if I write at all, I have to write as I feel. It seems Ellen has told you that I’m a governess again. As you mentioned, it’s really tough for anyone to leave home, especially a good home—not one that’s wealthy or glamorous. My home is modest and uninviting to outsiders, but to me, it holds what I won't find anywhere else in the world—the deep, intense love that brothers and sisters have for each other when their minds are shaped similarly, when their thoughts come from the same place—when they’ve been close since childhood, and when arguments have never come between them.

‘We are all separated now, and winning our bread amongst strangers as we can—my sister Anne is near York, my brother in a situation near Halifax, I am here.  Emily is the only one left at home, where her usefulness and willingness make her indispensable.  Under these circumstances should we repine?  I think not—our mutual affection ought to comfort us under all difficulties.  If the God on whom we must all depend will but vouchsafe us health and the power to continue in the strict line of duty, so as never under any temptation to swerve from it an inch, we shall have ample reason to be grateful and contented.

‘We’re all apart now, trying to make a living among strangers as best we can—my sister Anne is near York, my brother has a job near Halifax, and I’m here. Emily is the only one left at home, where her helpfulness and willingness make her essential. Given these circumstances, should we feel sorry for ourselves? I don’t think so—our love for one another should support us through all challenges. If the God we all rely on grants us health and the strength to stay on the path of duty, avoiding any temptation to stray from it even a little, we’ll have plenty of reasons to be grateful and satisfied.

‘I do not pretend to say that I am always contented.  A governess must often submit to have the heartache.  My employers, Mr. and Mrs. White, are kind worthy people in their way, but the children are indulged.  I have great difficulties to contend with sometimes.  Perseverance will perhaps conquer them.  And it has gratified me much to find that the parents are well satisfied with their children’s improvement in learning since I came.  But I am dwelling too much upon my own concerns and feelings.  It is true they are interesting to me, but it is wholly impossible they should be so to you, and, therefore, I hope you will skip the last page, for I repent having written it.

‘I don’t pretend to say that I’m always happy. A governess often has to deal with heartache. My employers, Mr. and Mrs. White, are kind people in their own way, but the children are spoiled. I sometimes face significant challenges. Maybe perseverance will help me overcome them. It has made me very happy to see that the parents are pleased with their children’s learning progress since I arrived. But I’m focusing too much on my own issues and feelings. While they are interesting to me, they’re unlikely to be interesting to you, so I hope you’ll skip the last page because I regret writing it.

p. 89‘A fortnight since I had a letter from Ellen urging me to go to Brookroyd for a single day.  I felt such a longing to have a respite from labour, and to get once more amongst “old familiar faces,” that I conquered diffidence and asked Mrs. White to let me go.  She complied, and I went accordingly, and had a most delightful holiday.  I saw your mother, your sisters Mercy, Ellen, and poor Sarah, and your brothers Richard and George—all were well.  Ellen talked of endeavouring to get a situation somewhere.  I did not encourage the idea much.  I advised her rather to go to Earnley for a while.  I think she wants a change, and I dare say you would be glad to have her as a companion for a few months.—I remain, yours respectfully,

p. 89‘Two weeks ago, I received a letter from Ellen asking me to visit Brookroyd for just one day. I felt such a strong urge to take a break from work and reconnect with “old familiar faces” that I overcame my hesitation and asked Mrs. White for permission to go. She agreed, and I went, having a wonderful holiday. I saw your mom, your sisters Mercy, Ellen, and poor Sarah, as well as your brothers Richard and George—all of them were doing well. Ellen mentioned wanting to find a job somewhere. I didn’t encourage that idea much. Instead, I suggested she head to Earnley for a bit. I think she needs a change, and I’m sure you’d appreciate having her as a companion for a few months. —I remain, yours respectfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Upperwood House, June 10th, 1841.

‘Upperwood House, June 10th, 1841.

‘Dear Nell,—If I don’t scrawl you a line of some sort I know you will begin to fancy that I neglect you, in spite of all I said last time we met.  You can hardly fancy it possible, I dare say, that I cannot find a quarter of an hour to scribble a note in; but when a note is written it is to be carried a mile to the post, and consumes nearly an hour, which is a large portion of the day.  Mr. and Mrs. White have been gone a week.  I heard from them this morning; they are now at Hexham.  No p. 90time 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’ holidays, 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 cannot trust any other person’s report, no one seems minute enough in their observations.  I should also very much have liked you to see her.

‘Dear Nell,—If I don’t take a moment to write you a quick note, I know you'll start to think I’m ignoring you, despite what I said when we were last together. You probably can’t believe I can’t spare just fifteen minutes to write something down, but after I write a note, I have to walk a mile to the post office, which takes nearly an hour— a big chunk of my day. Mr. and Mrs. White left a week ago, and I heard from them this morning; they’re currently in Hexham. There’s no date set for their return, but I hope it’s soon, or I’ll miss the chance to see Anne during this break. I understand she came home last Wednesday and will only have three weeks off because the family she’s staying with is going to Scarborough. I really want to see her to check on her health myself. I can’t trust anyone else’s reports; no one seems detailed enough in their observations. I wish you could see her too.

‘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.  I offered the Irish concern to Mary Taylor, but she is so circumstanced that she cannot accept it.  Her brothers have a feeling of pride that revolts at the thought of their sister “going out.”  I hardly knew that it was such a degradation till lately.

‘I’ve been getting along pretty well with the staff and kids so far, but it’s quite dull and lonely work. You know how lonely it feels to be without a companion just like I do. I suggested the Irish opportunity to Mary Taylor, but her situation is such that she can’t take it. Her brothers are too prideful to let her “go out.” I didn’t realize until recently that it was considered such a disgrace.'

‘Your visit did me much good.  I wish Mary Taylor would come, and yet I hardly know how to find time to be with her.  Good-bye.  God bless you.

‘Your visit really helped me. I wish Mary Taylor could come, but I can hardly find the time to be with her. Goodbye. God bless you.

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘I am very well, and I continue to get to bed before twelve o’clock p.m.  I don’t tell people that I am dissatisfied with my situation.  I can drive on; there is no use in complaining.  I have lost my chance of going to Ireland.’

‘I’m doing really well, and I keep going to bed before midnight p.m. I don’t let anyone know that I’m unhappy with my situation. I can keep going; there’s no point in complaining. I’ve missed my chance to go to Ireland.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, July 1st, 1841.

‘Haworth, July 1st, 1841.

‘Dear Nell,—I was not at home when I got your letter, but I am at home now, and it feels like paradise.  I came last night.  When I asked for a vacation, Mrs. White offered me a week or ten days, but I demanded three weeks, and stood to my tackle with a tenacity worthy of yourself, lassie.  I gained the point, but I don’t like such victories.  I have gained another point.  You are unanimously requested to come here next Tuesday and stay as long as you can.  Aunt is in high good-humour.  I need not write a long letter.—Good-bye, dear Nell.

Dear Nell,—I wasn't home when I got your letter, but I'm home now, and it feels wonderful. I arrived last night. When I asked for a vacation, Mrs. White offered me a week or ten days, but I insisted on three weeks and held my ground with determination that would make you proud. I got what I wanted, but I don’t like winning that way. I've won another point. Everyone is inviting you to come here next Tuesday and stay as long as you can. Aunt is in a great mood. I don’t need to write a long letter. —Goodbye, dear Nell.

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘P.S.—I have lost the chance of seeing Anne.  She is gone back to “The land of Egypt and the house of bondage.”  Also, little black Tom is dead.  Every cup, however sweet, has its drop p. 91of bitterness in it.  Probably you will be at a loss to ascertain the identity of black Tom, but don’t fret about it, I’ll tell you when you come.  Keeper is as well, big, and grim as ever.  I’m too happy to write.  Come, come, lassie.’

P.S.—I missed the chance to see Anne. She has returned to “the land of Egypt and the house of bondage.” Also, little black Tom has passed away. Every sweet cup has its drop of bitterness. You might be confused about who black Tom is, but don’t worry; I’ll fill you in when you arrive. Keeper is doing well, as big and grim as ever. I’m too happy to write. Come on, lassie.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Upperwood House, October 17th, 1841.

‘Upperwood House, October 17th, 1841.

‘Dear Nell,—It is a cruel thing of you to be always upbraiding me when I am a trifle remiss or so in writing a letter.  I see I can’t make you comprehend that I have not quite as much time on my hands as Miss Harris or Mrs. Mills.  I never neglect you on purpose.  I could not do it, you little teazing, faithless wretch.

Dear Nell,—It’s really unfair of you to always criticize me when I'm a bit late with my letters. I can tell you just don’t get that I don’t have as much free time as Miss Harris or Mrs. Mills. I never ignore you on purpose. I could never do that, you little teasing, untrustworthy brat.

‘The humour I am in is worse than words can describe.  I have had a hideous dinner of some abominable spiced-up indescribable mess and it has exasperated me against the world at large.  So you are coming home, are you?  Then don’t expect me to write a long letter.  I am not going to Dewsbury Moor, as far as I can see at present.  It was a decent friendly proposal on Miss Wooler’s part, and cancels all or most of her little foibles, in my estimation; but Dewsbury Moor is a poisoned place to me; besides, I burn to go somewhere else.  I think, Nell, I see a chance of getting to Brussels.  Mary Taylor advises me to this step.  My own mind and feelings urge me.  I can’t write a word more.

‘I’m feeling worse than I can say. I had a terrible dinner with some awful, overly spiced food, and it’s really frustrating me. So you're coming home, right? Well, don’t expect a long letter from me. I’m not planning to go to Dewsbury Moor, at least not for the moment. It was a friendly suggestion from Miss Wooler, which makes up for most of her little quirks in my opinion, but Dewsbury Moor feels toxic to me; besides, I’m eager to go elsewhere. I think, Nell, I see a chance to get to Brussels. Mary Taylor is encouraging me to take this step. My own thoughts and feelings are pushing me. I can’t write another word.’

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Upperwood House, Rawdon,
‘Nov. 7th, 1841.

‘Upperwood House, Rawdon,
‘Nov. 7th, 1841.

‘Dear E. J.,—You are not to suppose that this note is written with a view of communicating any information on the subject we p. 92both have considerably at heart: I have written letters but I have received no letters in reply yet.  Belgium is a long way off, and people are everywhere hard to spur up to the proper speed.  Mary Taylor says we can scarcely expect to get off before January.  I have wished and intended to write to both Anne and Branwell, but really I have not had time.

Dear E. J.,—Don’t think I’m writing this note to share any news about the topic we both care about: I've sent letters, but no replies yet. Belgium is quite far away, and it seems like getting people to respond quickly is tough. Mary Taylor says we probably won't be able to leave until January. I wanted to write to both Anne and Branwell, but honestly, I just haven’t had the time.

‘Mr. Jenkins I find was mistakenly termed the British Consul at Brussels; he is in fact the English Episcopal clergyman.

‘Mr. Jenkins was mistakenly called the British Consul in Brussels; he’s actually the English Episcopal pastor.

‘I think perhaps we shall find that the best plan will be for papa to write a letter to him by and bye, but not yet.  I will give an intimation when this should be done, and also some idea of what had best be said.  Grieve not over Dewsbury Moor.  You were cut out there to all intents and purposes, so in fact was Anne, Miss Wooler would hear of neither for the first half year.

‘I think maybe the best plan is for Dad to write him a letter eventually, but not quite yet. I’ll let you know when that should happen and give some hints about what to say. Don’t worry about Dewsbury Moor. You were really meant for that place, and so was Anne; Miss Wooler didn’t want to hear about either of you for the first six months.’

‘Anne seems omitted in the present plan, but if all goes right I trust she will derive her full share of benefit from it in the end.  I exhort all to hope.  I believe in my heart this is acting for the best, my only fear is lest others should doubt and be dismayed.  Before our half year in Brussels is completed, you and I will have to seek employment abroad.  It is not my intention to retrace my steps home till twelve months, if all continues well and we and those at home retain good health.

‘Anne seems to be left out of the current plan, but if all goes well, I trust she’ll eventually benefit from it entirely. I urge everyone to stay hopeful. I honestly believe this is for the best; my only concern is that others might lose confidence and get discouraged. Before our six months in Brussels are up, you and I will need to look for work abroad. I don’t plan to go back home for a year, as long as everything keeps going well and we and those back home stay healthy.

‘I shall probably take my leave of Upperwood about the 15th or 17th of December.  When does Anne talk of returning?  How is she?  What does W. W. [92] say to these matters?  How are papa and aunt, do they flag?  How will Anne get on with Martha?  Has W. W. been seen or heard of lately?  Love to all.  Write quickly.—Good-bye.

‘I will likely say goodbye to Upperwood around the 15th or 17th of December. When is Anne planning to return? How is she? What does W. W. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ think about all this? How are Dad and Aunt, are they doing okay? How will Anne get along with Martha? Has W. W. been around lately? Love to everyone. Write back soon.—Goodbye.

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘I am well.’

‘I am well.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Rawdon, December 10th, 1841.

‘Rawdon, December 10th, 1841.

‘My dear Ellen,—I hear from Mary Taylor that you are come home, and also that you have been ill.  If you are able to write comfortably, let me know the feelings that preceded your illness, and also its effects.  I wish to see you.  Mary Taylor p. 93reports that your looks are much as usual.  I expect to get back to Haworth in the course of a fortnight or three weeks.  I hope I shall then see you.  I would rather you came to Haworth than I went to Brookroyd.  My plans advance slowly and I am not yet certain where I shall go, or what I shall do when I leave Upperwood House.  Brussels is still my promised land, but there is still the wilderness of time and space to cross before I reach it.  I am not likely, I think, to go to the Château de Kockleberg.  I have heard of a less expensive establishment.  So far I had written when I received your letter.  I was glad to get it.  Why don’t you mention your illness.  I had intended to have got this note off two or three days past, but I am more straitened for time than ever just now.  We have gone to bed at twelve or one o’clock during the last three nights.  I must get this scrawl off to-day or you will think me negligent.  The new governess, that is to be, has been to see my plans, etc.  My dear Ellen, Good-bye.—Believe me, in heart and soul, your sincere friend,

My dear Ellen,—I heard from Mary Taylor that you've returned home, and that you’ve also been unwell. If you’re feeling well enough, please let me know what caused your illness and how you're doing now. I really want to see you. Mary Taylor p. 93 mentioned that you look pretty much the same as always. I expect to be back in Haworth in about two to three weeks, and I hope to see you then. I’d prefer if you came to Haworth instead of me going to Brookroyd. My plans are progressing slowly, and I still don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do once I leave Upperwood House. Brussels is still my goal, but there’s still a long way to go before I get there. I don't think I’ll be going to the Château de Kockleberg anymore; I’ve heard of a more affordable place. That’s all I had written when I got your letter. I was really happy to receive it. Why don’t you mention your illness? I meant to send this note out a few days ago, but I’ve been busier than ever lately. We've been going to bed around midnight or one o’clock for the past three nights. I need to get this off today, or you’ll think I’m ignoring you. The new governess, who will be starting soon, visited to see my plans, etc. My dear Ellen, goodbye.—Believe me, in heart and soul, your sincere friend,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘December 17th, 1841.

‘December 17th, 1841.

‘My dear Ellen,—I am yet uncertain when I shall leave Upperwood, but of one thing I am very certain, when I do leave I must go straight home.  It is absolutely necessary that some definite arrangement should be commenced for our future plans before I go visiting anywhere.  That I wish to see you I know, that I intend and hope to see you before long I also know, that you will at the first impulse accuse me of neglect, I fear, that upon consideration you will acquit me, I devoutly trust.  Dear Ellen, come to Haworth if you can, if you cannot I will endeavour to come for a day at least to Brookroyd, but do not depend on this—come to Haworth.  I thank you for Mr. Jenkins’ address.  You always think of other people’s convenience, however ill and affected you are yourself.  How very much I wish to see you, you do not know; but if I were to go to Brookroyd now, it would deeply disappoint those at home.  I have some hopes of seeing Branwell at Xmas, and when p. 94I shall be able to see him afterwards I cannot tell.  He has never been at home for the last five months.—Good-night, dear Ellen,

My dear Ellen,—I’m still not sure when I’ll leave Upperwood, but I’m convinced that when I do, I need to head straight home. It’s essential that we start making solid plans for our future before I visit anyone. I know I want to see you, and I intend and hope to see you soon. However, I worry you’ll think I’ve neglected you at first, though I trust that once you reflect on it, you’ll understand. Dear Ellen, please come to Haworth if you can. If you can’t, I’ll try to visit Brookroyd for at least a day, but don’t count on that—come to Haworth instead. Thank you for Mr. Jenkins’ address. You always think of others’ needs, even when you’re unwell yourself. You have no idea how much I want to see you, but if I were to go to Brookroyd now, it would really disappoint my family. I’m hopeful about seeing Branwell at Christmas, but after that, I can’t say when I’ll be able to catch up with him. He hasn’t been home in the last five months. —Good night, dear Ellen,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS MERCY NUSSEY

TO MISS MERCY NUSSEY

‘Rawdon, December 17th.

‘Rawdon, December 17th.

‘My dear Miss Mercy,—Though I am very much engaged I must find time to thank you for the kind and polite contents of your note.  I should act in the manner most consonant with my own feelings if I at once, and without qualification, accepted your invitation.  I do not however consider it advisable to indulge myself so far at present.  When I leave Upperwood I must go straight home.  Whether I shall afterwards have time to pay a short visit to Brookroyd I do not yet know—circumstances must determine that.  I would fain see Ellen at Haworth instead; our visitations are not shared with any show of justice.  It shocked me very much to hear of her illness—may it be the first and last time she ever experiences such an attack!  Ellen, I fear, has thought I neglected her, in not writing sufficiently long or frequent letters.  It is a painful idea to me that she has had this feeling—it could not be more groundless.  I know her value, and I would not lose her affection for any probable compensation I can imagine.  Remember me to your mother.  I trust she will soon regain her health.—Believe me, my dear Miss Mercy, yours sincerely,

Dear Miss Mercy,—Even though I’m really busy, I have to take a moment to thank you for your kind and thoughtful note. I would love to accept your invitation right away without any hesitation, but I don’t think it's wise to indulge myself like that right now. When I leave Upperwood, I need to head straight home. I'm not sure if I’ll get the chance to visit Brookroyd later—it’ll depend on the circumstances. I would really rather see Ellen in Haworth instead; our visits haven’t felt fair. I was very upset to hear about her illness—let's hope it’s the first and last time she goes through something like that! I'm worried that Ellen thinks I’ve neglected her because I haven’t been writing long or frequent letters. It bothers me to think she feels that way—it’s completely untrue. I truly value her, and I wouldn't trade her affection for anything I can think of. Please send my regards to your mother. I hope she regains her health soon.—Sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 10th, 1842.

‘Haworth, January 10th, 1842.

‘My dear Ellen,—Will you write as soon as you get this and fix your own day for coming to Haworth?  I got home on Christmas Eve.  The parting scene between me and my late employers was such as to efface the memory of much that annoyed me while I was there, but indeed, during the whole of the last six months they only made too much of me.  Anne has rendered herself so valuable in her difficult situation that they have entreated her to return to them, if it be but for a short time.  I almost think she will go back, if we can get p. 95a good servant who will do all our work.  We want one about forty or fifty years old, good-tempered, clean, and honest.  You shall hear all about Brussels, etc., when you come.  Mr. Weightman is still here, just the same as ever.  I have a curiosity to see a meeting between you and him.  He will be again desperately in love, I am convinced.  Come.

My dear Ellen,—Please write back as soon as you get this and choose a day for your visit to Haworth. I got home on Christmas Eve. Saying goodbye to my former employers was enough to erase the annoyance I felt while I was with them; honestly, for the entire last six months, they really spoiled me. Anne has proven herself so essential in her tough situation that they’ve asked her to come back, even if just for a little while. I think she might go back if we can find p. 95a good servant to help with all our chores. We need someone around forty or fifty years old, friendly, tidy, and trustworthy. You’ll hear everything about Brussels and more when you arrive. Mr. Weightman is still here, just the same as before. I’m curious to see how you two will get along. I’m sure he’ll be hopelessly in love again. Come.

‘C. B.’ [95]

‘C. B.’ [95]

p. 96CHAPTER IV: THE PENSIONNAT HÉGER, BRUSSELS

p. 98TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 98TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 20th, 1842.

‘January 20th, 1842.

‘Dear Ellen,—I cannot quite enter into your friends’ reasons for not permitting you to come to Haworth; but as it is at present, and in all human probability will be for an indefinite time to come, impossible for me to get to Brookroyd, the balance of accounts is not so unequal as it might otherwise be.  We expect to leave England in less than three weeks, but we are not yet certain of the day, as it will depend upon the convenience of a French lady now in London, Madame Marzials, under whose escort we are to sail.  Our place of destination is changed.  Papa received an unfavourable account from Mr. or rather Mrs. Jenkins of the French schools in Brussels, and on further inquiry, an Institution in Lille, in the North of France, was recommended by Baptist Noel and other clergymen, and to that place it is decided that we are to go.  The terms are fifty pounds for each pupil for board and French alone.

Dear Ellen,—I really don’t understand why your friends won’t let you come to Haworth; however, since it’s currently impossible for me to get to Brookroyd and likely will be for a while, it’s not as unfair as it could be. We expect to leave England in under three weeks, but we don’t know the exact day yet, as it will depend on the convenience of a French lady currently in London, Madame Marzials, who will be accompanying us. Our destination has changed. Dad received a bad report about the French schools in Brussels from Mr. or rather Mrs. Jenkins, and after further inquiries, an institution in Lille, Northern France, was recommended by Baptist Noel and other clergymen, so that’s where we’ve decided to go. The fees are fifty pounds for each student for board and French only.

‘I considered it kind in aunt 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 Lille on many accounts, chiefly that I shall not see Martha Taylor.  Mary has been indefatigably kind in providing me with information.  She has grudged no labour, and scarcely any expense, to that end.  Mary’s price is above rubies.  I have, in fact, two friends—you and her—staunch and true, in whose faith and sincerity I have as strong a belief as I have in the Bible.  I have bothered you both, you especially; but you always get the tongs and heap coals of fire upon my head.  I have had letters to write lately to Brussels, to Lille, and to London.  I have lots of chemises, night-gowns, pocket-handkerchiefs, 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 tantalise me to death with talking of conversations by the fireside.  Depend upon it, we are not to have p. 99any 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.—Yours affectionately,

‘I think it was kind of Aunt to agree to pay for an extra room. We’ll definitely appreciate it in many ways. I regret the move from Brussels to Lille for numerous reasons, mainly because I won’t get to see Martha Taylor. Mary has been incredibly helpful in providing me information. She hasn’t held back on the effort or the expenses for that. Mary is worth her weight in gold. I actually have two friends—you and her—who are loyal and true, and I trust in your faith and sincerity as much as I trust in the Bible. I know I’ve bothered you both, especially you; but you always deal with it gracefully. I’ve had a ton of letters to write lately to Brussels, Lille, and London. I have lots of shirts, nightgowns, handkerchiefs, and pockets to make, plus clothes to repair. Every week since I got home, I’ve been expecting to see Branwell, but he hasn’t been able to visit yet. We’re really hoping to see him next Saturday, though. Given all this, how can I go visiting? You drive me crazy with your talk of cozy conversations by the fire. Just know that we won’t have any of those for quite some time. I’m starting to get an interesting look of old age on my face, and next time you see me, I’ll definitely be wearing caps and glasses.—Yours affectionately,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 10th, 1842.

‘Haworth, November 10th, 1842.

‘My dear Ellen,—I was not yet returned to England when your letter arrived.  We received the first news of aunt’s illness, Wednesday, Nov. 2nd.  We decided to come home directly.  Next morning a second letter informed us of her death.  We sailed from Antwerp on Sunday; we travelled day and night and got home on Tuesday morning—and of course the funeral and all was over.  We shall see her no more.  Papa is pretty well.  We found Anne at home; she is pretty well also.  You say you have had no letter from me for a long time.  I wrote to you three weeks ago.  When you answer this note, I will write to you more in detail.  Aunt, Martha Taylor, and Mr. Weightman are now all gone; how dreary and void everything seems.  Mr. Weightman’s illness was exactly what Martha’s was—he was ill the same length of time and died in the same manner.  Aunt’s disease was internal obstruction; she also was ill a fortnight.

My dear Ellen,—I hadn't returned to England yet when your letter came. We got the first news about Aunt's illness on Wednesday, November 2nd. We decided to come home immediately. The next morning, a second letter informed us of her death. We sailed from Antwerp on Sunday; we traveled day and night and got home on Tuesday morning—and of course, the funeral and everything else was over. We won’t see her again. Dad is doing pretty well. We found Anne at home; she's doing pretty well too. You mentioned you haven't heard from me in a long time. I wrote to you three weeks ago. When you reply to this note, I’ll write to you in more detail. Aunt, Martha Taylor, and Mr. Weightman are all gone now; everything feels so dreary and empty. Mr. Weightman’s illness was just like Martha’s—he was sick for the same amount of time and died the same way. Aunt’s illness was due to an internal obstruction; she was also sick for two weeks.

‘Good-bye, my dear Ellen.

‘Good-bye, my dear Ellen.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

Extracted from the District Probate Registry at York attached to Her Majesty’s High Court of Justice.

Extracted from the District Probate Registry in York, associated with Her Majesty’s High Court of Justice.

Depending on the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost for peace here, and glory and bliss forever hereafter, I leave this my last Will and Testament: Should I die at Haworth, I request that my remains may be deposited in the church in that place as near as convenient to the remains of my dear sister; I moreover will that all my just debts and funeral expenses be paid out of my property, and that my funeral shall be conducted in a moderate and decent manner.  My Indian workbox I leave to my niece, Charlotte Brontë; my workbox with a china top I leave to my niece, Emily Jane Brontë, together with my ivory fan; my Japan dressing-box I leave to my nephew, Patrick Branwell Brontë; to my niece Anne Brontë, I leave my watch with all that belongs to it; as also my eye-glass and its chain, my rings, silver-spoons, books, clothes, etc., etc., I leave to be divided between my above-named three nieces, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Jane Brontë, and Anne Brontë, according as their father shall think proper.  And I will that all the money that shall remain, including twenty-five pounds sterling, being the part of the proceeds of the sale of my goods which belong to me in consequence of my having advanced to my sister Kingston the sum of twenty-five pounds in lieu of her share of the proceeds of my goods aforesaid, and deposited in the bank of Bolitho Sons and Co., Esqrs., of Chiandower, near Penzance, after the aforesaid sums and articles shall have been paid and deducted, shall be put into some safe bank or lent on good landed security, and there left to accumulate for the sole benefit of my four nieces, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Jane Brontë, Anne Brontë, and Elizabeth Jane Kingston; and this sum or sums, and whatever other property I may have, shall be equally divided between them when the youngest of them then living shall have arrived at the age of twenty-one years.  And should any one or more of these my four nieces die, her or their part or parts shall be equally divided amongst the survivors; p. 104and if but one is left, all shall go to that one: And should they all die before the age of twenty-one years, all their parts shall be given to my sister, Anne Kingston; and should she die before that time specified, I will that all that was to have been hers shall be equally divided between all the surviving children of my dear brother and sisters.  I appoint my brother-in-law, the Rev. P. Brontë, A.B., now Incumbent of Haworth, Yorkshire; the Rev. John Fennell, now Incumbent of Cross Stone, near Halifax; the Rev. Theodore Dury, Rector of Keighley, Yorkshire; and Mr. George Taylor of Stanbury, in the chapelry of Haworth aforesaid, my executors.  Written by me, Elizabeth Branwell, and signed, sealed, and delivered on the 30th of April, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-three, Elizabeth Branwell.  Witnesses present, William Brown, John Tootill, William Brown, Junr.

Relying on the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost for peace here, and glory and happiness forever after, I leave this my last Will and Testament: If I die in Haworth, I want my remains to be buried in the church there, as close as possible to my dear sister's remains; I also wish for all my debts and funeral expenses to be paid from my estate, and for my funeral to be conducted in a simple and respectful manner. I leave my Indian workbox to my niece, Charlotte Brontë; my workbox with the china top goes to my niece, Emily Jane Brontë, along with my ivory fan; I give my Japanese dressing box to my nephew, Patrick Branwell Brontë; to my niece Anne Brontë, I leave my watch and everything that comes with it; similarly, my eyeglass and its chain, my rings, silver spoons, books, clothes, etc., etc., I want to be divided among my three nieces, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Jane Brontë, and Anne Brontë, as their father thinks best. And I want all the remaining money, including twenty-five pounds sterling, which is part of the proceeds from the sale of my goods that belong to me because I advanced my sister Kingston twenty-five pounds instead of her share of the proceeds, and deposited in the bank of Bolitho Sons and Co., Esqrs., of Chiandower, near Penzance, after the above amounts have been settled, to be placed in a secure bank or lent on solid land security, and left to grow for the sole benefit of my four nieces, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Jane Brontë, Anne Brontë, and Elizabeth Jane Kingston; this sum or sums, and any other property I may have, shall be equally divided among them when the youngest of them alive turns twenty-one years old. If any one or more of these four nieces die, her or their share will be split equally among the survivors; p. 104and if only one remains, everything goes to that one: If they all die before turning twenty-one, their shares will go to my sister, Anne Kingston; and if she dies before then, I want everything that was to be hers to be equally divided among all the surviving children of my dear brother and sisters. I appoint my brother-in-law, the Rev. P. Brontë, A.B., who is currently the Incumbent of Haworth, Yorkshire; the Rev. John Fennell, who is currently the Incumbent of Cross Stone, near Halifax; the Rev. Theodore Dury, Rector of Keighley, Yorkshire; and Mr. George Taylor of Stanbury, in the chapelry of Haworth, as my executors. Written by me, Elizabeth Branwell, and signed, sealed, and delivered on the 30th of April, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-three, Elizabeth Branwell. Witnesses present, William Brown, John Tootill, William Brown, Jr..

The twenty-eighth day of December, 1842, the Will of Elizabeth Branwell, late of Haworth, in the parish of Bradford, in the county of York, spinster (having bona notabilia within the province of York).  Deceased was proved in the prerogative court of York by the oaths of the Reverend Patrick Brontë, clerk, brother-in-law; and George Taylor, two of the executors to whom administration was granted (the Reverend Theodore Dury, another of the executors, having renounced), they having been first sworn duly to administer.

On the twenty-eighth day of December, 1842, the Will of Elizabeth Branwell, formerly of Haworth, in the parish of Bradford, in the county of York, a single woman (with significant assets in the province of York). The deceased was proven in the prerogative court of York by the oaths of the Reverend Patrick Brontë, clerk, her brother-in-law; and George Taylor, two of the executors to whom administration was granted (the Reverend Theodore Dury, another executor, having renounced), they having been first sworn to administer properly.

Effects sworn under £1500.

The estate was sworn under £1500.

Testatrix died 29th October 1842.

Testatrix died 29th October 1842.

The small property, which she had accumulated by dint of personal frugality and self-denial, was bequeathed to her nieces.  Branwell, her darling, was to have had his share, but his reckless expenditure had distressed the good old lady, and his name was omitted in her will.

The small property, which she had saved through her own frugality and self-discipline, was left to her nieces. Branwell, the one she loved, was meant to receive his share, but his irresponsible spending had disappointed the kind old lady, so he was excluded from her will.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 20th, 1842.

‘Haworth, November 20th, 1842.

‘Dear Ellen,—I hope your brother is sufficiently recovered now to dispense with your constant attendance.  Papa desires his compliments to you, and says he should be very glad if you could give us your company at Haworth a little while.  Can you come on Friday next?  I mention so early a day because Anne leaves us to return to York on Monday, and she wishes very much to see you before her departure.  I think your brother is too good-natured to object to your coming.  There is little enough pleasure in this world, and it would be truly unkind to deny to you and me that of meeting again after so long a separation.  Do not fear to find us melancholy or depressed.  We are all much as usual.  You will see no difference from our former demeanour.  Send an immediate answer.

Dear Ellen,—I hope your brother is well enough that you don’t need to stay with him constantly. Dad sends his regards and would be really happy if you could visit us at Haworth for a bit. Can you come this Friday? I mention it early because Anne is leaving to go back to York on Monday, and she really wants to see you before she goes. I think your brother is kind enough not to mind you visiting. There isn’t much joy in life, and it would be unfair to deny us both the chance to reunite after such a long time apart. Don’t worry about us being sad or upset. We’re pretty much the same as always. You won’t notice any difference in our behavior. Please reply as soon as you can.

‘My love and best wishes to your sister and mother.

‘Send my love and best wishes to your sister and mom.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 25th, 1842.

‘Haworth, November 25th, 1842.

‘My dear Ellen,—I hope that invitation of yours was given p. 106in real earnest, for I intend to accept it.  I wish to see you, and as in a few weeks I shall probably again leave England, I will not be too delicate and ceremonious and so let the present opportunity pass.  Something says to me that it will not be too convenient to have a guest at Brookroyd while there is an invalid there—however, I listen to no such suggestions.  Anne leaves Haworth on Tuesday at 6 o’clock in the morning, and we should reach Bradford at half-past eight.  There are many reasons why I should have preferred your coming to Haworth, but as it appears there are always obstacles which prevent that, I’ll break through ceremony, or pride, or whatever it is, and, like Mahomet, go to the mountain which won’t or can’t come to me.  The coach stops at the Bowling Green Inn, in Bradford.  Give my love to your sister and mother.

My dear Ellen,—I hope your invitation was genuine because I intend to accept it. I want to see you, and since I’ll likely be leaving England again in a few weeks, I won’t be formal and let this opportunity pass. Something tells me it might not be the best idea to have a guest at Brookroyd while someone is unwell there—still, I’m ignoring that thought. Anne is leaving Haworth on Tuesday at 6 a.m., and we should reach Bradford by 8:30. I would have preferred if you came to Haworth, but since there always seem to be obstacles preventing that, I’ll put aside any formality or pride and, like Mahomet, go to the mountain that won’t or can’t come to me. The coach stops at the Bowling Green Inn in Bradford. Give my love to your sister and mother.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 10th, 1843.

‘Haworth, January 10th, 1843.

‘Dear Nell,—It is a singular state of things to be obliged to write and have nothing worth reading to say.  I am glad you got home safe.  You are an excellent good girl for writing to me two letters, especially as they were such long ones.  Branwell wants to know why you carefully exclude all mention of him when you particularly send your regards to every other member of the family.  He desires to know whether and in what he has offended you, or whether it is considered improper for a young lady to mention the gentlemen of a house.  We have been one walk on the moors since you left.  We have been to Keighley, where we met a person of our acquaintance, who uttered an interjection of astonishment on meeting us, and when he could get his breath, informed us that he had heard I was dead and buried.

‘Dear Nell,—It’s a strange situation to write without anything interesting to say. I’m glad you got home safely. You’re so thoughtful for sending me two letters, especially since they were so lengthy. Branwell wants to know why you completely leave him out when you send regards to everyone else in the family. He’s wondering if he’s upset you or if it’s improper for a young woman to mention the men in the household. We’ve only taken one walk on the moors since you left. We went to Keighley, where we ran into someone we know, who was shocked to see us and, once he caught his breath, told us he had heard I was dead and buried.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 15th, 1843.

‘Haworth, January 15th, 1843.

‘Dear Nell,—I am much obliged to you for transferring the roll of muslin.  Last Saturday I found the other gift, for which you deserve smothering.  I will deliver Branwell your message.  p. 107You have left your Bible—how can I send it?  I cannot tell precisely what day I leave home, but it will be the last week in this month.  Are you going with me?  I admire exceedingly the costume you have chosen to appear in at the Birstall rout.  I think you say pink petticoat, black jacket, and a wreath of roses—beautiful!  For a change I would advise a black coat, velvet stock and waistcoat, white pantaloons, and smart boots.  Address Rue d’Isabelle.  Write to me again, that’s a good girl, very soon.  Respectful remembrances to your mother and sister.

Dear Nell,—Thank you so much for sending the roll of muslin. Last Saturday, I found the other gift, which you deserve a lot of praise for. I’ll pass your message to Branwell. p. 107 You've left your Bible—how can I get it back to you? I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be leaving home, but it will be the last week of this month. Are you coming with me? I really love the outfit you’ve chosen for the Birstall event. I believe you said pink petticoat, black jacket, and a wreath of roses—gorgeous! For a change, I would suggest a black coat, velvet stock and waistcoat, white trousers, and stylish boots. The address is Rue d’Isabelle. Please write to me again soon; that would be great. Best wishes to your mother and sister.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Brussels, January 30th, 1843.

‘Brussels, January 30th, 1843.

‘Dear Ellen,—I left Leeds for London last Friday at nine o’clock; owing to delay we did not reach London till ten at night—two hours after time.  I took a cab the moment I arrived at Euston Square, and went forthwith to London Bridge Wharf.  The packet lay off that wharf, and I went on board the same night.  Next morning we sailed.  We had a prosperous and speedy voyage, and landed at Ostend at seven o’clock next morning.  I took the train at twelve and reached Rue d’Isabelle at seven in the evening.  Madame Héger received me with great kindness.  I am still tired with the continued excitement of three days’ travelling.  I had no accident, but of course some anxiety.  Miss Dixon called this afternoon. [107]  Mary Taylor had told her I should be in Brussels the last week in January.  I am going there on Sunday, D.V.  Address—Miss Brontë, Chez Mme. Héger, 32 Rue d’Isabelle, Bruxelles.—Good-bye, dear.

Dear Ellen,—I left Leeds for London last Friday at nine o’clock; because of delays, we didn’t reach London until ten at night—two hours late. I took a cab as soon as I arrived at Euston Square and went straight to London Bridge Wharf. The packet was anchored off that wharf, and I got on board that same night. We sailed the next morning. We had a smooth and quick journey, arriving in Ostend at seven o’clock the following morning. I took the train at noon and arrived at Rue d’Isabelle at seven in the evening. Madame Héger welcomed me warmly. I’m still tired from the excitement of three days of travel. I had no problems, but of course, some anxiety. Miss Dixon came by this afternoon. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Mary Taylor told her I would be in Brussels the last week of January. I’m traveling there on Sunday, D.V. My address is—Miss Brontë, Chez Mme. Héger, 32 Rue d’Isabelle, Bruxelles.—Good-bye, dear.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO BRANWELL BRONTË

TO BRANWELL BRONTË

‘Brussels, May 1st, 1843.

‘Brussels, May 1st, 1843.

‘Dear Branwell,—I hear you have written a letter to me.  This letter, however, as usual, I have never received, which I am exceedingly sorry for, as I have wished very much to hear from you.  Are you sure that you put the right address and that you paid the English postage, 1s. 6d.?  Without that, letters are never forwarded.  I heard from papa a day or two since.  All appears to be going on reasonably well at home.  I grieve only that Emily is so solitary; but, however, you and Anne will soon be returning for the holidays, which will cheer the house for a time.  Are you in better health and spirits, and does Anne continue to be pretty well?  I understand papa has been to see you.  Did he seem cheerful and well?  Mind when you write to me you answer these questions, as I wish to know.  Also give me a detailed account as to how you get on with your pupil and the rest of the family.  I have received a general p. 113assurance that you do well and are in good odour, but I want to know particulars.

Dear Branwell,—I hear you’ve sent me a letter. Unfortunately, I haven’t received it yet, which I'm really sorry about because I’ve been eager to hear from you. Are you sure you sent it to the right address and that you paid the 1s. 6d. for English postage? Without that, letters don’t get forwarded. I heard from Dad a couple of days ago. Everything seems to be going okay at home. I just wish Emily wasn’t so lonely; but don’t worry, you and Anne will be back for the holidays soon, which will bring some cheer to the house for a while. Are you feeling better and in good spirits? How is Anne? I heard Dad visited you. Did he seem happy and well? When you write back, please make sure to answer these questions, as I really want to know. Also, give me a detailed update on how you’re doing with your student and the rest of the family. I’ve heard a general note that you’re doing well and are in good standing, but I’d like to know the specifics.

‘As for me, I am very well and wag on as usual.  I perceive, however, that I grow exceedingly misanthropic and sour.  You will say that this is no news, and that you never knew me possessed of the contrary qualities—philanthropy and sugariness.  Das ist wahr (which being translated means, that is true); but the fact is, the people here are no go whatsoever.  Amongst 120 persons which compose the daily population of this house, I can discern only one or two who deserve anything like regard.  This is not owing to foolish fastidiousness on my part, but to the absence of decent qualities on theirs.  They have not intellect or politeness or good-nature or good-feeling.  They are nothing.  I don’t hate them—hatred would be too warm a feeling.  They have no sensations themselves and they excite none.  But one wearies from day to day of caring nothing, fearing nothing, liking nothing, hating nothing, being nothing, doing nothing—yes, I teach and sometimes get red in the face with impatience at their stupidity.  But don’t think I ever scold or fly into a passion.  If I spoke warmly, as warmly as I sometimes used to do at Roe-Head, they would think me mad.  Nobody ever gets into a passion here.  Such a thing is not known.  The phlegm that thickens their blood is too gluey to boil.  They are very false in their relations with each other, but they rarely quarrel, and friendship is a folly they are unacquainted with.  The black Swan, M. Héger, is the only sole veritable exception to this rule (for Madame, always cool and always reasoning, is not quite an exception).  But I rarely speak to Monsieur now, for not being a pupil I have little or nothing to do with him.  From time to time he shows his kind-heartedness by loading me with books, so that I am still indebted to him for all the pleasure or amusement I have.  Except for the total want of companionship I have nothing to complain of.  I have not too much to do, sufficient liberty, and I am rarely interfered with.  I lead an easeful, stagnant, silent life, for which, when I think of Mrs. Sidgwick, I ought to be very thankful.  Be sure you write to me soon, and beg of Anne p. 114to inclose a small billet in the same letter; it will be a real charity to do me this kindness.  Tell me everything you can think of.

‘As for me, I'm doing pretty well and just going about my usual business. However, I notice that I'm becoming really misanthropic and cynical. You might say that's not new and that you never saw me as someone who was warm and friendly. Das ist wahr (which means, that is true); but honestly, the people here are no good at all. Out of the 120 people who make up the daily crowd in this place, I can only see one or two who deserve any respect. This isn’t because I'm picky, but because they lack decent qualities. They have no intelligence, politeness, kindness, or empathy. They are nothing. I don’t hate them—hatred would be too strong a feeling. They don't have feelings themselves, nor do they provoke any in me. But day by day, I grow tired of not caring, fearing, liking, hating, being, or doing anything—yes, I teach and sometimes feel my face get red with frustration at their stupidity. But don’t think I ever yell or lose my temper. If I spoke strongly, as I sometimes did at Roe-Head, they would think I was crazy. No one here ever loses their temper. That sort of thing just doesn't happen. The dullness that thickens their blood is too sticky to boil. They are very insincere in their interactions with each other, but they rarely argue, and the idea of friendship is completely foreign to them. The black Swan, M. Héger, is the only true exception to this rule (since Madame, always calm and always logical, isn’t really an exception). But I hardly talk to Monsieur now, as I’m not a student anymore and have little to do with him. Every now and then he shows his kindness by piling books on me, so I still owe him for all the joy or entertainment I have. Aside from the complete lack of companionship, I have nothing to complain about. I don’t have too much work, enough freedom, and I’m rarely interrupted. I lead a comfortable, stagnant, quiet life, for which, when I think of Mrs. Sidgwick, I should be very grateful. Make sure you write to me soon, and ask Anne p. 114to include a small note in the same letter; it would be a real kindness to do this for me. Tell me everything you can think of.

‘It is a curious metaphysical fact that always in the evening when I am in the great dormitory alone, having no other company than a number of beds with white curtains, I always recur as fanatically as ever to the old ideas, the old faces, and the old scenes in the world below.

‘It’s an interesting metaphysical fact that every evening when I’m alone in the large dormitory, with nothing but a bunch of beds with white curtains for company, I find myself obsessively returning to the old ideas, the familiar faces, and the memories of the world below.

‘Give my love to Anne.—And believe me, yourn

‘Send my love to Anne.—And believe me, yours

‘Dear Anne,—Write to me.—Your affectionate Schwester,

‘Dear Anne,—Please write to me.—Your loving sister,

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘Mr. Héger has just been in and given me a little German Testament as a present.  I was surprised, for since a good many days he has hardly spoken to me.’

‘Mr. Héger just came by and gave me a little German Testament as a gift. I was surprised because he hasn’t hardly spoken to me in quite a few days.’

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Brussels, May 29th, 1843.

‘Brussels, May 29th, 1843.

‘Dear E. J.,—The reason of the unconscionable demand for money is explained in my letter to papa.  Would you believe it, Mdlle. Mühl demands as much for one pupil as for two, namely, 10 francs per month.  This, with the 5 francs per month to the Blanchisseuse, makes havoc in £16 per annum.  You will perceive I have begun again to take German lessons.  Things wag on much as usual here.  Only Mdlle. Blanche and Mdlle. Haussé are at present on a system of war without quarter.  They hate each other like two cats.  Mdlle. Blanche frightens Mdlle. Haussé by her white passions (for they quarrel venomously).  Mdlle. Haussé complains that when Mdlle. Blanche is in fury, “elle n’a pas de levres.”  I find also that Mdlle. Sophie dislikes Mdlle. Blanche extremely.  She says she is heartless, insincere, and vindictive, which epithets, I assure you, are richly deserved.  Also I find she is the regular spy of Mme. Héger, to whom she reports everything.  Also she invents—which I should not have thought.  I have now the p. 115entire charge of the English lessons.  I have given two lessons to the first class.  Hortense Jannoy was a picture on these occasions, her face was black as a “blue-piled thunder-loft,” and her two ears were red as raw beef.  To all questions asked her reply was, “je ne sais pas.”  It is a pity but her friends could meet with a person qualified to cast out a devil.  I am richly off for companionship in these parts.  Of late days, M. and Mde. Héger rarely speak to me, and I really don’t pretend to care a fig for any body else in the establishment.  You are not to suppose by that expression that I am under the influence of warm affection for Mde. Héger.  I am convinced she does not like me—why, I can’t tell, nor do I think she herself has any definite reason for the aversion; but for one thing, she cannot comprehend why I do not make intimate friends of Mesdames Blanche, Sophie, and Haussé.  M. Héger is wonderously influenced by Madame, and I should not wonder if he disapproves very much of my unamiable want of sociability.  He has already given me a brief lecture on universal bienveillance, and, perceiving that I don’t improve in consequence, I fancy he has taken to considering me as a person to be let alone—left to the error of her ways; and consequently he has in a great measure withdrawn the light of his countenance, and I get on from day to day in a Robinson-Crusoe-like condition—very lonely.  That does not signify.  In other respects I have nothing substantial to complain of, nor is even this a cause for complaint.  Except the loss of M. Héger’s goodwill (if I have lost it) I care for none of ’em.  I hope you are well and hearty.  Walk out often on the moors.  Sorry am I to hear that Hannah is gone, and that she has left you burdened with the charge of the little girl, her sister.  I hope Tabby will continue to stay with you—give my love to her.  Regards to the fighting gentry, and to old asthma.—Your

Dear E. J.,—The reason for the unreasonable demand for money is explained in my letter to dad. Can you believe it, Mdlle. Mühl charges the same for one student as for two, which is 10 francs a month? This, along with the 5 francs a month for the laundress, throws off the £16 a year. You’ll see I’ve started taking German lessons again. Things are pretty much the same here. The only difference is that Mdlle. Blanche and Mdlle. Haussé are currently at each other's throats. They intensely dislike each other. Mdlle. Blanche intimidates Mdlle. Haussé with her fierce temper (they argue fiercely). Mdlle. Haussé complains that when Mdlle. Blanche is angry, “elle n’a pas de levres.” I’ve also discovered that Mdlle. Sophie really dislikes Mdlle. Blanche. She says Mdlle. Blanche is heartless, insincere, and vindictive, which I assure you is well-deserved. I’ve found out that she is the spy for Mme. Héger, reporting everything. She even makes things up—which I wouldn’t have expected. Now I have full responsibility for the English lessons. I’ve given two lessons to the first class. Hortense Jannoy was a sight during these; her face was as dark as a “blue-piled thunder-loft,” and her ears were as red as raw beef. To every question, her reply was, “je ne sais pas.” It’s a shame her friends can't find someone qualified to help her. I’m stuck with company around here. Lately, M. and Mme. Héger hardly talk to me, and I really don’t care about anyone else in the place. Don’t think from this that I have warm feelings for Mme. Héger. I’m convinced she doesn’t like me—why, I can’t say, nor do I think she has any clear reason for her dislike; but for one thing, she can’t understand why I don’t make close friends with Mesdames Blanche, Sophie, and Haussé. M. Héger is greatly influenced by his wife, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he disapproves of my tendency to be unsociable. He has already given me a quick lecture on the importance of universal bienveillance, and since I haven’t changed, I guess he considers me someone to leave alone—allowing me to make my own mistakes; as a result, he has mostly withdrawn his friendly attention, and I find myself living in a Robinson-Crusoe-like state—very lonely. That doesn’t really matter. Other than that, I don’t have anything significant to complain about, nor is this even a reason to complain. Aside from possibly losing M. Héger’s goodwill (if I have lost it), I don’t care about any of them. I hope you are doing well. Take walks often on the moors. I’m sorry to hear that Hannah is gone and that she’s left you responsible for the little girl, her sister. I hope Tabby can continue to stay with you—send her my love. Best wishes to the fighting folks, and to old asthma.—Your

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘I have written to Branwell, though I never got a letter from him.’

‘I wrote to Branwell, but I never got a letter from him.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Brussels, August 6th, 1843.

‘Brussels, August 6th, 1843.

‘Dear Ellen,—You never answered my last letter; but, however, forgiveness is a part of the Christian Creed, and so having an opportunity to send a letter to England, I forgive you and write to you again.  Last Sunday afternoon, being at the Chapel Royal, in Brussels, I was surprised to hear a voice proceed from the pulpit which instantly brought all Birstall and Batley before my mind’s eye.  I could see nothing, but certainly thought that that unclerical little Welsh pony, Jenkins, was there.  I buoyed up my mind with the expectation of receiving a letter from you, but as, however, I have got none, I suppose I must have been mistaken.

Dear Ellen,—You didn’t reply to my last letter; but still, forgiveness is part of the Christian faith, so since I have the opportunity to send a letter to England, I forgive you and am writing to you once more. Last Sunday afternoon, while I was at the Chapel Royal in Brussels, I was taken aback to hear a voice from the pulpit that immediately reminded me of everyone in Birstall and Batley. I couldn’t see anything, but I really thought that little Welsh pony, Jenkins, was around. I held onto the hope of receiving a letter from you, but since I haven’t gotten one, I guess I must have been mistaken.

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘Mr. Jenkins has called.  He brought no letter from you, but said you were at Harrogate, and that they could not find the letter you had intended to send.  He informed me of the death of your sister.  Poor Sarah, when I last bid her good-bye I little thought I should never see her more.  Certainly, however, she is happy where she is gone—far happier than she was here.  When the first days of mourning are past, you will see that you have reason rather to rejoice at her removal than to grieve for it.  Your mother will have felt her death much—and you also.  I fear from the circumstance of your being at Harrogate that you are yourself ill.  Write to me soon.’

‘Mr. Jenkins visited. He didn’t bring a letter from you but mentioned you were at Harrogate and that they couldn’t find the letter you intended to send. He informed me about your sister's passing. Poor Sarah, when I last said goodbye to her, I never imagined it would be our final farewell. But surely, she is in a better place now—much happier than she was here. Once the initial days of mourning pass, you'll see you have more reason to celebrate her life than to grieve her loss. Your mother will have felt this loss deeply—and so will you. I’m concerned, since you’re at Harrogate, that you might be unwell. Write to me soon.’

p. 117TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

p. 117TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Brussels, September 2nd, 1843.

‘Brussels, September 2nd, 1843.

‘Dear E. J.,—Another opportunity of writing to you coming to pass, I shall improve it by scribbling a few lines.  More than half the holidays are now past, and rather better than I expected.  The weather has been exceedingly fine during the last fortnight, and yet not so Asiatically hot as it was last year at this time.  Consequently I have tramped about a great deal and tried to get a clearer acquaintance with the streets of Bruxelles.  This week, as no teacher is here except Mdlle. Blanche, who is returned from Paris, I am always alone except at meal-times, for Mdlle. Blanche’s character is so false and so contemptible I can’t force myself to associate with her.  She perceives my utter dislike and never now speaks to me—a great relief.

Dear E. J.,—Since I have another chance to write to you, I’ll take the opportunity to jot down a few lines. More than half of the holidays have passed now, and it's actually been a bit better than I expected. The weather has been really nice over the past two weeks, and it hasn’t been as unbearably hot as it was last year at this time. As a result, I’ve walked around a lot and tried to get to know the streets of Brussels better. This week, since there’s no teacher here except Mdlle. Blanche, who has returned from Paris, I’m pretty much alone except during meals, because Mdlle. Blanche's character is so fake and disgusting that I can’t bring myself to spend time with her. She notices how much I dislike her and doesn’t talk to me anymore—a big relief.

‘However, I should inevitably fall into the gulf of low spirits if I stayed always by myself here without a human being to speak to, so I go out and traverse the Boulevards and streets of Bruxelles sometimes for hours together.  Yesterday I went on a pilgrimage to the cemetery, and far beyond it on to a hill where there was nothing but fields as far as the horizon.  When I came back it was evening; but I had such a repugnance to return to the house, which contained nothing that I cared for, I still kept threading the streets in the neighbourhood of the Rue d’Isabelle and avoiding it.  I found myself opposite to Ste. Gudule, and the bell, whose voice you know, began to toll for evening salut.  I went in, quite alone (which procedure you will say is not much like me), wandered about the aisles where a few old women were saying their prayers, till vespers begun.  I stayed till they were over.  Still I could not leave the church or force myself to go home—to school I mean.  An odd whim came into my head.  In a solitary part of the Cathedral six or seven people still remained kneeling by the confessionals.  In two confessionals I saw a priest.  I felt as if I did not care what I did, provided it was not absolutely wrong, and that it served to vary my life and yield a moment’s interest.  I took a fancy to change myself p. 118into a Catholic and go and make a real confession to see what it was like.  Knowing me as you do, you will think this odd, but when people are by themselves they have singular fancies.  A penitent was occupied in confessing.  They do not go into the sort of pew or cloister which the priest occupies, but kneel down on the steps and confess through a grating.  Both the confessor and the penitent whisper very low, you can hardly hear their voices.  After I had watched two or three penitents go and return I approached at last and knelt down in a niche which was just vacated.  I had to kneel there ten minutes waiting, for on the other side was another penitent invisible to me.  At last that went away and a little wooden door inside the grating opened, and I saw the priest leaning his ear towards me.  I was obliged to begin, and yet I did not know a word of the formula with which they always commence their confessions.  It was a funny position.  I felt precisely as I did when alone on the Thames at midnight.  I commenced with saying I was a foreigner and had been brought up a Protestant.  The priest asked if I was a Protestant then.  I somehow could not tell a lie and said “yes.”  He replied that in that case I could not “jouir du bonheur de la confesse”; but I was determined to confess, and at last he said he would allow me because it might be the first step towards returning to the true church.  I actually did confess—a real confession.  When I had done he told me his address, and said that every morning I was to go to the rue du Parc—to his house—and he would reason with me and try to convince me of the error and enormity of being a Protestant!!!  I promised faithfully to go.  Of course, however, the adventure stops there, and I hope I shall never see the priest again.  I think you had better not tell papa of this.  He will not understand that it was only a freak, and will perhaps think I am going to turn Catholic.  Trusting that you and papa are well, and also Tabby and the Holyes, and hoping you will write to me immediately,—I am, yours,

‘However, I would definitely fall into a funk if I stayed here all the time with no one to talk to, so I go out and walk the Boulevards and streets of Brussels sometimes for hours. Yesterday, I went on a pilgrimage to the cemetery and further on to a hill where there was nothing but fields stretching to the horizon. When I came back, it was evening; but I was so reluctant to return to the house, which had nothing I cared about, that I kept wandering the streets around Rue d’Isabelle and avoided it. I found myself in front of Ste. Gudule, and the bell, which you know, started ringing for evening prayers. I went inside, completely alone (which you might think is unusual for me), wandered around the aisles where a few old women were praying, until vespers began. I stayed until they were done. Still, I couldn’t leave the church or force myself to go home—meaning back to school. An odd whim came to me. In a quiet part of the Cathedral, six or seven people were still kneeling by the confessionals. I saw a priest in two of them. I felt like I didn’t care what I did, as long as it wasn’t completely wrong, and it added some variety to my life and gave me a moment’s interest. I thought I’d take a chance and convert to Catholicism and go make a real confession to see what it was like. Knowing me as you do, you’ll find this odd, but when people are alone, they have strange ideas. A penitent was busy confessing. They don’t go into the booth or area where the priest sits, but kneel on the steps and confess through a screen. Both the priest and the penitent speak very softly; you can barely hear them. After watching two or three penitents come and go, I finally approached and knelt down in a spot that had just been vacated. I had to wait there for ten minutes because there was another penitent on the other side I couldn’t see. Finally, that person left, and a little wooden door in the screen opened, and I saw the priest leaning in to listen to me. I had to start, but I didn’t know any of the standard phrases they always use to begin their confessions. It was a funny situation. I felt exactly like I did when I was alone on the Thames at midnight. I started by saying I was a foreigner and had been raised a Protestant. The priest asked if I was a Protestant then. I somehow couldn’t lie and said “yes.” He replied that in that case, I couldn’t “enjoy the happiness of confession”; but I was determined to confess, and finally, he said he would allow it since it might be the first step towards returning to the true church. I actually did confess—a real confession. When I was done, he gave me his address and said that every morning I should come to Rue du Parc—his house—and he would talk to me and try to convince me of the errors and seriousness of being a Protestant!!! I promised faithfully to go. Of course, that’s where the adventure ends, and I hope I never see the priest again. I think you’d better not tell Dad about this. He won’t understand that it was just a whim and might think I’m going to convert to Catholicism. Hoping you and Dad are well, and also Tabby and the Holyes, and hoping you write to me soon,—I am, yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

‘The Holyes,’ it is perhaps hardly necessary to add, is p. 119Charlotte’s irreverent appellation for the curates—Mr. Smith and Mr. Grant.

‘The Holyes,’ it’s probably unnecessary to mention, is p. 119Charlotte’s cheeky nickname for the curates—Mr. Smith and Mr. Grant.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Brussels, October 13th, 1843.

‘Brussels, October 13th, 1843.

‘Dear Ellen,—I was glad to receive your last letter; but when I read it, its contents gave me some pain.  It was melancholy indeed that so soon after the death of a sister you should be called from a distant county by the news of the severe illness of a brother, and, after your return home, your sister Ann should fall ill too.  Mary Dixon informs me your brother is scarcely expected to recover—is this true?  I hope not, for his sake and yours.  His loss would indeed be a blow—a blow which I hope Providence may avert.  Do not, my dear Ellen, fail to write to me soon of affairs at Brookroyd.  I cannot fail to be anxious on the subject, your family being amongst the oldest and kindest friends I have.  I trust this season of affliction will soon pass.  It has been a long one.

Dear Ellen,—I was happy to get your last letter; however, its contents caused me some pain. It’s truly sad that so soon after losing a sister, you should be called back from a distant county due to the news of your brother’s serious illness, and then upon your return home, your sister Ann should also fall ill. Mary Dixon tells me that your brother is not expected to recover—is that true? I hope not, for his sake and yours. His loss would be devastating—a blow that I hope Providence will prevent. Please, my dear Ellen, don’t forget to write to me soon about what’s happening at Brookroyd. I can’t help but worry, as your family is among the oldest and kindest friends I have. I hope this difficult time will pass soon. It’s been a long one.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Brussels, December 19th, 1843.

‘Brussels, December 19th, 1843.

‘Dear E. J.,—I have taken my determination.  I hope to be at home the day after New Year’s Day.  I have told Mme. Héger.  But in order to come home I shall be obliged to draw on my cash for another £5.  I have only £3 at present, and as there are several little things I should like to buy before I leave Brussels—which you know cannot be got as well in England—£3 would not suffice.  Low spirits have afflicted me much lately, but I hope all will be well when I get home—above all, if I find papa and you and B. and A. well.  I am not ill in body.  It is only the mind which is a trifle shaken—for want of comfort.

Dear E. J.,—I've made up my mind. I plan to be home the day after New Year’s Day. I've informed Mme. Héger. However, to make it home, I'll need to withdraw another £5. I only have £3 right now, and there are a few things I’d like to buy before I leave Brussels, which I know I can’t get as easily in England—so £3 won’t be enough. I've been feeling pretty down lately, but I hope everything will be okay once I get home—especially if I find you, papa, B., and A. all well. I'm not physically ill; it's just my mind that's a bit unsettled—because of the lack of comfort.

‘I shall try to cheer up now.—Good-bye.

'I will try to cheer up now. —Goodbye.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

p. 120CHAPTER V: PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTË

p. 121TO BRANWELL BRONTË

p. 121TO BRANWELL BRONTË

‘Roe Head, May 17th, 1832.

‘Roe Head, May 17th, 1832.

‘Dear Branwell,—As usual I address my weekly letter to you, because to you I find the most to say.  I feel exceedingly anxious to know how and in what state you arrived at home after your long and (I should think) very fatiguing journey.  I could perceive when you arrived at Roe Head that you were very much tired, though you refused to acknowledge it.  After you were gone, many questions and subjects of conversation recurred to me which I had intended to mention to you, but quite forgot them in the agitation which I felt at the totally unexpected pleasure of seeing you.  Lately I had begun to think that I had lost all the interest which I used formerly to take in politics, but the extreme pleasure I felt at the news of the Reform Bill’s being thrown out by the House of Lords, and of the expulsion or resignation of Earl Grey, etc., etc., convinced me that I have not as yet lost all my penchant for politics.  I am extremely glad that aunt has consented to take in Fraser’s Magazine, for though I know from your description of its general contents it will be rather uninteresting when compared with Blackwood, still it will be better than remaining the whole year without being able to obtain a sight of any periodical publication whatever; and such would assuredly be our case, as in the little wild, moorland village where we reside, there would be no possibility of borrowing or obtaining a work of that description from a circulating library.  I hope with you that the present delightful weather may contribute to the perfect restoration of our dear papa’s health, and that it may give aunt pleasant reminiscences of the salubrious climate of her native place.

Dear Branwell,—As always, I’m writing my weekly letter to you because you’re the one I have the most to talk about. I’m really eager to hear how your long and, I can only imagine, exhausting journey went, and what condition you got home in. I could tell when you arrived at Roe Head that you were quite tired, even though you didn't admit it. After you left, several questions and topics came to mind that I meant to discuss with you, but I completely forgot them in the excitement of seeing you unexpectedly. Recently, I thought I had lost my interest in politics, but my excitement over hearing that the House of Lords rejected the Reform Bill and the resignation or expulsion of Earl Grey, etc., showed me that I haven’t lost all my enthusiasm for politics. I’m really glad Aunt has agreed to subscribe to Fraser’s Magazine, because even though I know from your description that its content is pretty dull compared to Blackwood, it’s still better than going the whole year without seeing any periodical publication at all. That would definitely be the case in our little wild, moorland village where we live, since there’s no chance of borrowing or getting a work like that from a circulating library. I hope, like you, that this lovely weather helps our dear papa fully recover his health and that it brings Aunt fond memories of the pleasant climate of her hometown.

‘With love to all,—Believe me, dear Branwell, to remain your affectionate sister,

‘With love to all,—Believe me, dear Branwell, to remain your affectionate sister,

Charlotte.’

Charlotte.’

‘As to you I find the most to say’ is significant.  And to Branwell, Charlotte refers again and again in most affectionate terms in many a later letter.  It is to her enthusiasm, indeed that we largely owe the extravagant estimate of Branwell’s ability which has found so abundant expression in books on the Brontës.

‘“As for you, I have the most to say”’ is significant. And to Branwell, Charlotte mentions him repeatedly in very affectionate terms in many later letters. It is largely due to her enthusiasm that we have the inflated view of Branwell’s talent which has been widely expressed in books about the Brontës.

TO THE SECRETARY, ROYAL ACADEMY OF ARTS

TO THE SECRETARY, ROYAL ACADEMY OF ARTS

‘Sir,—Having an earnest desire to enter as probationary student in the Royal Academy, but not being possessed of information as to the means of obtaining my desire, I presume to request from you, as Secretary to the Institution, an answer to the questions—

Sir,—I am eager to become a probationary student at the Royal Academy, but I lack the necessary information to proceed. I am contacting you as the Secretary of the Institution to seek answers to my questions—

  ‘Where am I to present my drawings?

‘Where should I submit my drawings?

  ‘At what time?

‘At what time?

      and especially,

and especially,

  ‘Can I do it in August or September?

‘Can I do this in August or September?

—Your obedient servant,

—Your respectful servant,

Branwell Brontë.’

Branwell Brontë.’

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

‘Broughton-in-Furness,
‘Lancashire, April 20th, 1840.

‘Broughton-in-Furness,
‘Lancashire, April 20th, 1840.

‘Sir,—It is with much reluctance that I venture to request, for the perusal of the following lines, a portion of the time of one upon whom I can have no claim, and should not dare to intrude, but I do not, personally, know a man on whom to rely for an answer to the questions I shall put, and I could not resist my longing to ask a man from whose judgment there would be little hope of appeal.

‘Sir,—I’m reluctant to ask for your time to read this note since I have no right to impose on you. However, I genuinely don’t know anyone else I can turn to for answers to the questions I’m about to raise, and I can’t ignore my urge to seek advice from someone whose judgment I truly respect.

‘Since my childhood I have been wont to devote the hours I could spare from other and very different employments to efforts at literary composition, always keeping the results to myself, nor have they in more than two or three instances been seen by any other.  But I am about to enter active life, and prudence tells me not to waste the time which must make my independence; yet, sir, I like writing too well to fling aside the practice of it without an effort to ascertain whether I could turn it to account, not in wholly maintaining myself, but in aiding my maintenance, for I do not sigh after fame, and am not ignorant of the folly or the fate of those who, without ability, would depend for their lives upon their pens; but I seek to know, and venture, though with shame, to ask from one whose word I must respect: whether, by periodical or other writing, I could please myself with writing, and make it subservient to living.

‘Since I was a child, I’ve often used my spare time from other activities to write, keeping my work private, and only a couple of pieces have been shared with others. But now I’m about to start my adult life, and it makes sense not to waste the time I need to achieve my independence; however, I enjoy writing so much that I don’t want to give it up without exploring whether it could be useful—not for fully supporting myself, but to contribute to my expenses. I don’t seek fame, and I understand the folly and fate of those who, lacking talent, depend on writing for their livelihood. Still, I want to know, and I’m bravely asking, despite my embarrassment, someone whose opinion I value: whether I could enjoy writing through articles or other forms and make it viable for my living.

‘I would not, with this view, have troubled you with a composition in verse, but any piece I have in prose would too greatly trespass upon your patience, which, I fear, if you look over the verse, will be more than sufficiently tried.

‘I wouldn't have troubled you with a poem, but any prose I have would likely test your patience too much, which I fear, if you tolerate the verse, is already stretched thin.’

‘I feel the egotism of my language, but I have none, sir, in my heart, for I feel beyond all encouragement from myself, and I hope for none from you.

‘I recognize that I may come across as arrogant, but I assure you, sir, I have no arrogance in my heart—I feel more than I could ever expect from myself, and I hope for nothing from you.

p. 126‘Should you give any opinion upon what I send, it will, however condemnatory, be most gratefully received by,—Sir, your most humble servant,

p. 126‘If you have any feedback on what I send, even if it’s critical, I would be very grateful,—Sir, your most humble servant,

‘P. B. Brontë.

‘P. B. Brontë.

‘P.S.—The first piece is only the sequel of one striving to depict the fall from unguided passion into neglect, despair, and death.  It ought to show an hour too near those of pleasure for repentance, and too near death for hope.  The translations are two out of many made from Horace, and given to assist an answer to the question—would it be possible to obtain remuneration for translations for such as those from that or any other classic author?’

P.S.—The first piece is just a continuation of one that seeks to depict the decline from unchecked desire into neglect, despair, and death. It should convey a moment that's too close to pleasure for regret and too close to death for optimism. The translations are two out of many I've done from Horace, meant to help answer the question—could it be possible to get paid for translations like these from any classic author?

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

‘Haworth, June 27th, 1840.

‘Haworth, June 27th, 1840.

‘Sir,—You will, perhaps, have forgotten me, but it will be long before I forget my first conversation with a man of real intellect, in my first visit to the classic lakes of Westmoreland.

'Sir,—You might have forgotten me, but I will always remember my first conversation with someone genuinely intelligent during my first visit to the beautiful lakes of Westmoreland.'

‘During the delightful day which I had the honour of spending with you at Ambleside, I received permission to transmit to you, as soon as finished, the first book of a translation of Horace, in order that, after a glance over it, you might tell me whether it was worth further notice or better fit for the fire.

‘During the lovely day I spent with you at Ambleside, I got your permission to send you the first book of my translation of Horace as soon as I finished it, so you could let me know whether it deserved more attention or should be discarded.'

‘I have—I fear most negligently, and amid other very different employments—striven to translate two books, the first of which I have presumed to send to you.  And will you, sir, stretch your past kindness by telling me whether I should amend and pursue the work or let it rest in peace?

‘I have—I’m afraid a bit carelessly and while managing other unrelated tasks—tried to translate two books, and I’ve taken the liberty of sending you the first one. Would you, sir, be kind enough to let me know if I should revise and continue the work or just leave it be?

‘Great corrections I feel it wants, but till I feel that the work might benefit me, I have no heart to make them; yet if your judgment prove in any way favourable, I will re-write the whole, without sparing labour to reach perfection.

‘It really needs a lot of corrections, but until I believe that the work will benefit me, I don’t feel motivated to make those corrections; however, if your feedback is positive, I will rewrite the entire thing, putting in all the effort needed for perfection.

‘I dared not have attempted Horace but that I saw the utter worthlessness of all former translations, and thought that a better p. 127one, by whomsoever executed, might meet with some little encouragement.  I long to clear up my doubts by the judgment of one whose opinion I should revere, and—but I suppose I am dreaming—one to whom I should be proud indeed to inscribe anything of mine which any publisher would look at, unless, as is likely enough, the work would disgrace the name as much as the name would honour the work.

‘I wouldn't have dared to take on Horace if I hadn't realized how entirely unsatisfactory all previous translations were, and I thought that a better one, regardless of who created it, might actually receive some recognition. I’m eager to resolve my uncertainties by getting the opinion of someone I truly respect, and—though I might just be imagining it—someone to whom I would feel deeply honored to dedicate anything of mine that any publisher might consider, unless, as is quite possible, the final work would reflect poorly on them just as much as their name would elevate the work.'

‘Amount of remuneration I should not look to—as anything would be everything—and whatever it might be, let me say that my bones would have no rest unless by written agreement a division should be made of the profits (little or much) between myself and him through whom alone I could hope to obtain a hearing with that formidable personage, a London bookseller.

‘I shouldn’t focus on the payment—since anything would be appreciated—and no matter what it is, I must say that I wouldn’t be at peace unless we had a written agreement to share the profits (no matter how small or large) between myself and the person through whom I could hope to connect with that intimidating figure, a London bookseller.

‘Excuse my unintelligibility, haste, and appearance of presumption, and—Believe me to be, sir, your most humble and grateful servant,

‘Please excuse my unclear wording, my haste, and any impression of arrogance, and—Believe me to be, sir, your most humble and grateful servant,

‘P. B. Brontë.

‘P. B. Brontë.

‘If anything in this note should displease you, lay it, sir, to the account of inexperience and not impudence.’

‘If anything in this note bothers you, please attribute it, sir, to inexperience and not rudeness.’

‘Then England’s love and England’s tongue
And England’s heart shall reverence long
The wisdom deep, the courage strong,
Of English Johnson’s name.’

“Then England's love and England's language
And England's heart will honor for a long time
The deep wisdom, the strong courage,
Of English Johnson's name.”

TO FRANCIS H. GRUNDY

TO FRANCIS H. GRUNDY

‘October 25th, 1842.

‘October 25th, 1842.

‘My dear Sir,—There is no misunderstanding.  I have had a long attendance at the death-bed of the Rev. Mr. Weightman, one of my dearest friends, and now I am attending at the deathbed of my aunt, who has been for twenty years as my mother.  I expect her to die in a few hours.

‘My dear Sir,—There’s no misunderstanding. I’ve been at the deathbed of the Rev. Mr. Weightman, one of my closest friends, and now I’m at my aunt’s side, who has been like a mother to me for twenty years. I expect her to pass away in a few hours.

‘As my sisters are far from home, I have had much on my mind, and these things must serve as an apology for what was never intended as neglect of your friendship to us.

‘Since my sisters are far away, I've had a lot on my mind, and this should clarify what was never intended as neglect of your friendship with us.

‘I had meant not only to have written to you, but to the Rev. James Martineau, gratefully and sincerely acknowledging the receipt of his most kindly and truthful criticism—at least in advice, though too generous far in praise; but one sad ceremony must, I fear, be gone through first.  Give my most sincere respects to Mr. Stephenson, and excuse this scrawl—my eyes are too dim with sorrow to see well.—Believe me, your not very happy but obliged friend and servant,

‘I planned to write not only to you but also to the Rev. James Martineau, expressing my gratitude for his kind and honest feedback—at least regarding his advice, even if he was overly generous with his praise; however, I fear I must first fulfill one sad obligation. Please send my deepest respects to Mr. Stephenson, and forgive this messy writing—my eyes are too blurred with sadness to see clearly.—Believe me, your not-so-happy but grateful friend and servant,

‘P. B. Brontë.’

‘P. B. Brontë.’

‘I am incoherent, I fear, but I have been waking two nights witnessing such agonising suffering as I would not wish my worst enemy to endure; and I have now lost the guide and director of all the happy days connected with my childhood.  I have suffered much sorrow since I last saw you at Haworth.’

"I might be going on a bit, but I've been awake for two nights seeing such unbearable suffering that I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy; and now I've lost the one who helped me through all the happy days of my childhood. I've felt so much sadness since I last saw you at Haworth."

The eleventh day of September 1846 the Will of the Reverend Edmund Robinson, late of Thorp Green, in the Parish of Little Ouseburn, in the County of York, Clerk, deceased, was proved in the Prerogative Court of York by the oaths of Lydia Robinson, Widow, his Relict; the Venerable Charles Thorp and Henry Newton, the Executors, to whom administration was granted.

On the 11th day of September 1846 the will of Reverend Edmund Robinson, formerly of Thorp Green, in the Parish of Little Ouseburn, in the County of York, Clerk, who passed away, was validated in the Prerogative Court of York by the oaths of Lydia Robinson, his widow, the executors, the Venerable Charles Thorp and Henry Newton, to whom administration was granted.

‘8 Bedford Row,
‘London, May 26th, 1857.

‘8 Bedford Row,
‘London, May 26th, 1857.

‘Dear Sirs,—As solicitor for and on behalf of the Rev. W. Gaskell and of Mrs. Gaskell, his wife, the latter of whom is authoress of the Life of Charlotte Brontë, I am instructed to retract every statement contained in that work which imputes to a widowed lady, referred to, but not named therein, any breach of her conjugal, of her maternal, or of her social duties, and more especially of the statement contained in chapter 13 of the first volume, and in chapter 2 of the second volume, which imputes to the lady in question a guilty intercourse with the late Branwell Brontë.  All those statements were made upon information which at the time Mrs. Gaskell believed to be well founded, but which, upon investigation, with the additional evidence furnished to me by you, I have ascertained not to be trustworthy.  I am therefore authorised not only to retract the statements in question, but to express the deep regret of Mrs. Gaskell that she should have been led to make them.—I am, dear sirs, yours truly,

Dear Sirs,—As the lawyer for Rev. W. Gaskell and his wife, Mrs. Gaskell, who authored the Life of Charlotte Brontë, I have been asked to retract every statement in that book suggesting that a widowed lady, mentioned but not named, has breached her marital, maternal, or social duties. I specifically want to withdraw the remarks in chapter 13 of the first volume and chapter 2 of the second volume, which imply that this lady had an inappropriate relationship with the late Branwell Brontë. All those statements were based on information that Mrs. Gaskell believed to be accurate at the time, but after further investigation and the additional evidence you provided, I have determined this information to be unreliable. Therefore, I am authorized not only to retract these statements but also to express Mrs. Gaskell's genuine regret for having made them.—I am, dear sirs, yours truly,

‘William Shaen.

‘William Shaen.

‘Messrs. Newton & Robinson, Solicitors, York.’

‘Newton & Robinson, Solicitors, York.’

‘We are sorry to be called upon to return to Mrs. Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë, but we must do so, since the book has gone forth with our recommendation.  Praise, it is needless to point out, implied trust in the biographer as an accurate collector of facts.  This, we regret to state, Mrs. Gaskell proves not to have been.  To the gossip which for weeks past has been seething and circulating in the London coteries, we gave small heed; but the Times advertises a legal apology, made on behalf of Mrs. Gaskell, withdrawing the statements put forth in her book respecting the cause of Mr. Branwell Brontë’s wreck and ruin.  These Mrs. Gaskell’s lawyer is now fain to confess his client advanced on insufficient testimony.  The telling of an p. 131episodical and gratuitous tale so dismal as concerns the dead, so damaging to the living, could only be excused by the story of sin being severely, strictly true; and every one will have cause to regret that due caution was not used to test representations not, it seems, to be justified.  It is in the interest of Letters that biographers should be deterred from rushing into print with mere impressions in place of proofs, however eager and sincere those impressions may be.  They may be slanders, and as such they may sting cruelly.  Meanwhile the Life of Charlotte Brontë must undergo modification ere it can be further circulated.’

'We regret having to revisit Mrs. Gaskell’s Life of Charlotte Brontë, but we feel it's necessary since we recommended the book. Praising a work suggests we trust the biographer to accurately gather information. Unfortunately, we have to say that Mrs. Gaskell hasn’t proven to be that reliable. The gossip that’s been flying around in London coteries for weeks mostly escaped our attention; however, the Times is publishing a legal apology on behalf of Mrs. Gaskell, retracting her statements about the reasons for Mr. Branwell Brontë’s decline and downfall. Mrs. Gaskell’s lawyer is now reluctantly admitting that his client made these claims with insufficient evidence. Telling such a grim and unnecessary story about the deceased, which is damaging to the living, can only be justified if the details of the sin are indeed completely true; and everyone will have reason to regret that proper caution wasn't taken to verify accounts that, it seems, cannot be supported. It’s in the interest of literature that biographers should be discouraged from rushing to publish mere impressions instead of solid proof, no matter how eager and sincere those impressions may be. They can be slanders, and they can cause significant harm. In the meantime, the Life of Charlotte Brontë needs to be revised before it can be distributed further.'

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 3rd, 1846.

‘January 3rd, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen,—I must write to you to-day whether I have anything to say or not, or else you will begin to think that I have forgotten you; whereas, never a day passes, seldom an hour, that I do not think of you, and the scene of trial in which you live, move, and have your being.  Mary Taylor’s letter was deeply interesting and strongly characteristic.  I have no news whatever to communicate.  No changes take place here.  Branwell offers no prospect of hope; he professes to be too ill to think of seeking for employment; he makes comfort scant at home.  I hold to my intention of going to Brookroyd as soon as I can—that is, provided you will have me.

Dear Ellen,—I need to write to you today, whether I have something to say or not, or you might think I've forgotten you. The truth is, not a day goes by, hardly an hour, that I don't think of you and the tough situation you’re in. Mary Taylor’s letter was really interesting and very typical of her. I have no news at all. Things haven’t changed here. Branwell shows no sign of hope; he claims to be too sick to look for work, making things difficult at home. I still plan to visit Brookroyd as soon as I can—that is, if you’ll have me.

‘Give my best love to your mother and sisters.—Yours, dear Nell, always faithful,

‘Send my love to your mom and sisters.—Yours, dear Nell, always faithful,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 13th, 1845.

‘January 13th, 1845.

‘My dear Ellen,—I have often said and thought that you have had many and heavy trials to bear in your still short life.  You have always borne them with great firmness and calm so far—I hope fervently you will still be enabled to do so.  Yet there is something in your letter that makes me fear the present is p. 132the greatest trial of all, and the most severely felt by you.  I hope it will soon pass over and leave no shadow behind it.  I do earnestly desire to be with you, to talk to you, to give you what comfort I can.  Branwell and Anne leave us on Saturday.  Branwell has been quieter and less irritable on the whole this time than he was in summer.  Anne is as usual—always good, mild, and patient.  I think she too is a little stronger than she was.—Good-bye, dear Ellen,

My dear Ellen,—I’ve often thought that you’ve faced many heavy challenges in your still short life. You’ve handled them with remarkable strength and calm—I truly hope you can keep it up. Yet, something in your letter worries me that this current situation is the toughest struggle of all and weighs heavily on you. I hope it will pass soon without leaving a trace. I genuinely wish I could be with you, to talk and offer whatever comfort I can. Branwell and Anne are leaving us on Saturday. Branwell has been quieter and less moody this time than he was in the summer. Anne is her usual self—always kind, gentle, and patient. I believe she’s a bit stronger than she was.—Goodbye, dear Ellen,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘December 31st, 1845.

‘December 31st, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen,—I don’t know whether most to thank you for the very pretty slippers you have sent me or to scold you for occasioning yourself, in the slightest degree, trouble or expense on my account.  I will have them made up and bring them with me, if all be well, when I come to Brookroyd.

Dear Ellen,—I’m not sure if I should thank you for the lovely slippers you sent me or scold you for causing yourself any trouble or expense on my account. I’ll have them made up and bring them with me, if all goes well, when I come to Brookroyd.

‘Never doubt that I shall come to Brookroyd as soon as I can, Nell.  I dare say my wish to see you is equal to your wish to see me.

‘Never doubt that I will come to Brookroyd as soon as I can, Nell. I’m sure my desire to see you is just as strong as your desire to see me.

‘I had a note on Saturday from Ellen Taylor, informing me that letters have been received from Mary in New Zealand, and that she was well and in good spirits.  I suppose you have not yet seen them, as you do not mention them; but you will probably have them in your possession before you get this note.

‘I received a note on Saturday from Ellen Taylor, letting me know that letters arrived from Mary in New Zealand and that she’s doing well and in good spirits. I guess you haven’t seen them yet since you didn’t mention it, but you’ll probably have them before you get this note.

‘You say well in speaking of Branwell that no sufferings are so awful as those brought on by dissipation.  Alas! I see the truth of this observation daily proved.

‘You make a good point about Branwell when you say that no pain is as intense as that caused by self-indulgence. Unfortunately, I see the truth of this every day.

‘Your friends must have a weary and burdensome life of it in waiting upon their unhappy brother.  It seems grievous, indeed, that those who have not sinned should suffer so largely.

‘Your friends must lead a tiring life taking care of their unhappy brother. It seems really sad that those who haven’t sinned should suffer so much.

‘Write to me a little oftener, Ellen—I am very glad to get your notes.  Remember me kindly to your mother and sisters.—Yours faithfully,

‘Write to me more often, Ellen—I really enjoy getting your notes. Remember me warmly to your mom and sisters.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘January 30th, 1846.

‘January 30th, 1846.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I have not yet paid my usual visit to Brookroyd, but I frequently hear from Ellen, and she p. 133did not fail to tell me that you were gone into Worcestershire.  She was unable, however, to give me your address; had I known it I should have written to you long since.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I haven’t visited Brookroyd yet, but I hear from Ellen regularly, and she made sure to let me know you were in Worcestershire. Unfortunately, she couldn’t provide me with your address; if I’d known it, I would have written to you a long time ago.

‘I thought you would wonder how we were getting on when you heard of the Railway Panic, and you may be sure I am very glad to be able to answer your kind inquiries by an 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 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 it 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 at 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 very unshaken 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 Wooler, 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.

‘I thought you might be curious about how we are doing when you heard about the Railway Panic, and I'm really glad to reassure you that our small investment is still intact. The “York and Midland” is, as you mentioned, a good line, but I must admit I’d rather be cautious while there’s still time. I don’t believe even the best lines will hold their value for many years, and I've beenquite anxious for us to sell our shares before it’s too late and put the money into something safer, even if it’s less profitable for now. However, I can’t convince my sisters to see it the same way, and I feel I’d rather risk losing out than upset Emily by going against her opinion. She managed my interests wonderfully when I was in Brussels and couldn’t take care of things myself; so, I will let her continue to manage, even if it means facing the consequences. She is certainly dedicated and hard-working, and while she might not be as flexible or open to change as I wish, I have to remember that nobody is perfect. As long as we can hold those we love and to whom we are closely connected in high regard without wavering, it’s a minor issue that they sometimes annoy us with what seems unreasonable and stubborn ideas. You, dear Miss Wooler, know just as well as I do the importance of sisters’ affection for each other; I believe there’s nothing quite like it in this world, especially when they’re close in age and similar in upbringing, interests, and feelings.

‘You ask about Branwell.  He never thinks of seeking employment, and I begin to fear 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 men are p. 134strange 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 half sufficiently guarded from temptations.  Girls are protected as if they were something very frail and silly indeed, while boys are turned loose on the world as if they, of all beings in existence, were the wisest and the least liable to be led astray.

‘You ask about Branwell. He never thinks about getting a job, and I’m starting to worry he’s rendered himself unable to hold any respectable position in life; besides, if he had money, he would only spend it in ways that harm him. I fear his ability to control himself is almost gone. You ask me if I think men are strange beings. I really do—I’ve thought that many times; and also think that the way they’re raised is odd—they're not nearly protected enough from temptations. Girls are shielded as if they were fragile and naive, while boys are let loose in the world as if they are, of all creatures, the wisest and least likely to go astray.

‘I am glad you like Bromsgrove.  I always feel a peculiar satisfaction when I hear of your enjoying yourself, because it proves to me that there is really such a thing as retributive justice even in this life; now you are free, and that while you have still, I hope, many years of vigour 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 woman now-a-days, 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 mother, and who, having attained the age of forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession a well-regulated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, fortitude to support inevitable pains, sympathy with the sufferings of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as her means extend.  I wish to send this letter off by to-day’s post, I must therefore conclude in haste.—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours, most affectionately,

‘I’m glad you like Bromsgrove. I always feel special satisfaction when I hear you’re enjoying yourself because it shows me that retributive justice really exists even in this life; now you are free, and I hope you have many years of health and vigor ahead to enjoy that freedom. Besides, I have another, very selfish reason for being pleased: it seems that even “a lone woman” can be happy, just like cherished wives and proud mothers. I’m glad about that—I think a lot about single women these days, and I’ve come to believe there’s no more respectable character on this earth than an unmarried woman who quietly and persistently makes her own way through life, without the support of a husband or mother, and who, having reached the age of forty-five or older, retains a well-regulated mind, a penchant for simple pleasures, the strength to endure inevitable pains, empathy for the suffering of others, and a willingness to help those in need as much as she can. I wish to send this letter off in today’s post, so I must conclude in haste.—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours, most affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 4th, 1845.

‘November 4th, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen,—You do not reproach me in your last, but I fear you must have thought me unkind in being so long without answering you.  The fact is, I had hoped to be able to ask you to come to Haworth.  Branwell seemed to have a prospect of getting employment, and I waited to know the result of his efforts in order to say, “Dear Ellen, come and see p. 135us”; but the place (a secretaryship to a Railroad 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 know of him.  I wish I could say one word to you in his favour, but I cannot, therefore I will hold my tongue.

Dear Ellen,—You didn’t blame me in your last message, but I worry you think I was rude for taking so long to reply. The truth is, I was hoping to invite you to Haworth. Branwell seemed to have a chance at a job, and I was waiting to hear the outcome of his efforts so I could say, “Dear Ellen, come and see us”; but that position (a secretary for a Railroad Committee) has gone to someone else. Branwell is still at home, and as long as he is here, you won’t come. The more I learn about him, the more I’m convinced of that decision. I wish I could say something nice about him, but I can’t, so I’ll stay quiet.

‘Emily and Anne wish me to tell you that they think it very unlikely for little Flossy to be expected to rear so numerous a family; they think you are quite right in protesting against all the pups being preserved, for, if kept, they will pull their poor little mother to pieces.—Yours faithfully,

‘Emily and Anne want me to let you know that they think it's very unlikely little Flossy can be expected to raise such a large family; they believe you're completely right to protest against keeping all the pups, as they will just wear their poor little mother out.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 14th, 1846.

‘April 14th, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen,—I assure you I was very glad indeed to get your last note; for when three or four days elapsed after my second despatch to you and I got no answer, I scarcely doubted something was wrong.  It relieved me much to find my apprehensions unfounded.  I return you Miss Ringrose’s notes with thanks.  I always like to read them, they appear to me so true an index of an amiable mind, and one not too conscious of its own worth; beware of awakening in her this consciousness by undue praise.  It is the privilege of simple-hearted, sensible, but not brilliant people, that they can be and do good without comparing their own thoughts and actions too closely with those of other people, and thence drawing strong food for self-appreciation.  Talented people almost always know full well the excellence that is in them.  I wish I could say anything favourable, but how can we be more comfortable so long as Branwell stays at home, and degenerates instead of improving?  It has been lately intimated to him, that he would be received again on the railroad where he was formerly stationed if he would behave more steadily, but he refuses to make an effort; he will not work; and at home he is a drain on every resource—an impediment to all happiness.  But there is no use in complaining.

Dear Ellen,—I'm really glad to have received your last note; when three or four days passed after my second message to you without a reply, I was worried that something must be wrong. It was a relief to find out nothing was wrong. I’m returning Miss Ringrose’s notes with thanks. I always enjoy reading them; they reflect a genuinely kind nature, one that isn’t overly aware of its own value. Be careful not to stir that awareness in her with too much praise. It’s a gift of straightforward, sensible people, who may not be extraordinary, that they can be and do good without too closely comparing their thoughts and actions to others, which often leads to an inflated sense of self-worth. Talented people usually know their own abilities well. I wish I could say something positive, but how can we feel at ease as long as Branwell remains at home, getting worse instead of better? He has recently been told he could return to the railroad where he used to work if he could behave more reliably, but he refuses to make any effort; he won’t work and at home, he drains every resource—making happiness impossible. But there's no point in complaining.

‘My love to all.  Write again soon.

‘My love to everyone. Write back soon.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

p. 136TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 136TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 17th, 1846.

‘June 17th, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen,—I was glad to perceive, by the tone of your last letter, that you are beginning to be a little more settled.  We, I am sorry to say, have been somewhat more harassed than usual lately.  The death of Mr. Robinson, which took place about three weeks or a month ago, served Branwell for a pretext to throw all about him into hubbub and confusion with his emotions, etc., etc.  Shortly after came news from all hands that Mr. Robinson had altered his will before he died, and effectually prevented all chance of a marriage between his widow and Branwell, by stipulating that she should not have a shilling if she ever ventured to re-open any communication with him.  Of course he then became intolerable.  To papa he allows rest neither day nor night, and he is continually screwing money out of him, sometimes threatening that he will kill himself if it is withheld from him.  He says Mrs. Robinson is now insane; that her mind is a complete wreck owing to remorse for her conduct towards Mr. Robinson (whose end it appears was hastened by distress of mind) and grief for having lost him.  I do not know how much to believe of what he says, but I fear she is very ill.  Branwell declares that he neither can nor will do anything for himself.  Good situations have been offered him more than once, for which, by a fortnight’s work, he might have qualified himself, but he will do nothing, except drink and make us all wretched.  I had a note from Ellen Taylor a week ago, in which she remarks that letters were received from New Zealand a month since, and that all was well.  I should like to hear from you again soon.  I hope one day to see Brookroyd again, though I think it will not be yet—these are not times of amusement.  Love to all.

Dear Ellen,—I was happy to see from the tone of your last letter that you're starting to feel a bit more settled. Unfortunately, we have been going through a tougher time lately. The death of Mr. Robinson, which happened about three weeks to a month ago, gave Branwell an excuse to create chaos around him with his emotions and so on. Shortly after that, we heard from everyone that Mr. Robinson had changed his will before he passed, effectively closing the door on any chance of marriage between his widow and Branwell by stating that she wouldn’t receive a penny if she ever contacted him again. Naturally, he then became unbearable. He gives Papa no peace, day or night, and is constantly trying to squeeze money out of him, sometimes threatening to harm himself if he doesn't get it. He claims Mrs. Robinson is now insane, that her mind is completely shattered due to guilt over her treatment of Mr. Robinson (whose death was apparently sped up by stress) and grief over losing him. I'm not sure how much of what he says to believe, but I'm worried she is very unwell. Branwell insists he cannot and will not do anything for himself. Good job opportunities have been offered to him more than once, which he could qualify for with just a couple of weeks of effort, but he refuses to do anything except drink and make us all miserable. I received a note from Ellen Taylor a week ago, mentioning that letters were received from New Zealand a month ago, and that everything is fine. I would love to hear from you again soon. I hope to visit Brookroyd again one day, although I don’t think it will be anytime soon—these are not times for enjoyment. Love to everyone.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, March 1st, 1847.

‘Haworth, March 1st, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen,—Branwell has been conducting himself very badly lately.  I expect from the extravagance of his behaviour, p. 137and from mysterious hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we shall be hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon.  The Misses Robinson, who had entirely ceased their correspondence with Anne for half a year after their father’s death, have lately recommenced it.  For a fortnight they sent her a letter almost every day, crammed with warm protestations of endless esteem and gratitude.  They speak with great affection too of their mother, and never make any allusion intimating acquaintance with her errors.  We take special care that Branwell does not know of their writing to Anne.  My health is better: I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather more than on an uneasy mind, for, after all, I have many things to be thankful for.  Write again soon.

Dear Ellen,—Branwell has been behaving really poorly lately. I suspect that his reckless actions and vague hints he drops (since he never speaks clearly) mean we'll soon hear about more debts he’s racked up. The Misses Robinson, who completely stopped writing to Anne for six months after their father died, have recently started corresponding again. For two weeks, they’ve sent her almost a letter every day, full of warm expressions of endless love and gratitude. They also speak very fondly of their mother and never hint at any knowledge of her mistakes. We make sure Branwell doesn’t find out they’re writing to Anne. My health is improving: I attribute its weakness more to the cold weather than to any worries, since I really do have many things to be grateful for. Write back soon.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 12th, 1847.

‘May 12th, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen,—We shall all be glad to see you on the Thursday or Friday of next week, whichever day will suit you best.  About what time will you be likely to get here, and how will you come?  By coach to Keighley, or by a gig all the way to Haworth?  There must be no impediments now?  I cannot do with them, I want very much to see you.  I hope you will be decently comfortable while you stay.

Dear Ellen,—We’ll all be happy to see you next Thursday or Friday, whichever day works best for you. What time do you think you’ll arrive, and how are you getting here? By coach to Keighley or by gig all the way to Haworth? There can’t be any obstacles now, right? I really want to see you. I hope you’ll be reasonably comfortable during your stay.

‘Branwell is quieter now, and for a good reason: he has got to the end of a considerable sum of money, and consequently is obliged to restrict himself in some degree.  You must expect to find him weaker in mind, and a complete rake in appearance.  I have no apprehension of his being at all uncivil to you; on the contrary, he will be as smooth as oil.  I pray for fine weather that we may be able to get out while you stay.  Goodbye for the present.  Prepare for much dulness and monotony.  Give my love to all at Brookroyd.

‘Branwell is quieter now, and for good reason: he has run out of a considerable amount of money and is therefore obliged to limit himself to some extent. You can expect him to be weaker in mind and to look quite disheveled. I have no worries about him being rude to you; on the contrary, he'll be as charming as ever. I’m hoping for good weather so we can get out while you’re here. Goodbye for now. Get ready for a lot of boredom and monotony. Send my love to everyone at Brookroyd.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘July 28th, 1848.

‘July 28th, 1848.

‘Dear Ellen,—Branwell is the same in conduct as ever.  His constitution seems much shattered.  Papa, and sometimes all of p. 138us, have sad nights with him: he sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night.  But has not every house its trial?

Dear Ellen,—Branwell is behaving just like always. His health seems quite broken. Dad, and sometimes the rest of us, have tough nights with him: he sleeps most of the day, which means he’s up all night. But don’t all households have their struggles?

‘Write to me very soon, dear Nell, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Write to me soon, dear Nell, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 2nd, 1848.

‘October 2nd, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—“We have hurried our dead out of our sight.”  A lull begins to succeed the gloomy tumult of last week.  It is not permitted us to grieve for him who is gone as others grieve for those they lose.  The removal of our only brother must necessarily be regarded by us rather in the light of a mercy than a chastisement.  Branwell was his father’s and his sisters’ pride and hope in boyhood, but since manhood the case has been otherwise.  It has been our lot to see him take a wrong bent; to hope, expect, wait his return to the right path; to know the sickness of hope deferred, the dismay of prayer baffled; to experience despair at last—and now to behold the sudden early obscure close of what might have been a noble career.

My dear Sir,—“We have rushed to put our dead out of our sight.” A calm is starting to follow the dark turmoil of last week. We aren't able to mourn him like others mourn their losses. The passing of our only brother should be seen more as a relief than as a punishment. Branwell was his father’s and sisters’ pride and hope in his childhood, but that changed in his adulthood. We have seen him take the wrong path; we hoped and waited for him to return to the right one; we felt the pain of unfulfilled hope, the frustration of prayers unanswered; we ultimately faced despair—and now we see the sudden, early, and neglected end of what could have been a remarkable life.

‘I do not weep from a sense of bereavement—there is no prop withdrawn, no consolation torn away, no dear companion lost—but for the wreck of talent, the ruin of promise, the untimely dreary extinction of what might have been a burning and a shining light.  My brother was a year my junior.  I had aspirations and ambitions for him once, long ago—they have perished mournfully.  Nothing remains of him but a memory p. 139of errors and sufferings.  There is such a bitterness of pity for his life and death, such a yearning for the emptiness of his whole existence as I cannot describe.  I trust time will allay these feelings.

‘I don’t cry from a sense of loss—there’s no support taken away, no comfort pulled back, no beloved companion gone—but for the waste of talent, the ruin of potential, the premature and sad end of what could have been a bright and shining light. My brother was a year younger than me. I once had hopes and dreams for him long ago—they have sadly faded away. Nothing is left of him but memories of mistakes and pain. There’s such a deep bitterness of pity for his life and death, such a longing for the emptiness of his entire existence that I can’t fully express. I hope time will lighten these feelings. p. 139'

‘My poor father naturally thought more of his only son than of his daughters, and, much and long as he had suffered on his account, he cried out for his loss like David for that of Absalom—my son my son!—and refused at first to be comforted.  And then when I ought to have been able to collect my strength and be at hand to support him, I fell ill with an illness whose approaches I had felt for some time previously, and of which the crisis was hastened by the awe and trouble of the death-scene—the first I had ever witnessed.  The past has seemed to me a strange week.  Thank God, for my father’s sake, I am better now, though still feeble.  I wish indeed I had more general physical strength—the want of it is sadly in my way.  I cannot do what I would do for want of sustained animal spirits and efficient bodily vigour.

‘My poor father naturally cared more for his only son than for his daughters, and even after suffering so much because of me, he called out for his loss like David did for Absalom—my son, my son!—and at first, he wouldn't let himself be comforted. And then, just when I should have been gathering my strength to support him, I got sick with an illness I had sensed coming for a while, and the situation was made worse by the shock and distress of witnessing death for the first time. The past week has felt really strange to me. Thank God I'm better now, for my father's sake, even though I’m still weak. I truly wish I had more overall physical strength—the lack of it is really holding me back. I can't do what I want to do because I lack the sustained energy and physical stamina.

‘My unhappy brother never knew what his sisters had done in literature—he was not aware that they had ever published a line.  We could not tell him of our efforts for fear of causing him too deep a pang of remorse for his own time mis-spent, and talents misapplied.  Now he will never know.  I cannot dwell longer on the subject at present—it is too painful.

‘My unfortunate brother never knew what his sisters had done in literature—he didn’t even realize they had published anything. We couldn’t tell him about our efforts for fear of causing him too much regret about his own wasted time and misused talents. Now he will never know. I can’t focus on this topic any longer right now—it’s too painful.

‘I thank you for your kind sympathy, and pray earnestly that your sons may all do well, and that you may be spared the sufferings my father has gone through.—Yours sincerely,

‘I appreciate your kind sympathy and sincerely hope that your sons all do well and that you are spared the hardships my father has experienced.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, October 6th, 1848.

‘Haworth, October 6th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I thank you for your last truly friendly letter, and for the number of Blackwood which accompanied it.  Both arrived at a time when a relapse of illness had depressed me much.  Both did me good, especially the letter.  I have only one fault to find with your expressions of friendship: they make me ashamed, because they seem to imply p. 140that you think better of me than I merit.  I believe you are prone to think too highly of your fellow-creatures in general—to see too exclusively the good points of those for whom you have a regard.  Disappointment must be the inevitable result of this habit.  Believe all men, and women too, to be dust and ashes—a spark of the divinity now and then kindling in the dull heap—that is all.  When I looked on the noble face and forehead of my dead brother (nature had favoured him with a fairer outside, as well as a finer constitution, than his sisters) and asked myself what had made him go ever wrong, tend ever downwards, when he had so many gifts to induce to, and aid in, an upward course, I seemed to receive an oppressive revelation of the feebleness of humanity—of the inadequacy of even genius to lead to true greatness if unaided by religion and principle.  In the value, or even the reality, of these two things he would never believe till within a few days of his end; and then all at once he seemed to open his heart to a conviction of their existence and worth.  The remembrance of this strange change now comforts my poor father greatly.  I myself, with painful, mournful joy, heard him praying softly in his dying moments; and to the last prayer which my father offered up at his bedside he added, “Amen.”  How unusual that word appeared from his lips, of course you, who did not know him, cannot conceive.  Akin to this alteration was that in his feelings towards his relations—all the bitterness seemed gone.

My dear Sir,—Thank you for your last truly kind letter and for the issue of Blackwood that came with it. Both arrived at a time when I was feeling very down due to a relapse of illness. They both helped me, especially the letter. I can only find one fault with your expressions of friendship: they make me feel embarrassed because they suggest you think more highly of me than I deserve. I believe you tend to think too well of people in general and see only the good in those you care about. This habit is bound to lead to disappointment. Consider all people, men and women alike, to be dust and ashes—a spark of divinity occasionally shining through that dull heap—that's all there is. When I looked at the noble face and forehead of my deceased brother (nature blessed him with a more handsome appearance, as well as a stronger constitution, than his sisters) and wondered what made him go wrong and decline when he had so many gifts to help him rise, I felt a heavy revelation about the frailty of humanity—the inability of even genius to achieve true greatness without the support of religion and principle. He never believed in the value, or even the existence, of those two things until just a few days before he died; then, suddenly, he seemed to open his heart to a belief in their existence and importance. The memory of this sudden change brings great comfort to my poor father. I, too, with a blend of painful joy, heard him praying softly in his final moments; to the last prayer my father offered at his bedside, he added, “Amen.” You, who did not know him, cannot imagine how unusual that word sounded coming from him. Along with this change came a shift in his feelings toward his family—all the bitterness seemed to vanish.

‘When the struggle was over, and a marble calm began to succeed the last dread agony, I felt, as I had never felt before, that there was peace and forgiveness for him in Heaven.  All his errors—to speak plainly, all his vices—seemed nothing to me in that moment: every wrong he had done, every pain he had caused, vanished; his sufferings only were remembered; the wrench to the natural affections only was left.  If man can thus experience total oblivion of his fellow’s imperfections, how much more can the Eternal Being, who made man, forgive His creature?

‘When the struggle was over and a calm began to replace the last moments of dread, I felt, like never before, that there was peace and forgiveness for him in Heaven. All his mistakes—to put it simply, all his flaws—seemed insignificant to me in that moment: every wrong he had done, every pain he had caused, disappeared; only his sufferings were remembered; the hurt to natural feelings was all that remained. If a person can completely forget their neighbor's imperfections, how much more can the Eternal Being, who created man, forgive His creation?

‘Had his sins been scarlet in their dye, I believe now they are white as wool.  He is at rest, and that comforts us all.  p. 141Long before he quitted this world, life had no happiness for him.

‘If his sins had been as red as scarlet, I believe they are now as white as wool. He is at peace, and that brings us all comfort. p. 141Long before he left this world, life held no happiness for him.

‘Blackwood’s mention of Jane Eyre gratified me much, and will gratify me more, I dare say, when the ferment of other feelings than that of literary ambition shall have a little subsided in my mind.

Blackwood's mention of Jane Eyre really pleased me and will probably please me even more once the excitement of feelings beyond just literary ambition settles down in my mind.

‘The doctor has told me I must not expect too rapid a restoration to health; but to-day I certainly feel better.  I am thankful to say my father has hitherto stood the storm well; and so have my dear sisters, to whose untiring care and kindness I am chiefly indebted for my present state of convalescence.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘The doctor told me not to expect too quick a recovery; but today I definitely feel better. I'm grateful to say my father has managed the situation well so far; and so have my dear sisters, whose endless care and kindness I owe most of my current recovery to.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS MERCY NUSSEY

TO MISS MERCY NUSSEY

‘Haworth, October 25th, 1848.

‘Haworth, October 25th, 1848.

‘My dear Miss Nussey,—Accept my sincere thanks for your kind letter.  The event to which you allude came upon us with startling suddenness, and was a severe shock to us all.  My poor brother has long had a shaken constitution, and during the summer his appetite had been diminished, and he had seemed weaker, but neither we, nor himself, nor any medical man who was consulted on the case, thought it one of immediate danger.  He was out of doors two days before death, and was only confined to bed one single day.

My dear Miss Nussey,—Thank you so much for your thoughtful letter. The event you mentioned happened so suddenly, and it shocked all of us. My poor brother has had a weak constitution for a while, and during the summer, he lost some of his appetite and seemed more frail, but none of us, including him or any doctors we consulted, believed it was life-threatening. He was outside just two days before he passed away and was only in bed for one day.

‘I thank you for your kind sympathy.  Many, under the circumstances, would think our loss rather a relief than otherwise; in truth, we must acknowledge, in all humility and gratitude, that God has greatly tempered judgment with mercy.  But yet, as you doubtless know from experience, the last earthly separation cannot take place between near relatives without the keenest pangs on the part of the survivors.  Every wrong and sin is forgotten then, pity and grief share the heart and the memory between them.  Yet we are not without comfort in our p. 142affliction.  A most propitious change marked the few last days of poor Branwell’s life: his demeanour, his language, his sentiments were all singularly altered and softened.  This change could not be owing to the fear of death, for till within half-an-hour of his decease he seemed unconscious of danger.  In God’s hands we leave him: He sees not as man sees.

‘I appreciate your kind sympathy. Many people might see our loss as more of a relief than anything else; in truth, we must humbly and gratefully acknowledge that God has given us great mercy in our judgment. However, as you surely understand from experience, the final separation from a loved one brings the sharpest pain for those left behind. In that moment, every wrong and sin is forgotten, and sorrow and compassion fill our hearts and memories together. Yet we find comfort in our p. 142affliction. A fortunate change marked the last few days of poor Branwell’s life: his behavior, words, and feelings were all noticeably softened and changed. This transformation couldn’t have come from a fear of death, as until half an hour before he passed, he seemed unaware of any danger. We leave him in God’s hands: He sees things differently than we do.’

‘Papa, I am thankful to say, has borne the event pretty well.  His distress was great at first—to lose an only son is no ordinary trial, but his physical strength has not hitherto failed him, and he has now in a great measure recovered his mental composure; my dear sisters are pretty well also.  Unfortunately, illness attacked me at the crisis when strength was most needed.  I bore up for a day or two, hoping to be better, but got worse.  Fever, sickness, total loss of appetite, and internal pain were the symptoms.  The doctor pronounced it to be bilious fever, but I think it must have been in a mitigated form; it yielded to medicine and care in a few days.  I was only confined to my bed a week, and am, I trust, nearly well now.  I felt it a grievous thing to be incapacitated from action and effort at a time when action and effort were most called for.  The past month seems an overclouded period in my life.

‘Dad, I’m glad to say, has managed the situation pretty well. His initial distress was immense—losing an only son is no small ordeal—but his physical strength hasn’t failed him so far, and he has mostly regained his mental composure; my dear sisters are doing pretty well too. Unfortunately, I got sick right when strength was needed the most. I held on for a day or two, hoping to feel better, but I got worse. I had a fever, felt ill, completely lost my appetite, and experienced internal pain. The doctor said it was bilious fever, but I think it was a milder case; it responded to medication and care within a few days. I was only stuck in bed for a week, and I hope I’m almost fully recovered now. I found it very frustrating to be unable to take action or make an effort at a time when it was most necessary. The past month feels like a dark period in my life.

‘Give my best love to Mrs. Nussey and your sister, and—Believe me, my dear Miss Nussey, yours sincerely,

‘Give my best regards to Mrs. Nussey and your sister, and—Believe me, my dear Miss Nussey, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

My unhappy brother never knew what his sisters had done in literature—he was not aware that they had ever published a line.

My unhappy brother never knew what his sisters had achieved in literature—he didn't realize that they had ever published anything.

Patrick Brontë declared to me that he wrote a great portion of ‘Wuthering Heights’ himself.

Patrick Brontë told me that he wrote a big part of ‘Wuthering Heights’ on his own.

p. 144CHAPTER VI: EMILY JANE BRONTË

                  ‘Whose soul
Knew no fellow for might,
Passion, vehemence, grief,
Daring, since Byron died,’ [145b]

‘Whose soul
Had unmatched strength,
Passion, intensity, sorrow,
Bravery, since Byron left us,’ [145b]

p. 147A PAPER to be opened
when Anne is
25 years old,
or my next birthday after
if
all be well.

p. 147A LETTER to be opened
when Anne turns
25 years old,
or on my next birthday after
if
everything goes well.

Emily Jane Brontë.  July the 30th, 1841.

Emily Jane Brontë.  July 30, 1841.

It is Friday evening, near 9 o’clock—wild rainy weather.  I am seated in the dining-room, having just concluded tidying our desk boxes, writing this document.  Papa is in the parlour—aunt upstairs in her room.  She has been reading Blackwood’s Magazine to papa.  Victoria and Adelaide are ensconced in the peat-house.  Keeper is in the kitchen—Hero in his cage.  We are all stout and hearty, as I hope is the case with Charlotte, Branwell, and Anne, of whom the first is at John White, Esq., Upperwood House, Rawdon; the second is at Luddenden Foot; and the third is, I believe, at Scarborough, enditing perhaps a paper corresponding to this.

It's Friday evening, around 9 o’clock—it's pouring rain. I'm in the dining room, just finished organizing our desk boxes, and writing this letter. Dad is in the living room, aunt is upstairs in her room. She has been reading Blackwood’s Magazine to Dad. Victoria and Adelaide are settled in the peat-house. Keeper is in the kitchen—Hero is in his cage. We’re all fit and healthy, which I hope is true for Charlotte, Branwell, and Anne too, with the first at John White, Esq., Upperwood House, Rawdon; the second at Luddenden Foot; and the third, I think, at Scarborough, possibly writing a letter like this.

A scheme is at present in agitation for setting us up in a school of our own; as yet nothing is determined, but I hope and trust it may go on and prosper and answer our highest expectations.  This day four years I wonder whether we shall still be dragging on in our present condition or established to our hearts’ content.  Time will show.

There's a plan in the works to start our own school; nothing is finalized yet, but I hope it will move forward, be successful, and meet our highest hopes. Four years from now, I wonder if we'll still be struggling with our current situation or if we'll be happily settled. Only time will tell.

I guess that at the time appointed for the opening of this paper we, i.e. Charlotte, Anne, and I, shall be all merrily seated in our own sitting-room in some pleasant and flourishing seminary, having just gathered in for the midsummer ladyday.  Our debts will be paid off, and we shall have cash in hand to a considerable amount.  Papa, aunt, and Branwell will either p. 148have been or be coming to visit us.  It will be a fine warm, summer evening, very different from this bleak look-out, and Anne and I will perchance slip out into the garden for a few minutes to peruse our papers.  I hope either this or something better will be the case.

I imagine that by the time this letter is opened, we, Charlotte, Anne, and I, will be happily sitting in our own living room in a nice and thriving school, just gathered for midsummer Lady Day. Our debts will be settled, and we'll have a reasonable amount of money on hand. Papa, aunt, and Branwell will either p. 148have already visited us or be on their way to see us. It will be a lovely warm, summer evening, so different from this gloomy view, and Anne and I might sneak out into the garden for a few minutes to go over our papers. I hope this or something even better will be the case.

The Gondaliand are at present in a threatening state, but there is no open rupture as yet.  All the princes and princesses of the Royalty are at the Palace of Instruction.  I have a good many books on hand, but I am sorry to say that as usual I make small progress with any.  However, I have just made a new regularity paper! and I must verb sap to do great things.  And now I close, sending from far an exhortation of courage, boys! courage, to exiled and harassed Anne, wishing she was here.

The Gondaliand are in a tense situation, but there hasn't been any outright conflict yet. All the princes and princesses are at the Palace of Instruction. I have plenty of books available, but unfortunately, as usual, I'm not making much progress with any of them. However, I've just created a new routine paper! And I need to work hard to achieve great things. So now I’ll wrap this up, sending a shout of encouragement from afar, boys! Stay strong, to exiled and troubled Anne, wishing she was here.

July the 30th, A.D. 1841.

July 30th, A.D. 1841.

This is Emily’s birthday.  She has now completed her 23rd year, and is, I believe, at home.  Charlotte is a governess in the family of Mr. White.  Branwell is a clerk in the railroad station at Luddenden Foot, and I am a governess in the family of Mr. Robinson.  I dislike the situation and wish to change it for another.  I am now at Scarborough.  My pupils are gone to bed and I am hastening to finish this before I follow them.

Today is Emily’s birthday. She has just turned 23rd years old, and I believe she’s at home. Charlotte is a governess for Mr. White’s family. Branwell is a clerk at the railroad station in Luddenden Foot, and I'm a governess for Mr. Robinson’s family. I don’t like this job and want to find something else. I’m currently in Scarborough. My students are in bed, and I’m trying to finish this before I go to sleep.

We are thinking of setting up a school of our own, but nothing definite is settled about it yet, and we do not know whether we shall be able to or not.  I hope we shall.  And I wonder what will be our condition and how or where we shall all be on this day four years hence; at which time, all be well, I shall be 25 years and 6 months old, Emily will be 27 years old, Branwell 28 years and 1 month, and Charlotte 29 years and a quarter.  We are now all separate and not likely to meet again for many a weary week, but we are none of us ill p. 149that I know of and all are doing something for our own livelihood except Emily, who, however, is as busy as any of us, and in reality earns her food and raiment as much as we do.

We're thinking about starting our own school, but nothing is confirmed yet, and we don’t know if it will actually happen. I really hope we can make it work. I wonder what our lives will look like four years from now; if everything goes well, I’ll be 25 years and 6 months old, Emily will be 27 years old, Branwell will be 28 years and 1 month, and Charlotte will be 29 years and a quarter. Right now, we’re all apart and probably won’t see each other for many weeks, but as far as I know, none of us is sick p. 149, and everyone is busy making a living except for Emily, who is just as busy as the rest of us, and truly earns her food and clothes just like we do.

  How little know we what we are
  How less what we may be!

How little we understand about who we are
  And even less about who we might become!

Four years ago I was at school.  Since then I have been a governess at Blake Hall, left it, come to Thorp Green, and seen the sea and York Minster.  Emily has been a teacher at Miss Patchet’s school, and left it.  Charlotte has left Miss Wooler’s, been a governess at Mrs. Sidgwick’s, left her, and gone to Mrs. White’s.  Branwell has given up painting, been a tutor in Cumberland, left it, and become a clerk on the railroad.  Tabby has left us, Martha Brown has come in her place.  We have got Keeper, got a sweet little cat and lost it, and also got a hawk.  Got a wild goose which has flown away, and three tame ones, one of which has been killed.  All these diversities, with many others, are things we did not expect or foresee in the July of 1837.  What will the next four years bring forth?  Providence only knows.  But we ourselves have sustained very little alteration since that time.  I have the same faults that I had then, only I have more wisdom and experience, and a little more self-possession than I then enjoyed.  How will it be when we open this paper and the one Emily has written?  I wonder whether the Gondaliand will still be flourishing, and what will be their condition.  I am now engaged in writing the fourth volume of Solala Vernon’s Life.

Four years ago, I was in school. Since then, I’ve worked as a governess at Blake Hall, left there, moved to Thorp Green, and visited the sea and York Minster. Emily has taught at Miss Patchet's school, and moved on from there. Charlotte has left Miss Wooler’s, worked as a governess for Mrs. Sidgwick, left that job, and is now at Mrs. White’s. Branwell has stopped painting, been a tutor in Cumberland, left that position, and is now a clerk for the railroad. Tabby has left us, and Martha Brown has taken her place. We’ve gotten a dog named Keeper, had a sweet little cat and lost it, and also acquired a hawk. We got a wild goose that flew away, and three tame ones, one of which has been killed. All these changes, along with many others, are things we didn’t anticipate back in July of 1837. What will the next four years bring? Only Providence knows. But we haven't changed much since then. I still have the same faults I had back then, though I have gained more wisdom and experience, and a bit more self-control than I had before. What will it be like when we read this letter, as well as the one Emily has written? I wonder if the Gondaliand will still be thriving, and what their situation will be. I’m currently working on the fourth volume of Solala Vernon’s Life.

For some time I have looked upon 25 as a sort of era in my existence.  It may prove a true presentiment, or it may be only a superstitious fancy; the latter seems most likely, but time will show.

For a while now, I've seen 25 as a kind of turning point in my life. It might be an actual intuition, or it could just be a superstitious notion; the latter seems more likely, but time will tell.

Anne Brontë.

Anne Brontë.

Haworth, Thursday, July 30th, 1845.

Haworth, Thursday, July 30th, 1845.

My birthday—showery, breezy, cool.  I am twenty-seven years old to-day.  This morning Anne and I opened the papers we wrote four years since, on my twenty-third birthday.  This paper we intend, if all be well, to open on my thirtieth—three years hence, in 1848.  Since the 1841 paper the following events have taken place.  Our school scheme has been abandoned, and instead Charlotte and I went to Brussels on the 8th of February 1842.

It’s my birthday—there’s a bit of rain, it’s breezy, and cool. I’m twenty-seven years old today. This morning, Anne and I opened the papers we wrote four years ago, on my twenty-third birthday. This paper we plan, if all goes well, to open on my thirtieth—three years from now, in 1848. Since the 1841 paper, these events have taken place. Our school plan has been dropped, and instead Charlotte and I went to Brussels on the 8th of February 1842.

Branwell left his place at Luddenden Foot.  C. and I returned from Brussels, November 8th 1842, in consequence of aunt’s death.

Branwell left his position at Luddenden Foot. C. and I returned from Brussels, on November 8th, 1842, because of our aunt’s passing.

Branwell went to Thorp Green as a tutor, where Anne still continued, January 1843.

Branwell took a tutoring job at Thorp Green, where Anne continued to stay, in January 1843.

Charlotte returned to Brussels the same month, and, after staying a year, came back again on New Year’s Day 1844.

Charlotte returned to Brussels the same month, and after a year there, came back again on New Year’s Day 1844.

Anne left her situation at Thorp Green of her own accord, June 1845.

Anne left her job at Thorp Green by her own decision, in June 1845.

Anne and I went our first long journey by ourselves together, leaving home on the 30th of June, Monday, sleeping at York, returning to Keighley Tuesday evening, sleeping there and walking home on Wednesday morning.  Though the weather was broken we enjoyed ourselves very much, except during a few hours at Bradford.  And during our p. 151excursion we were, Ronald Macalgin, Henry Angora, Juliet Augusteena, Rosabella Esmaldan, Ella and Julian Egremont, Catharine Navarre, and Cordelia Fitzaphnold, escaping from the palaces of instruction to join the Royalists who are hard driven at present by the victorious Republicans.  The Gondals still flourish bright as ever.  I am at present writing a work on the First War.  Anne has been writing some articles on this, and a book by Henry Sophona.  We intend sticking firm by the rascals as long as they delight us, which I am glad to say they do at present.  I should have mentioned that last summer the school scheme was revived in full vigour.  We had prospectuses printed, despatched letters to all acquaintances imparting our plans, and did our little all; but it was found no go.  Now I don’t desire a school at all, and none of us have any great longing for it.  We have cash enough for our present wants, with a prospect of accumulation.  We are all in decent health, only that papa has a complaint in his eyes, and with the exception of B., who, I hope, will be better and do better hereafter.  I am quite contented for myself: not as idle as formerly, altogether as hearty, and having learnt to make the most of the present and long for the future with the fidgetiness that I cannot do all I wish; seldom or ever troubled with nothing to do, and merely desiring that everybody could be as comfortable as myself and as undesponding, and then we should have a very tolerable world of it.

Anne and I took our first long trip together, leaving home on the 30th of June, on a Monday, spending the night in York, and returning to Keighley on Tuesday evening, staying overnight there and walking home on Wednesday morning. Even though the weather wasn’t great, we had a fantastic time, except for a few hours in Bradford. During our p. 151trip, we were, Ronald Macalgin, Henry Angora, Juliet Augusteena, Rosabella Esmaldan, Ella and Julian Egremont, Catharine Navarre, and Cordelia Fitzaphnold, breaking free from the confines of education to join the Royalists who are currently battling the victorious Republicans. The Gondals are still flourishing. Right now, I’m working on a piece about the First War. Anne has been writing some articles about this, and a book by Henry Sophona. We plan to remain loyal to the rogues as long as they keep us entertained, which I’m glad to say they do at the moment. I should have mentioned that last summer the school project was revived. We had prospectuses printed, sent letters to all our friends about our plans, and tried our best; but it went nowhere. Now, I don’t want a school at all, and none of us really do. We have enough money for our current needs, with a possibility of saving up. We’re all in pretty good health, except for Dad, who has eye problems, and aside from B., who, I hope, will heal and improve in the future. I’m quite happy personally: not as idle as I used to be, still just as energetic, and learning to enjoy the present while wanting more for the future, feeling a bit anxious that I can’t do everything I want; hardly ever feeling bored or having nothing to do, and just wishing that everyone could be as comfortable as I am and as hopeful, then we’d have a pretty decent world.

By mistake I find we have opened the paper on the 31st instead of the 30th.  Yesterday was much such a day as this, but the morning was divine.

By mistake, I see we opened the paper on the 31st instead of the 30th. Yesterday was very similar to today, but the morning was lovely.

Tabby, who was gone in our last paper, is come back, and has lived with us two years and a half; and is in good health.  Martha, who also departed, is here too.  We have got Flossy; got and lost Tiger; lost the hawk Hero, which, with the geese, was given away, and is doubtless dead, for when I came back from Brussels I inquired on all hands and could p. 152hear nothing of him.  Tiger died early last year.  Keeper and Flossy are well, also the canary acquired four years since.  We are now all at home, and likely to be there some time.  Branwell went to Liverpool on Tuesday to stay a week.  Tabby has just been teasing me to turn as formerly to ‘Pilloputate.’  Anne and I should have picked the black currants if it had been fine and sunshiny.  I must hurry off now to my turning and ironing.  I have plenty of work on hands, and writing, and am altogether full of business.  With best wishes for the whole house till 1848, July 30th, and as much longer as may be,—I conclude.

Tabby, who was gone in our last update, is back, and has been living with us for two and a half years; and is in good health. Martha, who also left, is back too. We have Flossy; we got and lost Tiger; lost the hawk Hero, which, along with the geese, was given away, and is probably dead, since when I got back from Brussels I asked everywhere and couldn’t p. 152find out anything about him. Tiger died early last year. Keeper and Flossy are doing well, and so is the canary we got four years ago. We are all at home now, and likely to stay here for a while. Branwell went to Liverpool on Tuesday and will be there for a week. Tabby has just been pestering me to start back on ‘Pilloputate.’ Anne and I would have picked the blackcurrants if it had been nice and sunny. I need to rush off now to my turning and ironing. I have plenty of work, writing, and am completely busy. Best wishes to everyone at home until 1848, July 30th, and as long as possible after that,—I’ll wrap things up.

Emily Brontë.

Emily Brontë.

Thursday, July the 31st, 1845.  Yesterday was Emily’s birthday, and the time when we should have opened our 1845 paper, but by mistake we opened it to-day instead.  How many things have happened since it was written—some pleasant, some far otherwise.  Yet I was then at Thorp Green, and now I am only just escaped from it.  I was wishing to leave it then, and if I had known that I had four years longer to stay how wretched I should have been; but during my stay I have had some very unpleasant and undreamt-of experience of human nature.  Others have seen more changes.  Charlotte has left Mr. White’s and been twice to Brussels, where she stayed each time nearly a year.  Emily has been there too, and stayed nearly a year.  Branwell has left Luddenden Foot, and been a tutor at Thorp Green, and had much tribulation and ill health.  He was very ill on Thursday, but he went with John Brown to Liverpool, where he now is, I suppose; and we hope he will be better and do better in future.  This is a dismal, cloudy, wet evening.  We have had so far a very cold wet summer.  Charlotte has lately been to Hathersage, in p. 153Derbyshire, on a visit of three weeks to Ellen Nussey.  She is now sitting sewing in the dining-room.  Emily is ironing upstairs.  I am sitting in the dining-room in the rocking-chair before the fire with my feet on the fender.  Papa is in the parlour.  Tabby and Martha are, I think, in the kitchen.  Keeper and Flossy are, I do not know where.  Little Dick is hopping in his cage.  When the last paper was written we were thinking of setting up a school.  The scheme has been dropt, and long after taken up again and dropt again because we could not get pupils.  Charlotte is thinking about getting another situation.  She wishes to go to Paris.  Will she go?  She has let Flossy in, by-the-by, and he is now lying on the sofa.  Emily is engaged in writing the Emperor Julius’s life.  She has read some of it, and I want very much to hear the rest.  She is writing some poetry, too.  I wonder what it is about?  I have begun the third volume of Passages in the Life of an Individual.  I wish I had finished it.  This afternoon I began to set about making my grey figured silk frock that was dyed at Keighley.  What sort of a hand shall I make of it?  E. and I have a great deal of work to do.  When shall we sensibly diminish it?  I want to get a habit of early rising.  Shall I succeed?  We have not yet finished our Gondal Chronicles that we began three years and a half ago.  When will they be done?  The Gondals are at present in a sad state.  The Republicans are uppermost, but the Royalists are not quite overcome.  The young sovereigns, with their brothers and sisters, are still at the Palace of Instruction.  The Unique Society, above half a year ago, were wrecked on a desert island as they were returning from Gaul.  They are still there, but we have not played at them much yet.  The Gondals in general are not in first-rate playing condition.  Will they improve?  I wonder how we shall all be and where and how situated on the thirtieth of July 1848, when, if we are all alive, Emily will be just 30.  I shall p. 154be in my 29th year, Charlotte in her 33rd, and Branwell in his 32nd; and what changes shall we have seen and known; and shall we be much changed ourselves?  I hope not, for the worse at least.  I for my part cannot well be flatter or older in mind than I am now.  Hoping for the best, I conclude.

Thursday, July 31st, 1845. Yesterday was Emily’s birthday, and it was supposed to be the day we launched our 1845 paper, but we actually opened it today instead. So much has happened since it was written—some good, some not so good. I was at Thorp Green then, and now I've just managed to escape from it. I wanted to leave it back then, and if I had known I had to stay for another four years, I would have been so unhappy; but during my time there, I've had some really unpleasant and unexpected experiences with human nature. Others have gone through even more changes. Charlotte has left Mr. White’s and visited Brussels twice, staying nearly a year each time. Emily has been there too, and stayed almost a year. Branwell has left Luddenden Foot, worked as a tutor at Thorp Green, and has faced many struggles and health issues. He was quite ill on Thursday, but he went with John Brown to Liverpool, where he probably still is; and we hope he will recover and do well in the future. It’s a gloomy, cloudy, rainy evening. So far, we've had a very cold, rainy summer. Charlotte recently spent three weeks in Hathersage, Derbyshire, visiting Ellen Nussey. She’s now sewing in the dining room. Emily is ironing upstairs. I’m sitting in the dining room in the rocking chair by the fire with my feet on the fender. Papa is in the parlor. Tabby and Martha are, I think, in the kitchen. Keeper and Flossy are, I don’t know where. Little Dick is hopping around in his cage. When we last wrote, we were thinking about starting a school. The idea got dropped, then picked up again and dropped again because we couldn’t find any students. Charlotte is considering getting another job. She wants to go to Paris. Will she go? By the way, she let Flossy in, and he’s now lying on the sofa. Emily is currently writing about the life of Emperor Julius. She’s read some of it, and I really want to hear the rest. She’s also writing some poetry. I wonder what it’s about? I’ve started the third volume of Passages in the Life of an Individual. I wish I had finished it. This afternoon, I started working on my gray patterned silk dress that was dyed in Keighley. What kind of job will I make of it? E. and I have a lot of work to do. When will we sensibly get it done? I want to get into the habit of waking up early. Will I succeed? We still haven’t finished our Gondal Chronicles that we started three and a half years ago. When will they be done? The Gondals are currently in a sad state. The Republicans are in control, but the Royalists are not completely defeated. The young rulers, along with their siblings, are still at the Palace of Instruction. The Unique Society, over six months ago, got shipwrecked on a deserted island while returning from Gaul. They’re still there, but we haven’t played them much yet. The Gondals in general are not in great playing condition. Will they improve? I wonder how we will all be, where we’ll be, and how we’ll be situated on July 30, 1848, if we’re all still alive, when Emily will just be 30. I’ll p. 154be in my 29th year, Charlotte in her 33rd, and Branwell in his 32nd; and what changes will we have experienced and will we be much changed ourselves? I hope not, at least not for the worse. As for me, I really can't feel more tired or older in mind than I am now. Hoping for the best, I’ll wrap this up.

Anne Brontë.

Anne Brontë.

‘May 21st, 1838.

‘May 21st, 1838.

GLENEDEN’S DREAM.

GLENEDEN’S DREAM.

‘Tell me, whether is it winter?
Say how long my sleep has been.
p. 155Have the woods I left so lovely
Lost their robes of tender green?

‘Tell me, is it winter?
Let me know how long I've been asleep.
p. 155Have the woods I left so beautiful
Lost their gentle green leaves?

‘Is the morning slow in coming?
Is the night time loth to go?
Tell me, are the dreary mountains
Drearier still with drifted snow?

‘Is morning taking a long time to arrive?
Is night reluctant to leave?
Tell me, do the gloomy mountains
Look even drearier with piled-up snow?

‘“Captive, since thou sawest the forest,
All its leaves have died away,
And another March has woven
Garlands for another May.

“Since you saw the forest, you’ve been trapped,
All its leaves have fallen,
And another March has come around,
Creating wreaths for another May.

‘“Ice has barred the Arctic waters;
Soft Southern winds have set it free;
And once more to deep green valley
Golden flowers might welcome thee.”

‘“Ice has closed off the Arctic waters;
Warm Southern winds have cleared it;
And once again in the deep green valley
Golden flowers might greet you.”

‘Watcher in this lonely prison,
Shut from joy and kindly air,
Heaven descending in a vision
Taught my soul to do and bear.

‘Watcher in this lonely prison,
Cut off from joy and fresh air,
Heaven came down in a vision
And taught my soul to act and endure.

‘It was night, a night of winter,
I lay on the dungeon floor,
And all other sounds were silent—
All, except the river’s roar.

‘It was night, a winter night,
I lay on the dungeon floor,
And all other sounds were silent—
All except for the river’s roar.

‘Over Death and Desolation,
Fireless hearths, and lifeless homes;
Over orphans’ heartsick sorrows,
Patriot fathers’ bloody tombs;

‘Over Death and Desolation,
Cold hearths, and lifeless homes;
Over orphans’ heartbroken sorrows,
Patriot fathers’ bloody graves;

‘Over friends, that my arms never
Might embrace in love again;
Memory ponderous until madness
Struck its poniard in my brain.

‘Over friends whom I might never
Embrace in love again;
Memory heavy until madness
Pierced my brain with its dagger.

‘Deepest slumbers followed raving,
Yet, methought, I brooded still;
Still I saw my country bleeding,
Dying for a Tyrant’s will.

‘Deepest sleep followed the madness,
Yet I thought I still pondered;
I still saw my country suffering,
Dying under a tyrant’s will.

p. 156‘Not because my bliss was blasted,
Burned within the avenging flame;
Not because my scattered kindred
Died in woe or lived in shame.

p. 156‘Not because my happiness was ruined,
Consumed by a vengeful fire;
Not because my broken family
Lived in misery or disgrace.

‘God doth know I would have given
Every bosom dear to me,
Could that sacrifice have purchased
Tortured Gondal’s liberty!

‘God knows I would have given
Every dear heart to me,
If that sacrifice could have bought
Tortured Gondal’s freedom!

‘But that at Ambition’s bidding
All her cherished hopes should wane,
That her noblest sons should muster,
Strive and fight and fall in vain.

‘But that at Ambition’s call
All her cherished hopes should fade,
That her noblest sons should gather,
Strive and fight and fall in vain.

‘Hut and castle, hall and cottage,
Roofless, crumbling to the ground,
Mighty Heaven, a glad Avenger
Thy eternal Justice found.

‘Hut and castle, hall and cottage,
Roofless, crumbling to the ground,
Mighty Heaven, a joyful Avenger
Found your eternal Justice.

‘Yes, the arm that once would shudder
Even to grieve a wounded deer,
I beheld it, unrelenting,
Clothe in blood its sovereign’s prayer.

‘Yes, the arm that once would tremble
Even to mourn a hurt deer,
I saw it, unyielding,
Cover in blood its ruler’s prayer.

‘Glorious Dream!  I saw the city
Blazing in Imperial shine,
And among adoring thousands
Stood a man of form divine.

‘Glorious Dream! I saw the city
Shining in royal light,
And among the admiring crowd
Stood a man with a divine figure.

‘None need point the princely victim—
Now he smiles with royal pride!
Now his glance is bright as lightning,
Now the knife is in his side!

‘No one needs to point out the royal victim—
Now he smiles with noble pride!
Now his gaze is bright as lightning,
Now the knife is in his side!

‘Ah! I saw how death could darken,
Darken that triumphant eye!
His red heart’s blood drenched my dagger;
My ear drank his dying sigh!

‘Ah! I saw how death could overshadow,
Overshadow that victorious eye!
His red heart's blood soaked my dagger;
My ear caught his dying sigh!

p. 157‘Shadows come! what means this midnight?
O my God, I know it all!
Know the fever dream is over,
Unavenged, the Avengers fall!’

p. 157‘Shadows are here! What does this midnight mean?
Oh my God, I understand now!
I know the fever dream is over,
Unavenged, the Avenging ones fall!’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 25th, 1844.

‘March 25th, 1844.

‘Dear Nell,—I got home safely, and was not too much tired on arriving at Haworth.  I feel rather better to-day than I have been, and in time I hope to regain more strength.  I found Emily and Papa well, and a letter from Branwell intimating that he and Anne are pretty well too.  Emily is much obliged to you for the flower seeds.  She wishes to know if the Sicilian pea and crimson corn-flower are hardy flowers, or if they are delicate, and should be sown in warm and sheltered situations?  Tell me also if you went to Mrs. John Swain’s on Friday, and if you enjoyed yourself; talk to me, in short, as you would do if we were together.  Good-morning, dear Nell; I shall say no more to you at present.

Dear Nell,—I made it home safely and wasn't too tired when I got to Haworth. I feel a bit better today than I have lately, and hopefully, I'll build up more strength over time. I found Emily and Dad doing well, and I got a letter from Branwell saying that he and Anne are doing alright too. Emily is very thankful for the flower seeds. She wants to know if the Sicilian pea and crimson cornflower are hardy flowers or if they're delicate and should be planted in warm, protected areas. Also, let me know if you went to Mrs. John Swain’s on Friday and if you enjoyed it; just talk to me as if we were together. Good morning, dear Nell; I won't say more for now.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 5th, 1844.

‘April 5th, 1844.

‘Dear Nell,—We were all very glad to get your letter this morning.  We, I say, as both Papa and Emily were anxious to hear of the safe arrival of yourself and the little varmint. [159]  As you conjecture, Emily and I set-to to shirt-making the very day after you left, and we have stuck to it pretty closely ever since.  We miss your society at least as much as you miss ours, depend upon it; would that you were within calling distance.  Be sure you write to me.  I shall expect another letter on Thursday—p. 160don’t disappoint me.  Best regards to your mother and sisters.—Yours, somewhat irritated,

Dear Nell,—We were all really happy to receive your letter this morning. We, I mean, since both Dad and Emily were eager to hear about your safe arrival and the little varmint. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ As you guessed, Emily and I started making shirts the very day after you left, and we've been at it pretty consistently since then. We miss having you around just as much as you miss us, believe me; I wish you lived close enough to visit. Please make sure to write to me. I’ll be looking forward to another letter on Thursday—p. 160don't let me down. Best wishes to your mom and sisters.—Yours, somewhat annoyed,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 12, 1843.

‘May 12, 1843.

‘Dear Miss Nussey,—I should be wanting in common civility if I did not thank you for your kindness in letting me know of an opportunity to send postage free.

Dear Miss Nussey,—I would be remiss if I didn’t thank you for your kindness in letting me know about the opportunity to send something without postage.

‘I have written as you directed, though if next Tuesday means to-morrow I fear it will be too late.  Charlotte has never mentioned a word about coming home.  If you would go over for half-a-year, perhaps you might be able to bring her back with you—otherwise, she might vegetate there till the age of Methuselah for mere lack of courage to face the voyage.

‘I have written as you requested, but if next Tuesday means tomorrow, I’m worried it will be too late. Charlotte hasn’t mentioned coming home. If you could go over for six months, maybe you could bring her back with you—otherwise, she might just stay there until she’s as old as Methuselah due to fear of making the trip.’

‘All here are in good health; so was Anne according to her last account.  The holidays will be here in a week or two, and then, if she be willing, I will get her to write you a proper letter, a feat that I have never performed.—With love and good wishes,

‘Everyone here is in good health; Anne was too, according to her last update. The holidays are coming up in a week or two, and then, if she’s willing, I’ll ask her to write you a proper letter, something I’ve never done. —With love and best wishes,

‘Emily J. Brontë.’

‘Emily J. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, February 9th, 1846.

‘Haworth, February 9th, 1846.

‘Dear Miss Nussey,—I fancy this note will be too late to decide one way or other with respect to Charlotte’s stay.  Yours p. 161only came this morning (Wednesday), and unless mine travels faster you will not receive it till Friday.  Papa, of course, misses Charlotte, and will be glad to have her back.  Anne and I ditto; but as she goes from home so seldom, you may keep her a day or two longer, if your eloquence is equal to the task of persuading her—that is, if she still be with you when you get this permission.  Love from Anne.—Yours truly,

Dear Miss Nussey,—I believe this note will arrive too late to help decide if Charlotte will stay. Yours p. 161 just arrived this morning (Wednesday), and unless mine gets there faster, you won’t see it until Friday. Dad definitely misses Charlotte and will be glad to have her back. Anne and I feel the same way; but since she seldom leaves home, you can keep her for a day or two longer, if you can persuade her—that is, if she’s still with you when you receive this note. Love from Anne.—Yours truly,

‘Emily J. Brontë.’

‘Emily J. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 21st, 1847.

‘December 21st, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I am, for my own part, dissatisfied with the preface I sent—I fear it savours of flippancy.  If you see no objection I should prefer substituting the inclosed.  It is rather more lengthy, but it expresses something I have long wished to express.

Dear Sir,—I’m not satisfied with the preface I sent—I’m concerned it comes off as too informal. If you don’t mind, I’d like to replace it with the one I’ve included. It’s a bit longer, but it expresses something I’ve been meaning to say for a while.

‘Mr. Smith is kind indeed to think of sending me The Jar of Honey.  When I receive the book I will write to him.  I cannot thank you sufficiently for your letters, and I can give you but a faint idea of the pleasure they afford me; they seem to introduce such light and life to the torpid retirement where we live like dormice.  But, understand this distinctly, you must never write to me except when you have both leisure p. 162and inclination.  I know your time is too fully occupied and too valuable to be often at the service of any one individual.

‘Mr. Smith is very gracious to think of sending me The Jar of Honey. Once I receive the book, I’ll reach out to him. I can’t thank you enough for your letters, and I can only give you a small sense of the joy they bring me; they seem to bring such light and life to the dull quiet where we live like dormice. But please understand this clearly: only write to me when you have both the time p. 162and the desire. I know your time is very valuable and completely occupied, so it shouldn’t be frequently given to any one person.

‘You are not far wrong in your judgment respecting Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey.  Ellis has a strong, original mind, full of strange though sombre power.  When he writes poetry that power speaks in language at once condensed, elaborated, and refined, but in prose it breaks forth in scenes which shock more than they attract.  Ellis will improve, however, because he knows his defects.  Agnes Grey is the mirror of the mind of the writer.  The orthography and punctuation of the books are mortifying to a degree: almost all the errors that were corrected in the proof-sheets appear intact in what should have been the fair copies.  If Mr. Newby always does business in this way, few authors would like to have him for their publisher a second time.—Believe me, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘You’re not completely wrong in your views about Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. Ellis has a strong, original mind, full of unique but dark power. When he writes poetry, that power shines through in language that is both concise and elaborate, but in prose, it bursts forth in scenes that shock more than attract. Ellis will improve, though, since he’s aware of his shortcomings. Agnes Grey reflects the author's mindset. The spelling and punctuation in the books are incredibly frustrating: almost all the errors that were supposed to be fixed in the proof copies are still present in what should have been the final versions. If Mr. Newby always operates this way, few authors would want him as their publisher again.—Believe me, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘February 5th, 1848.

‘February 5th, 1848.

‘Dear Sir,—A representation of Jane Eyre at a minor theatre would no doubt be a rather afflicting spectacle to the author of that work.  I suppose all would be wofully exaggerated and painfully vulgarised by the actors and actresses on such a stage.  What, I cannot help asking myself, would they make of Mr. Rochester?  And the picture my fancy conjures up by way of reply is a somewhat humiliating one.  What would they make of Jane Eyre?  I see something very pert and very affected as an answer to that query.

Dear Sir,—It would surely be a painful experience for the author to see a production of Jane Eyre at a small theater. I can only imagine that the performance would be exaggerated and embarrassingly cheapened by the actors on that stage. What, I wonder, would they do with Mr. Rochester? The thought that comes to mind is somewhat humiliating. And what would they do with Jane Eyre? I can picture something quite cheeky and very pretentious as a response to that question.

‘Still, were it in my power, I should certainly make a point of being myself a witness of the exhibition.  Could I go quietly and alone, I undoubtedly should go; I should endeavour to endure both rant and whine, strut and grimace, for the sake of the useful observations to be collected in such a scene.

‘Still, if I could, I would definitely want to witness the performance myself. If I could go quietly and alone, I absolutely would; I would try to endure the shouting and complaining, the posing and the awkwardness, for the sake of the useful observations that could be gathered in such a situation.

p. 163‘As to whether I wish you to go, that is another question.  I am afraid I have hardly fortitude enough really to wish it.  One can endure being disgusted with one’s own work, but that a friend should share the repugnance is unpleasant.  Still, I know it would interest me to hear both your account of the exhibition and any ideas which the effect of the various parts on the spectators might suggest to you.  In short, I should like to know what you would think, and to hear what you would say on the subject.  But you must not go merely to satisfy my curiosity; you must do as you think proper.  Whatever you decide on will content me: if you do not go, you will be spared a vulgarising impression of the book; if you do go, I shall perhaps gain a little information—either alternative has its advantage. [163]

p. 163“As for whether I want you to go, that's a different question. I'm afraid I don’t really have the strength to genuinely wish for it. You can handle being frustrated by your own work, but it’s unpleasant to think of a friend feeling the same dislike. Still, I know I’d be interested to hear your take on the exhibition and any thoughts you have on how the different elements affect the audience. In short, I’d like to know what you think and hear your opinions on the topic. But you shouldn’t go just to satisfy my curiosity; you should do what you feel is right. Whatever you choose will be fine with me: if you don’t go, you won’t have to deal with a negative impression of the book; if you do go, I might learn something new—either choice has its perks. [163]

‘I am glad to hear that the second edition is selling, for the sake of Messrs. Smith & Elder.  I rather feared it would remain on hand, and occasion loss.  Wuthering Heights it appears is selling too, and consequently Mr. Newby is getting into marvellously good tune with his authors.—I remain, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

'I’m glad to hear that the second edition is selling well, for Messrs. Smith & Elder's sake. I was worried it would go unsold and cause a loss. Wuthering Heights seems to be selling too, so Mr. Newby is doing really well with his authors. —I remain, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘Currer Bell.’

‘Currer Bell.’

p. 164TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 164TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘February 15th, 1848.

‘February 15th, 1848.

‘Dear Sir,—Your letter, as you may fancy, has given me something to think about.  It has presented to my mind a curious picture, for the description you give is so vivid, I seem to realise it all.  I wanted information and I have got it.  You have raised the veil from a corner of your great world—your London—and have shown me a glimpse of what I might call loathsome, but which I prefer calling strange.  Such, then, is a sample of what amuses the metropolitan populace!  Such is a view of one of their haunts!

Dear Sir,—Your letter has given me a lot to think about, as you can imagine. It creates a vivid image in my mind; I can almost see everything. I asked for information, and I've received it. You’ve lifted a corner of the curtain on your vast world—your London—and shown me a glimpse of something I might call disgusting, but I’d rather call it strange. So, this is what entertains the city residents! This is a peek into one of their hideouts!

‘Did I not say that I would have gone to this theatre and witnessed this exhibition if it had been in my power?  What absurdities people utter when they speak of they know not what!

‘Did I not say that I would have gone to this theater and seen this exhibition if I could? What nonsense people spew when they talk about things they don’t really understand!

‘You must try now to forget entirely what you saw.

‘You need to try to completely forget what you saw.

‘As to my next book, I suppose it will grow to maturity in p. 165time, as grass grows or corn ripens; but I cannot force it.  It makes slow progress thus far: it is not every day, nor even every week that I can write what is worth reading; but I shall (if not hindered by other matters) be industrious when the humour comes, and in due time I hope to see such a result as I shall not be ashamed to offer you, my publishers, and the public.

‘As for my next book, I imagine it will develop naturally over time, like grass growing or corn ripening; but I can't rush it. It's progressing slowly so far: I don’t write something worth reading every day, or even every week; but I will (unless something else gets in the way) put in the effort when inspiration strikes me, and eventually, I hope to create something I won’t be ashamed to share with you, my publishers, and the public.

‘Have you not two classes of writers—the author and the bookmaker?  And is not the latter more prolific than the former?  Is he not, indeed, wonderfully fertile; but does the public, or the publisher even, make much account of his productions?  Do not both tire of him in time?

‘Don’t you think there are two types of writers—the creator and the formatter? And isn’t the latter much more productive than the former? Isn’t he, in fact, incredibly prolific; but do either the audience or the publisher really value his work? Don’t they both eventually tire of him?

‘Is it not because authors aim at a style of living better suited to merchants, professed gain-seekers, that they are often compelled to degenerate to mere bookmakers, and to find the great stimulus of their pen in the necessity of earning money?  If they were not ashamed to be frugal, might they not be more independent?

‘Is it not because writers strive for a lifestyle closer to that of businesspeople, who are openly focused on profit, that they often have to reduce themselves to mere money-driven creators, using the need to earn income as the main motivation for their writing? If they weren’t ashamed to be frugal, wouldn’t they be more independent?

‘I should much—very much—like to take that quiet view of the “great world” you allude to, but I have as yet won no right to give myself such a treat: it must be for some future day—when, I don’t know.  Ellis, I imagine, would soon turn aside from the spectacle in disgust.  I do not think he admits it as his creed that “the proper study of mankind is man”—at least not the artificial man of cities.  In some points I consider Ellis somewhat of a theorist: now and then he broaches ideas which strike my sense as much more daring and original than practical; his reason may be in advance of mine, but certainly it often travels a different road.  I should say Ellis will not be seen in his full strength till he is seen as an essayist.

‘I would really—very much—like to take that calm look at the “great world” you mentioned, but I haven’t earned the right to treat myself to that just yet: it has to wait for some future time—when, I’m not sure. I think Ellis would quickly turn away from the performance in disgust. I don’t believe he thinks that “the proper study of mankind is man”—at least not the artificial man created by cities. In some ways, I view Ellis as a bit of a theorist: he sometimes presents ideas that seem bolder and more original than practical; his reasoning may be ahead of mine, but it clearly often goes down a different path. I would say Ellis won’t show his full potential until he’s recognized as an essayist.

‘I return to you the note inclosed under your cover, it is from the editor of the Berwick Warder; he wants a copy of Jane Eyre to review.

‘I’m returning the note that was in your envelope; it’s from the editor of the Berwick Warder. He wants a copy of Jane Eyre to review.

‘With renewed thanks for your continued goodness to me,—I remain, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘With heartfelt thanks for your ongoing kindness to me,—I remain, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘Currer Bell.’

‘Currer Bell.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘October 29th, 1848.

‘October 29th, 1848.

‘Dear Ellen,—I am sorry you should have been uneasy at my not writing to you ere this, but you must remember it is scarcely a week since I received your last, and my life is not so varied that in the interim much should have occurred worthy of mention.  You insist that I should write about myself; this puts me in straits, for I really have nothing interesting to say about myself.  I think I have now nearly got over the effects of my late illness, and am almost restored to my normal condition of health.  I sometimes wish that it was a little higher, but we ought to be content with such blessings as we have, and not pine after those that are out of our reach.  I feel much more uneasy about my sisters than myself just now.  Emily’s cold and cough are very obstinate.  I fear she has pain in the chest, and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing, when she has moved at all quickly.  She looks very, very thin and pale.  Her reserved nature occasions me great uneasiness of mind.  It is useless to question her—you get no answers.  It is still more useless to recommend remedies—they are never adopted.  Nor can I shut my eyes to the fact of Anne’s great delicacy of constitution.  The late sad event has, I feel, made me more apprehensive than common.  I cannot help feeling much depressed sometimes.  I try to leave all in God’s hands; to trust in His goodness; but faith and resignation are difficult to practise under some circumstances.  The weather has been most unfavourable for invalids of late: sudden changes of temperature, and cold penetrating winds have been frequent here.  Should the atmosphere become settled, perhaps a favourable effect might be produced on the general health, and those harassing coughs and colds be removed.  Papa has not quite escaped, but he has, so far, stood it out better than any of us.  You must not mention my going to Brookroyd this winter.  I could not, and would not, leave home on any account.  I am p. 167truly sorry to hear of Miss Heald’s serious illness, it seems to me she has been for some years out of health now.  These things make one feel as well as know, that this world is not our abiding-place.  We should not knit human ties too close, or clasp human affections too fondly.  They must leave us, or we must leave them, one day.  Good-bye for the present.  God restore health and strength to you and to all who need it.—Yours faithfully,

Dear Ellen,—I'm sorry you were worried that I hadn't written sooner, but you need to remember it’s only been a week since I received your last letter, and not much has happened in my life that's worth mentioning. You keep asking me to share more about myself; this puts me in a tricky position because I really don’t have anything interesting to say. I think I'm almost over my recent illness and getting back to my usual health. Sometimes I wish my health were a bit better, but we should be thankful for the blessings we have and not long for what we can't reach. Right now, I'm much more concerned about my sisters than myself. Emily's cold and cough are really stubborn. I'm worried she might have chest pain, and sometimes I notice she gets short of breath if she moves too quickly. She looks very thin and pale. Her quiet nature makes me very anxious. It's pointless to ask her how she's feeling—you won’t get any answers. It's even more pointless to suggest remedies—they never take them. I can’t ignore Anne's fragile health either. I think the recent sad event has made me even more anxious than usual. I do feel quite down sometimes. I try to leave everything in God's hands and trust in His goodness, but having faith and accepting things can be hard in certain circumstances. The weather has been really rough on those who are sick lately; we’ve been experiencing sudden temperature shifts and chilly winds. If the weather settles down, it might help improve overall health and clear up those annoying coughs and colds. Dad hasn’t fully escaped either, but so far, he seems to be managing better than the rest of us. Please don’t mention my plans to go to Brookroyd this winter. I couldn’t and wouldn’t leave home for any reason. I’m p. 167really sorry to hear about Miss Heald’s serious illness; it seems she's been unwell for years now. These situations really make you feel as well as know that this world isn't our permanent home. We shouldn’t tie ourselves too closely to others or hold on to our affections too tightly. One day, we'll have to part ways. Goodbye for now. May God restore health and strength to you and everyone else who needs it.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 2nd, 1848.

‘November 2nd, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I have received, since I last wrote to you, two papers, the Standard of Freedom and the Morning Herald, both containing notices of the Poems; which notices, I hope, will at least serve a useful purpose to Mr. Smith in attracting public attention to the volume.  As critiques, I should have thought more of them had they more fully recognised Ellis Bell’s merits; but the lovers of abstract poetry are few in number.

My dear Sir,—Since I last wrote to you, I've received two publications, the Standard of Freedom and the Morning Herald, both featuring reviews of the Poems. I hope these reviews will at least help Mr. Smith in getting some public attention for the volume. As critiques, I would have thought more highly of them if they had better recognized Ellis Bell’s talents, but there are not many fans of abstract poetry.

‘Your last letter was very welcome, it was written with so kind an intention: you made it so interesting in order to divert my mind.  I should have thanked you for it before now, only that I kept waiting for a cheerful day and mood in which to address you, and I grieve to say the shadow which has fallen on our quiet home still lingers round it.  I am better, but others are ill now.  Papa is not well, my sister Emily has something like slow inflammation of the lungs, and even our old servant, who lived with us nearly a quarter of a century, is suffering under serious indisposition.

‘Your last letter was a real joy to receive; it was written with such kind intent. You made it so engaging that it helped take my mind off things. I should have thanked you sooner, but I was waiting for a sunny day and a better mood to write back, and I’m sorry to say that the shadow hanging over our quiet home is still there. I’m doing better, but others are now unwell. Dad isn't feeling well, my sister Emily has something like a slow lung infection, and even our long-time servant, who has been with us for nearly twenty-five years, is dealing with serious health issues.

‘I would fain hope that Emily is a little better this evening, but it is difficult to ascertain this.  She is a real stoic in illness: she neither seeks nor will accept sympathy.  To put any questions, to offer any aid, is to annoy; she will not yield a step before pain or sickness till forced; not one of her ordinary avocations will she voluntarily renounce.  You must look on and see her do what she is unfit to do, and not dare to say a word—a painful necessity for those to whom her health and existence are as precious as the life in their veins.  When she is ill there seems to p. 168be no sunshine in the world for me.  The tie of sister is near and dear indeed, and I think a certain harshness in her powerful and peculiar character only makes me cling to her more.  But this is all family egotism (so to speak)—excuse it, and, above all, never allude to it, or to the name Emily, when you write to me.  I do not always show your letters, but I never withhold them when they are inquired after.

‘I really hope Emily is feeling a bit better this evening, but it’s hard to tell. She’s a true stoic when she’s ill: she neither seeks nor accepts sympathy. Asking her questions or offering help just annoys her; she won’t give in to pain or sickness without being forced. She won’t willingly stop any of her usual activities. You have to watch her do things she’s not fit for and not say a word—it’s a painful situation for those who value her health and life as much as their own. When she’s sick, it feels like there's no sunshine in my world. The bond of sisterhood means a lot to me, and I think a certain toughness in her strong and unique character just makes me hold onto her even more. But this is all a bit self-centered (so to speak)—please forgive it, and above all, never mention it or the name Emily when you write to me. I don’t always show your letters, but I never keep them from her when she asks.’

‘I am sorry I cannot claim for the name Brontë the honour of being connected with the notice in the Bradford Observer.  That paper is in the hands of dissenters, and I should think the best articles are usually written by one or two intelligent dissenting ministers in the town.  Alexander Harris [168a] is fortunate in your encouragement, as Currer Bell once was.  He has not forgotten the first letter he received from you, declining indeed his MS. of The Professor, but in terms so different from those in which the rejections of the other publishers had been expressed—with so much more sense and kind feeling, it took away the sting of disappointment and kindled new hope in his mind.

‘I’m sorry I can’t say that the name Brontë is honored by being connected with the notice in the Bradford Observer. That paper is run by dissenters, and I think the best articles are usually written by one or two sharp dissenting ministers in the town. Alexander Harris __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ is lucky to have your support, just like Currer Bell once did. He hasn’t forgotten the first letter he got from you, which declined his manuscript of The Professor, but used words so different from how other publishers expressed their rejections—with so much more understanding and kindness, it eased the sting of disappointment and sparked new hope in his mind.

‘Currer Bell might expostulate with you again about thinking too well of him, but he refrains; he prefers acknowledging that the expression of a fellow creature’s regard—even if more than he deserves—does him good: it gives him a sense of content.  Whatever portion of the tribute is unmerited on his part, would, he is aware, if exposed to the test of daily acquaintance, disperse like a broken bubble, but he has confidence that a portion, however minute, of solid friendship would remain behind, and that portion he reckons amongst his treasures.

‘Currer Bell might argue with you again about thinking too highly of him, but he holds back; he prefers to acknowledge that appreciation from another person—even if he doesn’t fully deserve it—makes him feel good: it gives him a sense of peace. Whatever part of the praise isn’t deserved on his end, he knows that, if examined closely over time, it would pop like a bubble, but he believes that a small part, however tiny, of true friendship would still be there, and that part he considers among his treasures.

‘I am glad, by-the-bye, to hear that Madeline is come out at last, and was happy to see a favourable notice of that work and of The Three Paths in the Morning Herald.  I wish Miss Kavanagh all success. [168b]

‘I’m glad to hear that Madeline is finally out, and I was happy to see a positive review of that work and of The Three Paths in the Morning Herald. I wish Miss Kavanagh all the success. [168b]

p. 169‘Trusting that Mrs. Williams’s health continues strong, and that your own and that of all your children is satisfactory, for without health there is little comfort,—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

p. 169‘I hope Mrs. Williams is still doing well, and that you and all your kids are also doing fine, because without good health, there’s not much happiness. I am, my dear sir, sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 22nd, 1848.

‘November 22nd, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I put your most friendly letter into Emily’s hands as soon as I had myself perused it, taking care, however, not to say a word in favour of homœopathy—that would not have answered.  It is best usually to leave her to form her own judgment, and especially not to advocate the side you wish her to favour; if you do, she is sure to lean in the opposite direction, and ten to one will argue herself into non-compliance.  Hitherto she has refused medicine, rejected medical advice; no reasoning, no entreaty, has availed to induce her to see a physician.  After reading your letter she said, “Mr. Williams’s intention was kind and good, but he was under a delusion: Homœopathy was only another form of quackery.”  Yet she may reconsider this opinion and come to a different conclusion; her second thoughts are often the best.

Dear Sir,—I shared your very kind letter with Emily right after reading it, but I made sure not to say anything definitive about homeopathy—that wouldn’t help. It’s usually better to let her come to her own conclusions, and especially not to push the perspective you want her to agree with; if you do, she’ll likely go the other way and argue herself into rejecting it. So far, she has refused medication and ignored medical advice; no amount of reasoning or pleading has convinced her to see a doctor. After reading your letter, she said, “Mr. Williams’s intention was kind and good, but he’s wrong: homeopathy is just another kind of quackery.” Still, she might reconsider that opinion and come to a different conclusion; her second thoughts are often the best.

‘The North American Review is worth reading; there is no mincing the matter there.  What a bad set the Bells must be!  What appalling books they write!  To-day, as Emily appeared a little easier, I thought the Review would amuse her, so I read it aloud to her and Anne.  As I sat between them at our quiet but now somewhat melancholy fireside, I studied the two ferocious authors.  Ellis, the “man of uncommon talents, but dogged, brutal, and morose,” sat leaning back in his easy chair drawing his impeded breath as he best could, and looking, alas! piteously pale and wasted; it is not his wont to laugh, but he smiled half-amused and half in scorn as he listened.  Acton p. 170was sewing, no emotion ever stirs him to loquacity, so he only smiled too, dropping at the same time a single word of calm amazement to hear his character so darkly portrayed.  I wonder what the reviewer would have thought of his own sagacity could he have beheld the pair as I did.  Vainly, too, might he have looked round for the masculine partner in the firm of “Bell & Co.”  How I laugh in my sleeve when I read the solemn assertions that Jane Eyre was written in partnership, and that it “bears the marks of more than one mind and one sex.”

The North American Review is definitely worth reading; there's no denying that. What a terrible bunch the Bells must be! What awful books they write! Today, as Emily seemed a little more at ease, I thought the Review would entertain her, so I read it aloud to her and Anne. As I sat between them at our quiet but now somewhat gloomy fireplace, I observed the two intense authors. Ellis, the “man of extraordinary talents, but stubborn, brutal, and gloomy,” was leaning back in his recliner, trying to catch his breath, looking sadly pale and frail; he doesn't usually laugh, but he smiled, half-amused and half-skeptical, as he listened. Acton was sewing, not moved to engage by any emotion, so he just smiled too, while also expressing brief calm astonishment at hearing his character painted so darkly. I wonder what the reviewer would have thought of his own insight if he could have seen the pair as I did. He might have looked around in vain for the male partner in the firm of “Bell & Co.” How I chuckle to myself when I read the serious claims that Jane Eyre was written collaboratively, and that it “shows signs of more than one mind and one gender.”

‘The wise critics would certainly sink a degree in their own estimation if they knew that yours or Mr. Smith’s was the first masculine hand that touched the MS. of Jane Eyre, and that till you or he read it no masculine eye had scanned a line of its contents, no masculine ear heard a phrase from its pages.  However, the view they take of the matter rather pleases me than otherwise.  If they like, I am not unwilling they should think a dozen ladies and gentlemen aided at the compilation of the book.  Strange patchwork it must seem to them—this chapter being penned by Mr., and that by Miss or Mrs. Bell; that character or scene being delineated by the husband, that other by the wife!  The gentleman, of course, doing the rough work, the lady getting up the finer parts.  I admire the idea vastly.

‘The wise critics would definitely lower their opinion of themselves if they knew that yours or Mr. Smith’s was the first male hand to touch the manuscript of Jane Eyre, and that until you or he read it, no man had looked at a line of its content, and no man had heard a phrase from its pages. However, I actually find their perspective somewhat amusing. If they want, I have no issue with them thinking that a bunch of ladies and gentlemen helped put the book together. It must seem like a strange patchwork to them—this chapter written by Mr. Bell and that one by Miss or Mrs. Bell; one character or scene created by the husband, another by the wife! Of course, the gentleman does the rough work while the lady polishes the finer details. I really love the thought.

‘I have read Madeline.  It is a fine pearl in simple setting.  Julia Kavanagh has my esteem; I would rather know her than many far more brilliant personages.  Somehow my heart leans more to her than to Eliza Lynn, for instance.  Not that I have read either Amymone or Azeth, but I have seen extracts from them which I found it literally impossible to digest.  They presented to my imagination Lytton Bulwer in petticoats—an overwhelming vision.  By-the-bye, the American critic talks admirable sense about Bulwer—candour obliges me to confess that.

‘I have read Madeline. It’s a beautiful gem in a simple setting. Julia Kavanagh has my respect; I would prefer to know her than many much more brilliant people. Somehow, I find myself drawn more to her than to Eliza Lynn, for example. Not that I’ve read either Amymone or Azeth, but I’ve seen excerpts from them that I found truly impossible to get through. They made me picture Lytton Bulwer in a dress—an overwhelming sight. By the way, the American critic makes excellent points about Bulwer—I must admit that.

‘I must abruptly bid you good-bye for the present.—Yours sincerely,

‘I have to say goodbye for now.—Yours sincerely,

‘Currer Bell.’

‘Currer Bell.’

p. 171TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 171TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 7th, 1848.

‘December 7th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I duly received Dr. Curie’s work on Homœopathy, and ought to apologise for having forgotten to thank you for it.  I will return it when I have given it a more attentive perusal than I have yet had leisure to do.  My sister has read it, but as yet she remains unshaken in her former opinion: she will not admit there can be efficacy in such a system.  Were I in her place, it appears to me that I should be glad to give it a trial, confident that it can scarcely do harm and might do good.

Dear Sir,—I received Dr. Curie’s work on Homeopathy, and I should apologize for not thanking you for it sooner. I will return it once I’ve had a chance to read it more thoroughly. My sister has read it, but she still firmly believes her original opinion: she won’t accept that there could be any effectiveness in this system. If I were in her position, I think I would be eager to try it, sure it couldn’t do any harm and might actually be helpful.

‘I can give no favourable report of Emily’s state.  My father is very despondent about her.  Anne and I cherish hope as well as we can, but her appearance and her symptoms tend to crush that feeling.  Yet I argue that the present emaciation, cough, weakness, shortness of breath are the results of inflammation, now, I trust, subsided, and that with time these ailments will gradually leave her.  But my father shakes his head and speaks of others of our family once similarly afflicted, for whom he likewise persisted in hoping against hope, and who are now removed where hope and fear fluctuate no more.  There were, however, differences between their case and hers—important differences I think.  I must cling to the expectation of her recovery, I cannot renounce it.

‘I can’t provide a positive update on Emily’s condition. My dad is really down about her. Anne and I are holding on to hope as best we can, but her appearance and symptoms make it hard to stay optimistic. Still, I argue that her current weight loss, cough, weakness, and shortness of breath are the results of inflammation, which I hope has now decreased, and that these issues will slowly fade away over time. But my dad just shakes his head and talks about other family members who experienced something similar, for whom he also held onto hope despite everything, and who are now gone to a place where hope and fear don’t exist anymore. However, there are important differences between their situation and hers—differences that I believe matter. I have to hold onto the hope of her recovery; I can’t give that up.’

‘Much would I give to have the opinion of a skilful professional man.  It is easy, my dear sir, to say there is nothing in medicine, and that physicians are useless, but we naturally wish to procure aid for those we love when we see them suffer; most painful is it to sit still, look on, and do nothing.  Would that my sister added to her many great qualities the humble one of tractability!  I have again and again incurred her displeasure by urging the necessity of seeking advice, and I fear I must yet incur it again and again.  Let me leave the subject; I have no right thus to make you a sharer in our sorrow.

‘I would give a lot to hear what a skilled professional thinks. It’s easy to say there’s nothing to medicine and that doctors are useless, but when we see our loved ones in pain, we naturally want to find help for them; it’s really hard to just sit there, watch, and do nothing. I wish my sister, in addition to her many great qualities, had the simple quality of being open to advice! I’ve upset her many times by insisting on the need to seek help, and I’m afraid I’ll need to do it again. Let me change the subject; I shouldn’t involve you in our sadness.’

‘I am indeed surprised that Mr. Newby should say that he is to publish another work by Ellis and Acton Bell.  Acton has had quite enough of him.  I think I have before intimated that that p. 172author never more intends to have Mr. Newby for a publisher.  Not only does he seem to forget that engagements made should be fulfilled, but by a system of petty and contemptible manœuvring he throws an air of charlatanry over the works of which he has the management.  This does not suit the “Bells”: they have their own rude north-country ideas of what is delicate, honourable, and gentlemanlike.

I’m really surprised that Mr. Newby is claiming he’s going to publish another work by Ellis and Acton Bell. Acton has definitely had enough of him. I think I’ve mentioned before that this author intends to avoid working with Mr. Newby as a publisher again. Not only does he seem to forget that commitments should be honored, but through a series of petty and disgraceful maneuvers, he creates an impression of fraud around the works he manages. This doesn’t sit well with the “Bells”; they have their own straightforward north-country standards of what is tasteful, honorable, and respectable.

‘Newby’s conduct in no sort corresponds with these notions; they have found him—I will not say what they have found him.  Two words that would exactly suit him are at my pen point, but I shall not take the trouble to employ them.

‘Newby’s behavior doesn’t align at all with these ideas; they’ve found out what he’s really like—I won’t say more. Two words that would perfectly describe him are on the tip of my pen, but I won’t bother to use them.

‘Ellis Bell is at present in no condition to trouble himself with thoughts either of writing or publishing.  Should it please Heaven to restore his health and strength, he reserves to himself the right of deciding whether or not Mr. Newby has forfeited every claim to his second work.

‘Ellis Bell is currently not in a position to worry about writing or publishing. If heaven allows him to regain his health and strength, he will decide whether Mr. Newby has lost all rights to his second work.

‘I have not yet read the second number of Pendennis.  The first I thought rich in indication of ease, resource, promise; but it is not Thackeray’s way to develop his full power all at once.  Vanity Fair began very quietly—it was quiet all through, but the stream as it rolled gathered a resistless volume and force.  Such, I doubt not, will be the case with Pendennis.

‘I haven't read the second issue of Pendennis yet. The first one seemed full of hints of comfort, creativity, and potential; but it’s not Thackeray's style to reveal his full capabilities all at once. Vanity Fair started off very subtly—it was understated throughout, but as it progressed, it picked up an unstoppable flow and power. I have no doubt that Pendennis will be the same.’

‘You must forget what I said about Eliza Lynn.  She may be the best of human beings, and I am but a narrow-minded fool to express prejudice against a person I have never seen.

‘You need to forget what I said about Eliza Lynn. She might be one of the best people out there, and I'm just a narrow-minded fool for having an opinion about someone I’ve never even met.

‘Believe me, my dear sir, in haste, yours sincerely,

‘Believe me, my dear sir, quickly, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 9th, 1848.

‘December 9th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—Your letter seems to relieve me from a difficulty and to open my way.  I know it would be useless to consult Drs. Elliotson or Forbes: my sister would not see the most skilful physician in England if he were brought to her just now, nor would she follow his prescription.  With regard to p. 173Homœopathy, she has at least admitted that it cannot do much harm; perhaps if I get the medicines she may consent to try them; at any rate, the experiment shall be made.

Dear Sir,—Your letter has helped clarify things for me and shows me a way forward. I’ve realized it wouldn’t make sense to consult Drs. Elliotson or Forbes; my sister wouldn’t see the best doctor in England even if he were here right now, nor would she follow his advice. Regarding homeopathy, she has at least accepted that it probably won’t do much harm; maybe if I get the medicines, she’ll agree to give them a try; either way, we’ll attempt it.

‘Not knowing Dr. Epps’s address, I send the inclosed statement of her case through your hands. [173]

‘Not having Dr. Epps’s address, I’m sending the enclosed statement of her case through you. [173]

‘I deeply feel both your kindness and Mr. Smith’s in thus interesting yourselves in what touches me so nearly.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I truly appreciate your kindness and Mr. Smith’s for being concerned about what affects me so closely.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘December 15th, 1848.

‘December 15th, 1848.

‘My dear Ellen,—I mentioned your coming here to Emily as a mere suggestion, with the faint hope that the prospect might cheer her, as she really esteems you perhaps more than p. 174any other person out of this house.  I found, however, it would not do; any, the slightest excitement or putting out of the way is not to be thought of, and indeed I do not think the journey in this unsettled weather, with the walk from Keighley and walk back, at all advisable for yourself.  Yet I should have liked to see you, and so would Anne.  Emily continues much the same; yesterday I thought her a little better, but to-day she is not so well.  I hope still, for I must hope—she is dear to me as life.  If I let the faintness of despair reach my heart I shall become worthless.  The attack was, I believe, in the first place, inflammation of the lungs; it ought to have been met promptly in time.  She is too intractable.  I do wish I knew her state and feelings more clearly.  The fever is not so high as it was, but the pain in the side, the cough, the emaciation are there still.

My dear Ellen,—I mentioned to Emily that you might come here as an idea, hoping it might brighten her mood since she really values you more than anyone else in this house. I found that it wouldn’t work; any little excitement or disruption is impossible, and honestly, I don’t think traveling in this unpredictable weather, plus the walk to and from Keighley, is advisable for you. Still, I would have liked to see you, and so would Anne. Emily's condition remains about the same; yesterday I thought she was a bit better, but today she doesn’t seem so well. I still have hope because I must hope—she means everything to me. If I let despair creep in, I’ll become worthless. The initial illness was, I believe, lung inflammation; it should have been treated quickly. She is too stubborn. I wish I knew more clearly how she’s doing and what she’s feeling. The fever isn’t as high as it was, but she still has pain in her side, a cough, and she looks very thin.

‘Remember me kindly to all at Brookroyd, and believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Please send my regards to everyone at Brookroyd, and know that I remain yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘December 21st, 1848.

‘December 21st, 1848.

‘My dear Ellen,—Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now.  She will never suffer more in this world.  She is gone, after a hard, short conflict.  She died on Tuesday, the very day I wrote to you.  I thought it very possible she might be with us still for weeks, and a few hours afterwards she was in eternity.  Yes, there is no Emily in time or on earth now.  Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly under the church pavement.  We are very calm at present.  Why should we be otherwise?  The anguish of seeing her suffer is over; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone by; the funeral day is past.  We feel she is at peace.  No need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind.  Emily does not feel them.  She died in a time of promise.  We saw her taken from life in its prime.  But it is God’s will, and the place where she is gone is better than she has left.’

‘My dear Ellen,—Emily is no longer in pain or weak. She will never suffer again in this world. She passed away after a brief and difficult struggle. She died on Tuesday, the very day I wrote to you. I thought it was quite likely she might be with us for weeks, yet just a few hours later, she was gone. Yes, there is no Emily anymore, neither in time nor on earth. Yesterday, we quietly laid her frail body under the church pavement. We are very calm right now. Why shouldn’t we be? The pain of seeing her suffer is over; the agony of death has passed; the day of the funeral is behind us. We believe she has found peace. There’s no need to worry about the bitter cold and brisk wind. Emily doesn’t feel them. She left us at a time filled with promise. We witnessed her leave life at its peak. But it’s God’s will, and the place she has gone to is better than what she left behind.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 25th, 1848.

‘December 25th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I will write to you more at length when my p. 175heart can find a little rest—now I can only thank you very briefly for your letter, which seemed to me eloquent in its sincerity.

My dear Sir,—I’ll write to you in more detail when my p. 175heart has a chance to settle down—right now I can only quickly thank you for your letter, which I found very sincere.

‘Emily is nowhere here now, her wasted mortal remains are taken out of the house.  We have laid her cherished head under the church aisle beside my mother’s, my two sisters’—dead long ago—and my poor, hapless brother’s.  But a small remnant of the race is left—so my poor father thinks.

‘Emily isn’t here anymore; we’ve taken her lifeless body out of the house. We’ve laid her beloved head in the church aisle next to my mother’s, my two sisters’—who passed away long ago—and my poor, unfortunate brother’s. But there’s just a small part of the family left—so my poor father believes.

‘Well, the loss is ours, not hers, and some sad comfort I take, as I hear the wind blow and feel the cutting keenness of the frost, in knowing that the elements bring her no more suffering; their severity cannot reach her grave; her fever is quieted, her restlessness soothed, her deep, hollow cough is hushed for ever; we do not hear it in the night nor listen for it in the morning; we have not the conflict of the strangely strong spirit and the fragile frame before us—relentless conflict—once seen, never to be forgotten.  A dreary calm reigns round us, in the midst of which we seek resignation.

‘The loss is ours, not hers, and I find some sad comfort in knowing that the wind blows and the frost bites, as it brings her no more pain; its harshness can’t touch her grave; her fever is gone, her restlessness is calmed, and her deep, hollow cough is silenced forever; we don’t hear it at night or listen for it in the morning; we no longer face the struggle of her strong spirit against her fragile body—a relentless struggle—once witnessed, never to be forgotten. A bleak calm surrounds us, amidst which we seek to accept what is.’

‘My father and my sister Anne are far from well.  As for me, God has hitherto most graciously sustained me; so far I have felt adequate to bear my own burden and even to offer a little help to others.  I am not ill; I can get through daily duties, and do something towards keeping hope and energy alive in our mourning household.  My father says to me almost hourly, “Charlotte, you must bear up, I shall sink if you fail me”; these words, you can conceive, are a stimulus to nature.  The sight, too, of my sister Anne’s very still but deep sorrow wakens in me such fear for her that I dare not falter.  Somebody must cheer the rest.

‘My father and sister Anne are both doing very poorly. As for me, God has so far been very gracious; I’ve felt capable enough to manage my own struggles and even help a bit with others. I’m not ill; I can carry on with my daily tasks and contribute to keeping hope alive in our grieving home. My father tells me almost every hour, “Charlotte, you must stay strong; I’ll collapse if you let me down”; you can imagine how those words push me to stay resilient. The sight of my sister Anne’s quiet but profound sorrow fills me with such fear for her that I can’t let myself fail. Someone must bring some cheer to the others.

‘So I will not now ask why Emily was torn from us in the fulness of our attachment, rooted up in the prime of her own days, in the promise of her powers; why her existence now lies like a field of green corn trodden down, like a tree in full bearing struck at the root.  I will only say, sweet is rest after labour and calm after tempest, and repeat again and again that Emily knows that now.—Yours sincerely,

‘So I won’t ask why Emily was taken from us when we were so close, cut down in the prime of her life, just as she was about to reach her potential; why her life now feels like a field of green corn trampled, like a fruitful tree struck at its roots. I’ll simply say, it’s sweet to find rest after hard work and calm after a storm, and I’ll repeat that Emily understands that now.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘January 2nd, 1849.

‘January 2nd, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—Untoward circumstances come to me, I think, less painfully than pleasant ones would just now.  The lash of the Quarterly, however severely applied, cannot sting—as its praise probably would not elate me.  Currer Bell feels a sorrowful independence of reviews and reviewers; their approbation might indeed fall like an additional weight on his heart, but their censure has no bitterness for him.

Dear Sir,—Unfortunate events seem to affect me less painfully than more positive ones would right now. The harsh criticism from the Quarterly, no matter how severe, can’t hurt me—just as its praise wouldn't lift me either. Currer Bell endures a painful independence from reviews and reviewers; their approval might feel like an added burden, but their criticism doesn’t affect him.

‘My sister Anne sends the accompanying answer to the letter received through you the other day; will you be kind enough to post it?  She is not well yet, nor is papa, both are suffering under severe influenza colds.  My letters had better be brief at present—they cannot be cheerful.  I am, however, still sustained.  While looking with dismay on the desolation sickness and death have wrought in our home, I can combine with awe of God’s judgments a sense of gratitude for his mercies.  Yet life has become very void, and hope has proved a strange traitor; when I shall again be able to put confidence in her suggestions, I know not: she kept whispering that Emily would not, could not die, and where is she now?  Out of my reach, out of my world—torn from me.—Yours sincerely,

‘My sister Anne is sending the attached response to the letter we received from you recently; could you please mail it? She’s still unwell, and so is Dad; they’re both battling a bad flu. I think my letters should be brief for now—they can’t be cheerful. However, I’m still hanging in there. As I sadly look at the devastation that illness and death have brought to our home, I can feel both awe for God’s judgments and gratitude for His mercies. But still, life feels very empty, and hope has turned into a strange traitor; I’m not sure when I’ll be able to trust her again. Hope kept whispering that Emily wouldn’t, couldn’t die, and where is she now? Out of my reach, out of my world—taken from me.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘March 3rd, 1849.

‘March 3rd, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—Hitherto, I have always forgotten to acknowledge the receipt of the parcel from Cornhill.  It came at a time when I could not open it nor think of it; its contents are still a mystery.  I will not taste, till I can enjoy them.  I looked at it the other day.  It reminded me too sharply of the time when the first parcel arrived last October: Emily was then beginning to be ill—the opening of the parcel and examination of the books cheered her; their perusal occupied her for many a weary day.  The very evening before her last morning dawned I read to her one of Emerson’s essays.  I read on, till I found p. 177she was not listening—I thought to recommence next day.  Next day, the first glance at her face told me what would happen before night-fall.

Dear Sir,—So far, I’ve forgotten to acknowledge receiving the package from Cornhill. It arrived at a time when I couldn’t open it or even think about it; its contents are still a mystery to me. I won’t touch it until I can really enjoy it. I looked at it the other day, and it reminded me too much of when the first package arrived last October: Emily was starting to get sick then—the opening of the package and looking at the books lifted her spirits; reading them kept her occupied for many tiring days. The very evening before her last morning, I read her one of Emerson’s essays. I kept reading until I realized p. 177she wasn’t listening—I thought I’d try again the next day. The next day, just a glance at her face told me what would happen before nightfall.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘November 19th, 1849.

‘November 19th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I am very sorry to hear that Mr. Taylor’s illness has proved so much more serious than was anticipated, but I do hope he is now better.  That he should be quite well cannot be as yet expected, for I believe rheumatic fever is a complaint slow to leave the system it has invaded.

Dear Sir,—I’m really sorry to hear that Mr. Taylor’s illness has turned out to be much more serious than we thought, but I hope he’s feeling better now. It’s probably too soon to expect him to be completely well, since I understand rheumatic fever can take its time to clear from the body.

‘Now that I have almost formed the resolution of coming to London, the thought begins to present itself to me under a pleasant aspect.  At first it was sad; it recalled the last time I went and with whom, and to whom I came home, and in what dear companionship I again and again narrated all that had been seen, heard, and uttered in that visit.  Emily would never go into any sort of society herself, and whenever I went I could on my return communicate to her a pleasure that suited her, by giving the distinct faithful impression of each scene I had witnessed.  When pressed to go, she would sometimes say, “What is the use?  Charlotte will bring it all home to me.”  And indeed I delighted to please her thus.  My occupation is gone now.

‘Now that I’ve nearly decided to go to London, the idea is starting to seem appealing. At first, it made me feel sad; it reminded me of my last visit, who I was with, and who I came back to, and how I would often share everything I had seen, heard, and experienced during that trip. Emily would never go out socially herself, so whenever I went out, I could come back and share something she would enjoy, giving her a clear and honest picture of each scene I had experienced. When she was encouraged to join me, she would sometimes say, “What’s the point? Charlotte will tell me everything.” And honestly, I loved to make her happy that way. Now that opportunity is gone.

‘I shall come to be lectured.  I perceive you are ready with animadversion; you are not at all well satisfied on some points, so I will open my ears to hear, nor will I close my heart against conviction; but I forewarn you, I have my own doctrines, not acquired, but innate, some that I fear cannot be rooted up without tearing away all the soil from which they spring, and leaving only unproductive rock for new seed.

‘I’m ready to be lectured. I can tell you have some criticisms; you’re not pleased about a few things, so I’ll listen, and I’m open to being convinced. But I warn you, I have my own beliefs, which weren’t learned but are part of me. Some of these, I’m afraid, can’t be deeply changed without stripping away everything that supports them, leaving only barren rock for new ideas to grow.’

‘I have read the Caxtons, I have looked at Fanny Hervey.  I think I will not write what I think of either—should I see you I will speak it.

‘I have read the Caxtons, and I’ve checked out Fanny Hervey. I think I’ll hold off on sharing my thoughts about either—if I see you, I’ll tell you then.

‘Take a hundred, take a thousand of such works and weigh them in the balance against a page of Thackeray.  I hope Mr. Thackeray is recovered.

‘Take a hundred, take a thousand such works and weigh them against a page of Thackeray. I hope Mr. Thackeray is feeling better.

‘The Sun, the Morning Herald, and the Critic came this p. 178morning.  None of them express disappointment from Shirley, or on the whole compare her disadvantageously with Jane.  It strikes me that those worthies—the Athenæum, Spectator, Economist, made haste to be first with their notices that they might give the tone; if so, their manœuvre has not yet quite succeeded.

‘The Sun, the Morning Herald, and the Critic came this p. 178morning. None of them express any disappointment with Shirley, nor do they really compare her unfavorably to Jane. It seems to me that those important publications—the Athenæum, Spectator, Economist, rushed to be first with their reviews to set the tone; if that's the case, their strategy hasn't fully worked yet.

‘The Critic, our old friend, is a friend still.  Why does the pulse of pain beat in every pleasure?  Ellis and Acton Bell are referred to, and where are they?  I will not repine.  Faith whispers they are not in those graves to which imagination turns—the feeling, thinking, the inspired natures are beyond earth, in a region more glorious.  I believe them blessed.  I think, I will think, my loss has been their gain.  Does it weary you that I refer to them?  If so, forgive me.—Yours sincerely,

‘The Critic, our old friend, is still a friend. Why does pain linger in every joy? Ellis and Acton Bell are mentioned, but where are they? I won’t complain. Faith tells me they aren’t in those graves our imaginations lead us to—the feeling, thinking, and inspired souls are beyond this world, in a more glorious realm. I believe they are blessed. I think, I will think, my loss has been their gain. Does it bore you that I bring them up? If it does, I apologize.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Before closing this I glanced over the letter inclosed under your cover.  Did you read it?  It is from a lady, not quite an old maid, but nearly one, she says; no signature or date; a queer, but good-natured production, it made me half cry, half laugh.  I am sure Shirley has been exciting enough for her, and too exciting.  I cannot well reply to the letter since it bears no address, and I am glad—I should not know what to say.  She is not sure whether I am a gentleman or not, but I fancy she thinks so.  Have you any idea who she is?  If I were a gentleman and like my heroes, she suspects she should fall in love with me.  She had better not.  It would be a pity to cause such a waste of sensibility.  You and Mr. Smith would not let me announce myself as a single gentleman of mature age in my preface, but if you had permitted it, a great many elderly spinsters would have been pleased.’

‘Before I finished this, I took a look at the letter included with your note. Did you read it? It’s from a woman who’s not quite an old maid but is almost there, as she says; it has no signature or date. It’s an odd yet friendly piece, and it made me feel both sad and amused. I bet Shirley has created enough excitement for her, perhaps too much. I can’t really respond to the letter since there’s no address, and honestly, I wouldn’t know what to say. She’s not sure if I’m a gentleman or not, but I think she believes I am. Do you have any idea who she might be? If I were a gentleman like my heroes, she suspects she might fall in love with me. She’d better not. It would be such a shame to waste that kind of feeling. You and Mr. Smith wouldn’t let me introduce myself as a single gentleman of mature age in my preface, but if you had, many older unmarried women would have been thrilled.’

‘So very little is known of Emily Brontë,’ she writes, ‘that every little detail awakens an interest.  Her extreme reserve seemed impenetrable, yet she was intensely lovable; she invited p. 179confidence in her moral power.  Few people have the gift of looking and smiling as she could look and smile.  One of her rare expressive looks was something to remember through life, there was such a depth of soul and feeling, and yet a shyness of revealing herself—a strength of self-containment seen in no other.  She was in the strictest sense a law unto herself, and a heroine in keeping to her law.  She and gentle Anne were to be seen twined together as united statues of power and humility.  They were to be seen with their arms lacing each other in their younger days whenever their occupations permitted their union.  On the top of a moor or in a deep glen Emily was a child in spirit for glee and enjoyment; or when thrown entirely on her own resources to do a kindness, she could be vivacious in conversation and enjoy giving pleasure.  A spell of mischief also lurked in her on occasions when out on the moors.  She enjoyed leading Charlotte where she would not dare to go of her own free-will.  Charlotte had a mortal dread of unknown animals, and it was Emily’s pleasure to lead her into close vicinity, and then to tell her of how and of what she had done, laughing at her horror with great amusement.  If Emily wanted a book she might have left in the sitting-room she would dart in again without looking at any one, especially if any guest were present.  Among the curates, Mr. Weightman was her only exception for any conventional courtesy.  The ability with which she took up music was amazing; the style, the touch, and the expression was that of a professor absorbed heart and soul in his theme.  The two dogs, Keeper and Flossy, were always in quiet waiting by the side of Emily and Anne during their breakfast of Scotch oatmeal and milk, and always had a share handed down to them at the close of the meal.  Poor old Keeper, Emily’s faithful friend and worshipper, seemed to understand her like a human being.  One evening, when the four friends were sitting closely round the fire in the sitting-room, Keeper forced himself in between Charlotte and Emily and mounted himself on Emily’s lap; finding the space too limited for his comfort he pressed himself forward on to the guest’s knees, making himself quite comfortable.  Emily’s p. 180heart was won by the unresisting endurance of the visitor, little guessing that she herself, being in close contact, was the inspiring cause of submission to Keeper’s preference.  Sometimes Emily would delight in showing off Keeper—make him frantic in action, and roar with the voice of a lion.  It was a terrifying exhibition within the walls of an ordinary sitting-room.  Keeper was a solemn mourner at Emily’s funeral and never recovered his cheerfulness.’

“So little is known about Emily Brontë,” she writes, “that every little detail captures attention. Her intense reserve felt impenetrable, yet she was incredibly lovable; she inspired confidence in her moral strength. Few people could look and smile like she did. One of her rare expressive looks was unforgettable; it revealed such depth of soul and emotion, combined with a shyness about opening up—an extraordinary strength of self-containment unlike anyone else. She was truly a law unto herself and a heroine for sticking to her own rules. She and gentle Anne were often seen intertwined like united symbols of power and humility. In their younger days, whenever they had the chance, they could be found with their arms around each other. On the top of a moor or in a deep glen, Emily was a child at heart, full of joy and enjoyment; yet when left entirely to her own devices to do something kind, she could be lively in conversation and loved to bring happiness to others. There was also a hint of mischief in her during her outings on the moors. She liked to lead Charlotte to places she would never dare to go alone. Charlotte had a deep fear of unknown animals, and Emily took pleasure in getting her close, then laughing at her fear while recounting what she had done. If Emily needed a book she might have left in the sitting room, she would rush back in without acknowledging anyone, especially if there were guests. Among the curates, Mr. Weightman was the only one she showed any conventional courtesy to. Her talent for music was astonishing; her style, touch, and expression were those of a professor completely absorbed in his craft. The two dogs, Keeper and Flossy, always sat quietly beside Emily and Anne during their breakfast of Scotch oatmeal and milk, ensuring they got a share at the end of the meal. Poor old Keeper, Emily’s loyal friend and admirer, seemed to understand her like a person. One evening, when the four friends were gathered closely around the fire in the sitting room, Keeper squeezed in between Charlotte and Emily and climbed into Emily’s lap; realizing it was too cramped for comfort, he shifted to the guest's lap, making himself quite at home. Emily was won over by the guest’s willingness to endure, unaware that her closeness was the very reason for Keeper’s preference. Sometimes Emily would enjoy showing off Keeper—getting him all worked up, roaring like a lion. It was a frightening display within the walls of an ordinary sitting room. Keeper mourned solemnly at Emily’s funeral and never regained his cheerfulness.”

p. 181CHAPTER VII: ANNE BRONTË

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, October 4th, 1847.

‘Haworth, October 4th, 1847.

‘My dear Miss Nussey,—Many thanks to you for your unexpected and welcome epistle.  Charlotte is well, and meditates writing to you.  Happily for all parties the east wind no longer prevails.  During its continuance she complained of its influence as usual.  I too suffered from it in some degree, as I always do, more or less; but this time, it brought me no reinforcement of colds and coughs, which is what I dread the most.  Emily considers it a very uninteresting wind, but it does not affect her nervous system.  Charlotte p. 183agrees with me in thinking the --- [183a] a very provoking affair.  You are quite mistaken about her parasol; she affirms she brought it back, and I can bear witness to the fact, having seen it yesterday in her possession.  As for my book, I have no wish to see it again till I see you along with it, and then it will be welcome enough for the sake of the bearer.  We are all here much as you left us.  I have no news to tell you, except that Mr. Nicholls begged a holiday and went to Ireland three or four weeks ago, and is not expected back till Saturday; but that, I dare say, is no news at all.  We were all and severally pleased and gratified for your kind and judiciously selected presents, from papa down to Tabby, or down to myself, perhaps I ought rather to say.  The crab-cheese is excellent, and likely to be very useful, but I don’t intend to need it.  It is not choice but necessity has induced me to choose such a tiny sheet of paper for my letter, having none more suitable at hand; but perhaps it will contain as much as you need wish to read, and I to write, for I find I have nothing more to say, except that your little Tabby must be a charming little creature.  That is all, for as Charlotte is writing, or about to write to you herself, I need not send any messages from her.  Therefore accept my best love.  I must not omit the Major’s [183b] compliments.  And—Believe me to be your affectionate friend,

Dear Miss Nussey,—Thank you so much for your unexpected and welcome letter. Charlotte is doing well and is thinking about writing to you. Fortunately, the east wind has stopped blowing now. While it was, she complained about it as usual. I also felt its effects, as I always do to some extent, but this time it didn’t give me any extra colds or coughs, which I dread most. Emily finds it a dull wind, but it doesn’t affect her nerves. Charlotte p. 183agrees with me that the --- __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ is quite annoying. You are completely mistaken about her parasol; she insists she brought it back, and I can confirm that I saw it in her possession yesterday. As for my book, I don’t want to see it again until I see you along with it, and then it will be welcome because of who brings it. We are all pretty much as you left us. I don’t have any news for you, except that Mr. Nicholls requested a holiday and went to Ireland three or four weeks ago, and isn’t expected back until Saturday; but that’s probably not news at all. We were all very pleased and grateful for your thoughtful gifts, from my dad down to Tabby, or perhaps I should say from myself. The crab-cheese is excellent and likely to be very useful, but I don’t plan to need it. I didn’t choose such a small piece of paper for my letter out of preference, but necessity, since I don’t have anything more suitable at hand; however, it may contain just as much as you’d like to read and I’d like to write, because I find I have nothing more to say, except that your little Tabby must be a delightful little creature. That’s all, since Charlotte is writing, or about to write, to you herself, so I don’t need to send any messages from her. Therefore, please accept my best wishes. I must also mention the Major’s __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ compliments. And—Believe me to be your affectionate friend,

‘Anne Brontë.’

‘Anne Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 4th, 1848.

‘Haworth, January 4th, 1848.

‘My dear Miss Nussey,—I am not going to give you a “nice long letter”—on the contrary, I mean to content myself with a shabby little note, to be ingulfed in a letter of Charlotte’s, which will, of course, be infinitely more acceptable to you than any production of mine, though I do not question your friendly regard for me, or the indulgent welcome you would accord to a missive of mine, even without a more agreeable companion to p. 184back it; but you must know there is a lamentable deficiency in my organ of language, which makes me almost as bad a hand at writing as talking, unless I have something particular to say.  I have now, however, to thank you and your friend for your kind letter and her pretty watch-guards, which I am sure we shall all of us value the more for being the work of her own hands.  You do not tell us how you bear the present unfavourable weather.  We are all cut up by this cruel east wind.  Most of us, i.e. Charlotte, Emily, and I have had the influenza, or a bad cold instead, twice over within the space of a few weeks.  Papa has had it once.  Tabby has escaped it altogether.  I have no news to tell you, for we have been nowhere, seen no one, and done nothing (to speak of) since you were here—and yet we contrive to be busy from morning till night.  Flossy is fatter than ever, but still active enough to relish a sheep-hunt.  I hope you and your circle have been more fortunate in the matter of colds than we have.

'My dear Miss Nussey,—I'm not going to write you a “nice long letter”—actually, I’m just going to send you a brief note, which will get lost in a letter from Charlotte’s, which of course will be way more enjoyable for you than anything I could write. Still, I appreciate your friendship and know you’d welcome any letter from me, even without a more interesting one to accompany it; but you should know I have a serious weakness in my language skills, which makes me almost as bad at writing as I am at talking, unless I have something specific to say. However, I do want to thank you and your friend for your kind letter and her lovely watch-guards, which I know we will all appreciate even more since she made them herself. You haven’t mentioned how you are handling the current unpleasant weather. We’re all struggling with this nasty east wind. Most of us, meaning Charlotte, Emily, and I, have had the flu or a bad cold twice in just a few weeks. Papa has had it once. Tabby has completely avoided it. I don’t have any news to share, since we haven’t gone anywhere, seen anyone, or done much of anything since you visited—and yet we somehow manage to stay busy from morning till night. Flossy is rounder than ever, but still energetic enough to enjoy a sheep-chase. I hope you and your group have been luckier with colds than we have.'

‘With kind regards to all,—I remain, dear Miss Nussey, yours ever affectionately,

‘With warm regards to everyone,—I remain, dear Miss Nussey, yours always affectionately,

‘Anne Brontë.’

‘Anne Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘January 18th, 1849.

‘January 18th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—In sitting down to write to you I feel as if I were doing a wrong and a selfish thing.  I believe I ought to discontinue my correspondence with you till times change, and the tide of calamity which of late days has set so strongly in against us takes a turn.  But the fact is, sometimes I feel it absolutely necessary to unburden my mind.  To papa I must only speak cheeringly, to Anne only encouragingly—to you I may give some hint of the dreary truth.

‘Dear Sir,—As I sit down to write to you, I feel like I'm being selfish. I think I should pause my correspondence until things improve and the wave of misfortune that’s recently affected us changes course. Yet, I find that it's important to share my thoughts. I can only convey positivity to Dad and offer support to Anne, but with you, I can hint at the grim reality.

‘Anne and I sit alone and in seclusion as you fancy us, but we do not study.  Anne cannot study now, she can scarcely read; she occupies Emily’s chair; she does not get well.  A week ago we sent for a medical man of skill and experience from Leeds to see her.  He examined her with the stethoscope.  His report I forbear to dwell on for the present—even skilful physicians have often been mistaken in their conjectures.

‘Anne and I are by ourselves, isolated as one might expect, but we’re not studying. Anne can’t focus on study right now; she can hardly read. She’s sitting in Emily’s chair, and she’s not improving. A week ago, we called for a skilled doctor from Leeds to examine her. He checked her with a stethoscope. I won’t elaborate on his findings right now—experienced doctors can often be mistaken.

‘My first impulse was to hasten her away to a warmer climate, but this was forbidden: she must not travel; she is not to stir from the house this winter; the temperature of her room is to be kept constantly equal.

‘I initially thought about taking her to a warmer place, but that’s not an option; she can’t travel; she shouldn’t leave the house this winter; and the temperature in her room must remain consistent.

‘Had leave been given to try change of air and scene, I should hardly have known how to act.  I could not possibly leave papa; and when I mentioned his accompanying us, the bare thought distressed him too much to be dwelt upon.  Papa p. 186is now upwards of seventy years of age; his habits for nearly thirty years have been those of absolute retirement; any change in them is most repugnant to him, and probably could not, at this time especially when the hand of God is so heavy upon his old age, be ventured upon without danger.

‘Had I been able to try a different environment, honestly, I wouldn’t have known what to do. I couldn’t possibly leave Dad, and when I suggested he come with us, the mere thought distressed him too much. Dad p. 186is over seventy now; he’s been in complete isolation for almost thirty years; any change can really upset him, particularly now, with the weight of old age pressing down.

‘When we lost Emily I thought we had drained the very dregs of our cup of trial, but now when I hear Anne cough as Emily coughed, I tremble lest there should be exquisite bitterness yet to taste.  However, I must not look forwards, nor must I look backwards.  Too often I feel like one crossing an abyss on a narrow plank—a glance round might quite unnerve.

‘After losing Emily, I thought we had faced the worst, but now, hearing Anne cough like Emily did, I fear there may be more painful times ahead. However, I must not dwell on the future or the past. Too often I feel like someone crossing a vast chasm on a rickety board—a quick look around might completely unnerve me.

‘So circumstanced, my dear sir, what claim have I on your friendship, what right to the comfort of your letters?  My literary character is effaced for the time, and it is by that only you know me.  Care of papa and Anne is necessarily my chief present object in life, to the exclusion of all that could give me interest with my publishers or their connections.  Should Anne get better, I think I could rally and become Currer Bell once more, but if otherwise, I look no farther: sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

‘Given these circumstances, dear sir, what right do I have to your friendship or the comfort of your letters? My literary reputation has faded for now, and that's the only way you know me. Caring for Dad and Anne is my primary focus, leaving no space for anything that might engage me with my publishers or their networks. If Anne recovers, I believe I could return as Currer Bell, but if not, I can't think beyond that: each day has its own challenges.'

‘Anne is very patient in her illness, as patient as Emily was unflinching.  I recall one sister and look at the other with a sort of reverence as well as affection—under the test of suffering neither has faltered.

‘Anne is very patient in her illness, just like Emily was steadfast. I remember one sister and look at the other with a mixture of respect and love—neither has faltered under the strain of suffering.

‘All the days of this winter have gone by darkly and heavily like a funeral train.  Since September, sickness has not quitted the house.  It is strange it did not use to be so, but I suspect now all this has been coming on for years.  Unused, any of us, to the possession of robust health, we have not noticed the gradual approaches of decay; we did not know its symptoms: the little cough, the small appetite, the tendency to take cold at every variation of atmosphere have been regarded as things of course.  I see them in another light now.

‘All the days of this winter have passed dark and heavy like a funeral. Since September, sickness has enveloped our home. It’s odd; it didn’t use to be like this, but I suspect it has been building for years. None of us are accustomed to being healthy, so we’ve overlooked the gradual signs of decline; we didn’t notice its symptoms: the slight cough, the decreased appetite, the tendency to catch a cold with every change in weather, which we considered normal. I see them differently now.

‘If you answer this, write to me as you would to a person in an average state of tranquillity and happiness.  I want to keep myself as firm and calm as I can.  While papa and Anne want me, I hope, I pray, never to fail them.  Were I to see you I should p. 187endeavour to converse on ordinary topics, and I should wish to write on the same—besides, it will be less harassing to yourself to address me as usual.

‘If you reply to this, please write to me as if you’re communicating with someone who is generally calm and happy. I want to maintain a steady and peaceful demeanor. While Dad and Anne still need me, I hope, I pray that I never let them down. If I were to see you, I would attempt to converse about ordinary topics, and I would like to write about the same—besides, it would be less stressful for you to address me as usual.’

‘May God long preserve to you the domestic treasures you value; and when bereavement at last comes, may He give you strength to bear it.—Yours sincerely,

‘May God keep the family treasures you cherish safe for a long time; and when loss ultimately arrives, may He grant you the strength to handle it.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘February 1st, 1849.

‘February 1st, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—Anne seems so tranquil this morning, so free from pain and fever, and looks and speaks so like herself in health, that I too feel relieved, and I take advantage of the respite to write to you, hoping that my letter may reflect something of the comparative peace I feel.

Dear Sir,—Anne seems so calm this morning, free from pain and fever, and she looks and speaks so much like her normal self that I also feel relieved. I'm taking this opportunity to write to you, hoping that my letter reflects some of the peace I’m feeling.

‘Whether my hopes are quite fallacious or not, I do not know; but sometimes I fancy that the remedies prescribed by Mr. Teale, and approved—as I was glad to learn—by Dr. Forbes, are working a good result.  Consumption, I am aware, is a flattering malady, but certainly Anne’s illness has of late assumed a less alarming character than it had in the beginning: the hectic is allayed; the cough gives a more frequent reprieve.  Could I but believe she would live two years—a year longer, I should be thankful: I dreaded the terrors of the swift messenger which snatched Emily from us, as it seemed, in a few days.

‘Whether my hopes are misplaced or not, I can’t say for sure; but sometimes I think the treatments suggested by Mr. Teale and confirmed—much to my happiness—by Dr. Forbes, are yielding positive results. I know consumption is a fickle disease, but Anne’s condition has undeniably become less concerning than it was initially: the fever has lessened; the cough is less persistent. If only I could believe she would live for another two years—just one more year, I would be grateful: I fear the horrific speed with which Emily was taken from us, seemingly in just a few days.’

‘The parcel came yesterday.  You and Mr. Smith do nothing by halves.  Neither of you care for being thanked, so I will keep my gratitude in my own mind.  The choice of books is perfect.  Papa is at this moment reading Macaulay’s History, which he had wished to see.  Anne is engaged with one of Frederika Bremer’s tales.

‘The package arrived yesterday. You and Mr. Smith don’t do things halfway. Neither of you seeks acknowledgment, so I’ll keep my gratitude to myself. The selection of books is perfect. Dad is currently engrossed in Macaulay’s History, which he was eager to read. Anne is captivated by one of Frederika Bremer’s stories.

‘I wish I could send a parcel in return; I had hoped to have had one by this time ready to despatch.  When I saw you and Mr. Smith in London, I little thought of all that was to come between July and Spring: how my thoughts were to be caught away from imagination, enlisted and absorbed in realities the most cruel.

‘I wish I could send a package back; I had hoped to have one ready by now. When I saw you and Mr. Smith in London, I never imagined everything that would unfold between July and Spring: how my thoughts would be pulled from fantasy and consumed by harsh realities.’

‘I will tell you what I want to do; it is to show you the first p. 188volume of my MS., which I have copied.  In reading Mary Barton (a clever though painful tale) I was a little dismayed to find myself in some measure anticipated both in subject and incident.  I should like to have your opinion on this point, and to know whether the resemblance appears as considerable to a stranger as it does to myself.  I should wish also to have the benefit of such general strictures and advice as you choose to give.  Shall I therefore send the MS. when I return the first batch of books?

‘I want to share something with you; it's the first p. 188volume of my manuscript, which I’ve copied. When I read Mary Barton (a thought-provoking but difficult story), I was unsettled to realize that I had been somewhat anticipated in both theme and events. I’d like to get your thoughts on this and see if the similarities stand out to you as much as they do to me. I’d also appreciate any general feedback and advice you’d be willing to offer. Should I send the manuscript along with the return of the first group of books?

‘But remember, if I show it to you it is on two conditions: the first, that you give me a faithful opinion—I do not promise to be swayed by it, but I should like to have it; the second, that you show it and speak of it to none but Mr. Smith.  I have always a great horror of premature announcements—they may do harm and can never do good.  Mr. Smith must be so kind as not to mention it yet in his quarterly circulars.  All human affairs are so uncertain, and my position especially is at present so peculiar, that I cannot count on the time, and would rather that no allusion should be made to a work of which great part is yet to create.

‘But understand that if I share it with you, it comes with two conditions: firstly, that you give me your honest opinion—I don’t promise to be influenced by it, but I'd like to hear it; secondly, that you discuss it with no one except Mr. Smith. I’ve always disliked premature announcements—they can be harmful and never beneficial. Mr. Smith must kindly refrain from mentioning it in his quarterly newsletters. All human matters are so unpredictable, and my situation in particular is quite unusual right now, so I can’t depend on timing, and I’d prefer that no references be made to a work that still has a significant portion yet to be developed.

‘There are two volumes in the first parcel which, having seen, I cannot bring myself to part with, and must beg Mr. Smith’s permission to retain: Mr. Thackeray’s Journey from Cornhill, etc. and The testimony to the Truth.  That last is indeed a book after my own heart.  I do like the mind it discloses—it is of a fine and high order.  Alexander Harris may be a clown by birth, but he is a nobleman by nature.  When I could read no other book, I read his and derived comfort from it.  No matter whether or not I can agree in all his views, it is the principles, the feelings, the heart of the man I admire.

‘There are two volumes in the first parcel that, having seen them, I just can’t part with, and I must ask Mr. Smith for permission to keep: Mr. Thackeray’s Journey from Cornhill, etc. and The Testimony to the Truth. That last one truly resonates with me. I do appreciate the mindset it reveals—it’s of a fine and high caliber. Alexander Harris may have been a simpleton by birth, but he is a nobleman at heart. When I couldn’t read anything else, I turned to his book and found comfort in it. It doesn’t matter if I agree with all his opinions; it’s the principles, the emotions, and the essence of the man that I admire.

‘Write soon and tell me whether you think it advisable that I should send the MS.—Yours sincerely,

‘Write soon and let me know if you think I should send the manuscript. —Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, February 4th, 1849.

‘Haworth, February 4th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I send the parcel up without delay, according to your request.  The manuscript has all its errors upon it, not p. 189having been read through since copying.  I have kept Madeline, along with the two other books I mentioned; I shall consider it the gift of Miss Kavanagh, and shall value it both for its literary excellence and for the modest merit of the giver.  We already possess Tennyson’s Poems and Our Street.  Emerson’s Essays I read with much interest, and often with admiration, but they are of mixed gold and clay—deep and invigorating truth, dreary and depressing fallacy seem to me combined therein.  In George Borrow’s works I found a wild fascination, a vivid graphic power of description, a fresh originality, an athletic simplicity (so to speak), which give them a stamp of their own.  After reading his Bible in Spain I felt as if I had actually travelled at his side, and seen the “wild Sil” rush from its mountain cradle; wandered in the hilly wilderness of the Sierras; encountered and conversed with Manehegan, Castillian, Andalusian, Arragonese, and, above all, with the savage Gitanos.

Dear Sir,—I am sending the package right away, as you requested. The manuscript has all its mistakes on it since it hasn’t been checked since it was copied. I have kept Madeline, along with the other two books I mentioned; I’ll consider it a gift from Miss Kavanagh and will appreciate it for its literary value and the modest merits of the giver. We already have Tennyson’s Poems and Our Street. I read Emerson’s Essays with great interest and often admiration, but they blend profound, invigorating truths with some dreary and depressing fallacies. In George Borrow’s works, I found a wild charm, a vivid ability to describe, a fresh originality, and a sort of vigorous simplicity that gives them a distinct quality. After reading his Bible in Spain, I felt like I had truly traveled alongside him, witnessing the "wild Sil" rushing from its mountain cradle; wandering through the hilly wilderness of the Sierras; meeting and conversing with Manehegan, Castilian, Andalusian, Aragonese, and especially with the fierce Gitanos.

‘Your mention of Mr. Taylor suggests to me that possibly you and Mr. Smith might wish him to share the little secret of the MS.—that exclusion might seem invidious, that it might make your mutual evening chat less pleasant.  If so, admit him to the confidence by all means.  He is attached to the firm, and will no doubt keep its secrets.  I shall be glad of another censor, and if a severe one, so much the better, provided he is also just.  I court the keenest criticism.  Far rather would I never publish more, than publish anything inferior to my first effort.  Be honest, therefore, all three of you.  If you think this book promises less favourably than Jane Eyre, say so; it is but trying again, i.e., if life and health be spared.

‘Your mention of Mr. Taylor makes me consider that you and Mr. Smith might want to include him in the little secret about the manuscript. Excluding him could seem unfair and might dampen your evening discussions. If that’s the case, feel free to bring him into the loop. He’s part of the firm and will certainly keep its secrets. I would appreciate having another reviewer, and if he’s tough, that’s even better—as long as he’s fair too. I welcome the sharpest feedback. I would rather not publish again than release something that’s not up to the standard of my first work. So be honest, all three of you. If you think this book is less promising than Jane Eyre, let me know; it’s just another attempt, i.e. if life and health allow it.’

‘Anne continues a little better—the mild weather suits her.  At times I hear the renewal of hope’s whisper, but I dare not listen too fondly; she deceived me cruelly before.  A sudden change to cold would be the test.  I dread such change, but must not anticipate.  Spring lies before us, and then summer—surely we may hope a little!

‘Anne is doing a bit better—the mild weather is good for her. Sometimes I sense hope’s whisper, but I can’t let myself listen too closely; she’s tricked me badly in the past. A sudden shift to cold weather would be the real test. I’m afraid of such a change, but I mustn’t dwell on it. Spring is ahead of us, and then summer—surely we can hope a little!

‘Anne expresses a wish to see the notices of the poems. You had better, therefore, send them.  We shall expect to find painful allusions to one now above blame and beyond praise; but these p. 190must be borne.  For ourselves, we are almost indifferent to censure.  I read the Quarterly without a pang, except that I thought there were some sentences disgraceful to the critic.  He seems anxious to let it be understood that he is a person well acquainted with the habits of the upper classes.  Be this as it may, I am afraid he is no gentleman; and moreover, that no training could make him such. [190]  Many a poor man, born and bred to labour, would disdain that reviewer’s cast of feeling.—Yours sincerely,

‘Anne wants to see the notices of the poems. You should send them. We expect to find painful references to someone who is now beyond blame and without praise; but we must endure them. For us, we are almost indifferent to criticism. I read the Quarterly without any discomfort, except that I thought some of the sentences were shameful for the critic. He seems eager to convey that he knows the habits of the upper classes well. Regardless, I’m afraid he is no gentleman; and moreover, I doubt any amount of training could change that. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Many decent working-class people would look down on that reviewer’s attitude.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 2nd, 1849.

‘March 2nd, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—My sister still continues better: she has less languor and weakness; her spirits are improved.  This change gives cause, I think, both for gratitude and hope.

Dear Sir,—My sister is still improving: she has less fatigue and weakness; her spirits have lifted. This change gives us reasons to be both thankful and hopeful.

‘I am glad that you and Mr. Smith like the commencement of my present work.  I wish it were more than a commencement; for how it will be reunited after the long break, or how it can gather force of flow when the current has been checked or rather drawn off so long, I know not.

‘I’m pleased that you and Mr. Smith appreciate the start of my current work. I wish it were more than a start; because I don't know how it will reconnect after such a long pause, or how it can regain momentum again when the flow has been stopped or diverted for so long.

‘I sincerely thank you both for the candid expression of your objections.  What you say with reference to the first chapter shall be duly weighed.  At present I feel reluctant to withdraw it, because, as I formerly said of the Lowood part of Jane Eyre, it is true.  The curates and their ongoings are merely photographed from the life.  I should like you to explain to me more fully the ground of your objections.  Is it because you think this chapter will render the work liable to severe handling by the press?  Is it because knowing as you now do the identity of “Currer Bell,” this scene strikes you as unfeminine?  Is it because it is intrinsically defective and inferior?  I am afraid the two first reasons would not weigh with me—the last would.

‘I truly value both of you for openly sharing your concerns. Your comments about the first chapter will be taken into serious consideration. Right now, I’m hesitant to remove it because, as I mentioned about the Lowood section of Jane Eyre, it's accurate. The curates and their actions are just a mirror of real life. I would like you to detail your objections. Is it because you think this chapter will make the work vulnerable to harsh criticism from the press? Is it because, knowing who “Currer Bell” is, you find this scene uncharacteristic for a woman? Or do you believe it is fundamentally flawed and inferior? I’m afraid the first two reasons wouldn’t concern me—the last one would.

‘Anne and I thought it very kind in you to preserve all the notices of the Poems so carefully for us.  Some of them, as you said, were well worth reading.  We were glad to find that our old p. 191friend the Critic has again a kind word for us.  I was struck with one curious fact, viz., that four of the notices are fac-similes of each other.  How does this happen?  I suppose they copy.’

‘Anne and I truly appreciate you keeping all the notices of the Poems so meticulously for us. Some of them, as you mentioned, were certainly worth reading. We were pleased to see that our old p. 191friend the Critic has once again said something nice about us. I noticed something curious: four of the notices are identical copies of each other. How does that happen? I suppose they just copy one another.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 8th, 1849.

‘March 8th, 1849.

‘Dear Ellen,—Anne’s state has apparently varied very little during the last fortnight or three weeks.  I wish I could say she gains either flesh, strength, or appetite; but there is no progress on these points, nor I hope, as far as regards the two last at least, any falling off; she is piteously thin.  Her cough, and the pain in her side continue the same.

‘Dear Ellen,—Anne's condition has seemingly changed very little over the past two weeks. I wish I could say she's gaining weight or strength or appetite; but there’s been no improvement in those areas, nor, I hope, at least in the last two, any decline; she is heartbreakingly thin. Her cough and the pain in her side remain unchanged.

‘I write these few lines that you may not think my continued silence strange; anything like frequent correspondence I cannot keep up, and you must excuse me.  I trust you and all at Brookroyd are happy and well.  Give my love to your mother and all the rest, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I’m writing this brief note so you don’t think my silence is strange; I can’t maintain regular correspondence, and I hope you understand. I trust you and everyone at Brookroyd are doing well. Please send my love to your mother and everyone else, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 11th, 1849.

‘March 11th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—My sister has been something worse since I wrote last.  We have had nearly a week of frost, and the change has tried her, as I feared it would do, though not so severely as former experience had led me to apprehend.  I am thankful to say she is now again a little better.  Her state of mind is usually placid, and her chief sufferings consist in the harassing cough and a sense of languor.

My dear Sir,—My sister has degraded somewhat since my last letter. We’ve had nearly a week of frost, and the change has affected her, as I was afraid it would, though not as badly as I had dreaded based on past experiences. I’m thankful to say she feels a bit better now. Her state of mind is usually calm, and her main struggles are the persistent cough and a sense of fatigue.

‘I ought to have acknowledged the safe arrival of the parcel before now, but I put it off from day to day, fearing I should write a sorrowful letter.  A similar apprehension induces me to abridge this note.

‘I should have acknowledged the safe arrival of the package by now, but I've procrastinated, worried that I would end up writing a sad letter. A similar concern makes me keep this note brief.

‘Believe me, whether in happiness or the contrary, yours sincerely,

‘Believe me, whether in good times or bad, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

‘Haworth, March 15th, 1849.

‘Haworth, March 15th, 1849.

‘Dear Lætitia,—I have not quite forgotten you through the p. 192winter, but I have remembered you only like some pleasant waking idea struggling through a dreadful dream.  You say my last letter was dated September 14th.  You ask how I have passed the time since.  What has happened to me?  Why have I been silent?

Dear Lætitia,—I haven’t entirely forgotten you this winter, but I’ve thought of you only like a pleasant thought trying to break through a terrible dream. You noted that my last letter was dated September 14th. You want to know how I've spent my time since then. What has been going on with me? Why have I been so quiet?

‘It is soon told.

‘It can be told quickly.

‘On the 24th of September my only brother, after being long in weak health, and latterly consumptive—though we were far from apprehending immediate danger—died, quite suddenly as it seemed to us.  He had been out two days before.  The shock was great.  Ere he could be interred I fell ill.  A low nervous fever left me very weak.  As I was slowly recovering, my sister Emily, whom you knew, was seized with inflammation of the lungs; suppuration took place; two agonising months of hopes and fears followed, and on the 19th of December she died.

‘On September 24th, my only brother, who had been in poor health for a long time and was recently battling tuberculosis—though we didn’t anticipate any immediate threat—died unexpectedly, or at least that’s how it felt to us. He had been out just two days earlier. The shock was immense. Before we could bury him, I fell ill. A low nervous fever left me very weak. As I was gradually recuperating, my sister Emily, whom you knew, developed pneumonia; it led to complications; two agonizing months of hope and fear followed, and on December 19th, she died.

‘She was scarcely cold in her grave when Anne, my youngest and last sister, who has been delicate all her life, exhibited symptoms that struck us with acute alarm.  We sent for the first advice that could be procured.  She was examined with the stethoscope, and the dreadful fact was announced that her lungs too were affected, and that tubercular consumption had already made considerable progress.  A system of treatment was prescribed, which has since been ratified by the opinion of Dr. Forbes, whom your papa will, I dare say, know.  I hope it has somewhat delayed disease.  She is now a patient invalid, and I am her nurse.  God has hitherto supported me in some sort through all these bitter calamities, and my father, I am thankful to say, has been wonderfully sustained; but there have been hours, days, weeks of inexpressible anguish to undergo, and the cloud of impending distress still lowers dark and sullen above us.  I cannot write much.  I can only pray Providence to preserve you and yours from such affliction as He has seen good to accumulate on me and mine.

‘She was hardly cold in her grave when Anne, my youngest and last sister, who has always been delicate, showed symptoms that greatly alarmed us. We sought the best advice available. She was examined with a stethoscope, revealing that her lungs were also affected, and that tubercular consumption had already advanced considerably. A treatment plan was suggested, which has since been endorsed by Dr. Forbes, who your father will surely recognize. I hope it has somewhat delayed the disease. She is now a sickly patient, and I am her caregiver. God has so far supported me through all these painful trials, and I’m grateful to report my father has remained remarkably strong; but there have been hours, days, weeks of unimaginable suffering to endure, and the shadow of looming distress still hangs heavily over us. I can't write much. I can only pray for Providence to keep you and yours safe from the afflictions He has imposed on me and my family.

‘With best regards to your dear mamma and all your circle,—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘With warm regards to your dear mom and everyone in your circle,—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 193TO MISS WOOLER

p. 193TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, March 24th, 1849.

‘Haworth, March 24th, 1849.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I have delayed answering your letter in the faint hope that I might be able to reply favourably to your inquiries after my sister’s health.  This, however, is not permitted me to do.  Her decline is gradual and fluctuating, but its nature is not doubtful.  The symptoms of cough, pain in the side and chest, wasting of flesh, strength, and appetite, after the sad experience we have had, cannot but be regarded by us as equivocal.

My dear Miss Wooler,—I’ve delayed responding to your letter in the slim hope that I could give you good news about my sister's health. Unfortunately, that’s not possible. Her condition is slowly worsening and is unpredictable, but it's clear how serious it is. The symptoms of cough, pain in her side and chest, weight loss, along with a decline in her strength and appetite, given our previous experiences, can only be viewed with concern.

‘In spirit she is resigned; at heart she is, I believe, a true Christian.  She looks beyond this life, and regards her home and rest as elsewhere than on earth.  May God support her and all of us through the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the last hour when the struggle which separates soul from body must be gone through!

‘In spirit she has accepted her fate; at heart she is, I believe, a true Christian. She looks beyond this life and sees her home and peace somewhere other than on this earth. May God support her and all of us through the challenge of prolonged illness, and help her during her final moments when she must confront the struggle that separates the soul from the body!’

‘We saw Emily torn from the midst of us when our hearts clung to her with intense attachment, and when, loving each other as we did—well, it seemed as if (might we but have been spared to each other) we could have found complete happiness in our mutual society and affection.  She was scarcely buried when Anne’s health failed, and we were warned that consumption had found another victim in her, and that it would be vain to reckon on her life.

‘We saw Emily taken from us just when we had become so attached to her, and when we loved each other so dearly—it truly felt like, if only we could have stayed together, we could have found complete happiness in each other’s company and affection. She was scarcely buried when Anne's health declined, and we were told that consumption had claimed another victim in her, and that we should not expect her to survive.

‘These things would be too much if Reason, unsupported by Religion, were condemned to bear them alone.  I have cause to be most thankful for the strength which has hitherto been vouchsafed both to my father and myself.  God, I think, is specially merciful to old age; and for my own part, trials which in prospective would have seemed to me quite intolerable, when they actually came, I endured without prostration.  Yet, I must confess, that in the time which has elapsed since Emily’s death, there have been moments of solitary, deep, inert affliction, far harder to bear than those which immediately followed our loss.  The crisis of bereavement has an acute pang which goads to exertion, the desolate after-feeling sometimes paralyses.

‘These burdens would be too much to bear if Reason, without the support of Religion, were to face them alone. I have every reason to be thankful for the strength granted to both my father and me thus far. I believe God is especially merciful to the elderly; and for my part, trials once thought utterly unbearable, when they actually transpired, I endured without crumbling. However, I must admit that since Emily’s death, there have been moments of deep, lingering sorrow, far harder to bear than those that came immediately after our loss. The initial shock of grief has an intense hurt that drives you into action, while the desolate after-feeling can at times leave you paralyzed.

p. 194‘I have learned that we are not to find solace in our own strength: we must seek it in God’s omnipotence.  Fortitude is good, but fortitude itself must be shaken under us to teach us how weak we are.

p. 194‘I’ve come to realize that we cannot depend on our own strength for comfort; we must find it in God’s boundless power. Having courage is essential, but that courage needs testing to truly show us just how weak we are.

‘With best wishes to yourself and all dear to you, and sincere thanks for the interest you so kindly continue to take in me and my sister,—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours faithfully,

‘Wishing you and all your loved ones the best, and sincerely thanking you for the continued interest you take in me and my sister. —Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘April 16th, 1849.

‘April 16th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—Your kind advice on the subject of Homœopathy deserves and has our best thanks.  We find ourselves, however, urged from more than one quarter to try different systems and medicines, and I fear we have already given offence by not listening to all.  The fact is, were we in every instance compliant, my dear sister would be harassed by continual changes.  Cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron were first strongly recommended.  Anne took them as long as she could, but at last she was obliged to give them up: the oil yielded her no nutriment, it did not arrest the progress of emaciation, and as it kept her always sick, she was prevented from taking food of any sort.  Hydropathy was then strongly advised.  She is now trying Gobold’s Vegetable Balsam; she thinks it does her some good; and as it is the first medicine which has had that effect, she would wish to persevere with it for a time.  She is also looking hopefully forward to deriving benefit from change of air.  We have obtained Mr. Teale’s permission to go to the seaside in the course of six or eight weeks.  At first I felt torn between two duties—that of staying with papa and going with Anne; but as it is papa’s own most kindly expressed wish that I should adopt the latter plan, and as, besides, he is now, thank God! in tolerable health, I hope to be spared the pain of resigning the care of my sister to other hands, however friendly.  We wish to keep together as long as we can.  I hope, too, to derive from the change some renewal of physical strength and mental composure (in neither of which points am I what I ought or wish to be) to make me a better and more cheery nurse.

Dear Sir,—Thank you so much for your thoughtful advice about Homœopathy. However, we feel pressured from several sources to explore different treatments and medicines, and I'm afraid we've already upset some people by not considering all options. The truth is, if we followed every suggestion, my sister would be constantly stressed by changes. Cod-liver oil and iron supplements were strongly recommended initially. Anne took them for as long as she could, but eventually, she had to stop: the oil didn’t provide any nourishment, it didn’t slow down her weight loss, and it made her feel sick, preventing her from eating anything. We then received strong advice to try hydropathy. Right now, she’s trying Gobold’s Vegetable Balsam; she believes it’s helping her a bit, and since it’s the first medication that seems to have an effect, she wants to stick with it for a while. She’s also looking forward to a change of scenery giving her some benefits. We’ve received Mr. Teale’s approval to go to the seaside in about six to eight weeks. Initially, I felt torn between two responsibilities—staying with Dad or going with Anne; but since it’s Dad’s very generous wish that I choose the latter, and thankfully he’s in decent health now, I hope I won’t have to experience the discomfort of leaving my sister’s care to someone else, no matter how friendly. We want to stay together for as long as possible. I also hope to find some renewal of physical strength and mental calm from this change (in both of which areas I’m not where I want or need to be) to become a better and more cheerful nurse.

p. 195‘I fear I must have seemed to you hard in my observations about The Emigrant Family.  The fact was, I compared Alexander Harris with himself only.  It is not equal to the Testimony to the Truth, but, tried by the standard of other and very popular books too, it is very clever and original.  Both subject and the manner of treating it are unhackneyed: he gives new views of new scenes and furnishes interesting information on interesting topics.  Considering the increasing necessity for and tendency to emigration, I should think it has a fair chance of securing the success it merits.

p. 195‘I fear I must have come across as harsh in my comments about The Emigrant Family. The truth is, I compared Alexander Harris only to his own work. While it doesn't measure up to the Testimony to the Truth, when compared to other popular books, it's quite clever and original. Both the subject and the way he addresses it are unique: he provides fresh perspectives on new experiences and delivers engaging information on fascinating topics. With the growing interest in and trend towards emigration, I believe it stands a good chance of achieving the success it deserves.

‘I took up Leigh Hunt’s book The Town with the impression that it would be interesting only to Londoners, and I was surprised, ere I had read many pages, to find myself enchained by his pleasant, graceful, easy style, varied knowledge, just views, and kindly spirit.  There is something peculiarly anti-melancholic in Leigh Hunt’s writings, and yet they are never boisterous.  They resemble sunshine, being at once bright and tranquil.

‘I picked up Leigh Hunt’s book The Town thinking it would only appeal to Londoners, and I was surprised, after only a few pages, to find myself captivated by his charming, graceful, and effortless style, diverse knowledge, fair perspectives, and warm spirit. There’s something uniquely uplifting in Leigh Hunt’s writings; yet they’re never overly loud. They are like sunshine, both bright and soothing.’

‘I like Carlyle better and better.  His style I do not like, nor do I always concur in his opinions, nor quite fall in with his hero worship; but there is a manly love of truth, an honest recognition and fearless vindication of intrinsic greatness, of intellectual and moral worth, considered apart from birth, rank, or wealth, which commands my sincere admiration.  Carlyle would never do for a contributor to the Quarterly.  I have not read his French Revolution.

‘I like Carlyle more and more. I’m not fond of his style, and I don’t always agree with his opinions, nor do I entirely buy into his hero worship; but there’s a strong love for the truth, a genuine acknowledgment, and a fearless defense of true greatness, of intellectual and moral value, that’s viewed independently of birth, rank, or wealth, which earns my sincere admiration. Carlyle wouldn’t fit as a contributor to the Quarterly. I haven’t read his French Revolution.

‘I congratulate you on the approaching publication of Mr. Ruskin’s new work.  If the Seven Lamps of Architecture resemble their predecessor, Modern Painters, they will be no lamps at all, but a new constellation—seven bright stars, for whose rising the reading world ought to be anxiously agaze.

‘I congratulate you on the upcoming release of Mr. Ruskin’s new work. If the Seven Lamps of Architecture are anything like its predecessor, Modern Painters, they won’t be mere lamps at all, but rather a new constellation—seven brilliant stars that the reading world should be eagerly watching for.’

‘Do not ask me to mention what books I should like to read.  Half the pleasure of receiving a parcel from Cornhill consists in having its contents chosen for us.  We like to discover, too, by the leaves cut here and there, that the ground has been travelled before us.  I may however say, with reference to works of fiction, that I should much like to see one of Godwin’s p. 196works, never having hitherto had that pleasure—Caleb Williams or Fleetwood, or which you thought best worth reading.

‘Don’t ask me to name the books I want to read. Half the joy of receiving a package from Cornhill is finding out what’s inside, chosen for us. We also enjoy discovering from the leaves cut here and there that others have already explored these stories. That said, concerning fiction, I’d really like to read one of Godwin’s works, as I’ve never had that pleasure before—either Caleb Williams or Fleetwood, or whichever you think is best to read.’

‘But it is yet much too soon to talk of sending more books; our present stock is scarcely half exhausted.  You will perhaps think I am a slow reader, but remember, Currer Bell is a country housewife, and has sundry little matters connected with the needle and kitchen to attend to which take up half his day, especially now when, alas! there is but one pair of hands where once there were three.  I did not mean to touch that chord, its sound is too sad.

‘But it’s still way too early to talk about sending more books; our current stock is barely half used up. You might think I'm a slow reader, but remember, Currer Bell is a country housewife with various little tasks related to sewing and cooking that occupy half the day, especially now when, unfortunately, there is just one pair of hands where there used to be three. I didn’t mean to bring that up; it’s too sad.’

‘I try to write now and then.  The effort was a hard one at first.  It renewed the terrible loss of last December strangely.  Worse than useless did it seem to attempt to write what there no longer lived an “Ellis Bell” to read; the whole book, with every hope founded on it, faded to vanity and vexation of spirit.

‘I try to write occasionally. At first, it was extremely difficult. It absurdly brought back the awful loss from last December. It felt pointless to attempt to write something that there was no longer an “Ellis Bell” to read; the whole book, with all the hopes attached to it, felt like a total waste and a source of frustration.

‘One inducement to persevere and do my best I still have, however, and I am thankful for it: I should like to please my kind friends at Cornhill.  To that end I wish my powers would come back; and if it would please Providence to restore my remaining sister, I think they would.

‘One reason to keep pressing on and do my best continues to motivate me, and I’m grateful for it: I want to make my dear friends at Cornhill happy. To achieve that, I hope my skills return; and if it pleases Providence to bring my remaining sister back, I think they would.’

‘Do not forget to tell me how you are when you write again.  I trust your indisposition is quite gone by this time.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Don’t forget to let me know how you are in your next letter. I hope your illness has completely passed by now.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 1st, 1849.

‘May 1st, 1849.

‘Dear Ellen,—I returned Mary Taylor’s letter to Hunsworth as soon as I had read it.  Thank God she was safe up to that time, but I do not think the earthquake was then over.  I shall long to hear tidings of her again.

Dear Ellen,—I sent Mary Taylor’s letter back to Hunsworth as soon as I read it. Thank God she was safe at that point, but I don’t believe the earthquake was fully over yet. I will truly want to hear news of her again.

‘Anne was worse during the warm weather we had about a week ago.  She grew weaker, and both the pain in her side and her cough were worse; strange to say, since it is colder, she has appeared rather to revive than sink.  I still hope that if she gets over May she may last a long time.

‘Anne was worse during the warm weather we had about a week ago. She became weaker, and both the pain in her side and her cough worsened; oddly enough, now that it’s colder, she seems to be improving instead of declining. I still hope that if she makes it through May, she might last a long time.

p. 197‘We have engaged lodgings at Scarbro’.  We stipulated for a good-sized sitting-room and an airy double-bedded lodging room, with a sea view, and if not deceived, have obtained these desiderata at No. 2 Cliff.  Anne says it is one of the best situations in the place.  It would not have done to have taken lodgings either in the town or on the bleak steep coast, where Miss Wooler’s house is situated.  If Anne is to get any good she must have every advantage.  Miss Outhwaite [her godmother] left her in her will a legacy of £200, and she cannot employ her money better than in obtaining what may prolong existence, if it does not restore health.  We hope to leave home on the 23rd, and I think it will be advisable to rest at York, and stay all night there.  I hope this arrangement will suit you.  We reckon on your society, dear Ellen, as a real privilege and pleasure.  We shall take little luggage, and shall have to buy bonnets and dresses and several other things either at York or Scarbro’; which place do you think would be best?  Oh, if it would please God to strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we might be together!  His will, however, must be done, and if she is not to recover, it remains to pray for strength and patience.

p. 197‘We have booked a place to stay in Scarbro.’ We requested a decent-sized living room and a bright double bedroom with a sea view, and if we're not mistaken, we've secured these features at No. 2 Cliff. Anne says it’s one of the best spots in the area. It wouldn’t have worked to take a place in town or on the chilly, steep coastline where Miss Wooler’s house is located. If Anne is going to get better, she needs every advantage. Miss Outhwaite [her godmother] left her £200 in her will, and she can’t spend her money better than on things that might prolong her life, even if it doesn't restore her health. We plan to leave home on the 23rd, and I think it would be wise to stop in York and stay the night there. I hope this plan works for you. We look forward to having you with us, dear Ellen, as a true joy and privilege. We will be taking very little luggage and will need to buy hats, dresses, and a few other things either in York or Scarbro; which place do you think is better? Oh, if only God would strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we could be together! But His will must be done, and if she isn’t going to recover, we must pray for strength and patience.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘May 8th, 1849.

‘May 8th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I hasten to acknowledge the two kind letters for which I am indebted to you.  That fine spring weather of which you speak did not bring such happiness to us in its sunshine as I trust it did to you and thousands besides—the change proved trying to my sister.  For a week or ten days I did not know what to think, she became so weak, and suffered so much from increased pain in the side, and aggravated cough.  The last few days have been much colder, yet, strange to say, during their continuance she has appeared rather to revive than sink.  She not unfrequently shows the very same symptoms which were apparent in Emily only a few days before she died—fever in the evenings, sleepless nights, and a sort of lethargy in the morning hours; this creates acute p. 198anxiety—then comes an improvement, which reassures.  In about three weeks, should the weather be genial and her strength continue at all equal to the journey, we hope to go to Scarboro’.  It is not without misgiving that I contemplate a departure from home under such circumstances; but since she herself earnestly wishes the experiment to be tried, I think it ought not to be neglected.  We are in God’s hands, and must trust the results to Him.  An old school-fellow of mine, a tried and faithful friend, has volunteered to accompany us.  I shall have the satisfaction of leaving papa to the attentions of two servants equally tried and faithful.  One of them is indeed now old and infirm, and unfit to stir much from her chair by the kitchen fireside; but the other is young and active, and even she has lived with us seven years.  I have reason, therefore, you see, to be thankful amidst sorrow, especially as papa still possesses every faculty unimpaired, and though not robust, has good general health—a sort of chronic cough is his sole complaint.

My dear Sir,—I’m writing to quickly acknowledge the two kind letters you sent me. The lovely spring weather you mentioned didn’t bring us the same happiness in its sunshine as I hope it did for you and many others—the change has been tough on my sister. For about a week or ten days, I didn’t know what to think; she became so weak and suffered a lot from increased pain in her side and a worsened cough. The last few days have been much colder, yet, strangely, during this time she seems to have revived rather than declined. She often shows the same symptoms that were apparent in Emily just days before she passed away—fever in the evenings, sleepless nights, and a kind of lethargy in the mornings; this creates intense anxiety—then comes a bit of improvement, which brings reassurance. In about three weeks, if the weather is nice and her strength is decent enough for the journey, we plan to go to Scarboro. It's with some hesitation that I think about leaving home under such conditions; however, since she genuinely wishes for this attempt to be made, I believe it shouldn't be overlooked. We are in God's hands and must leave the outcomes to Him. An old school friend of mine, a trusted and loyal companion, has kindly offered to join us. I’ll have the comfort of knowing that Papa will be cared for by two loyal and experienced servants. One of them is indeed quite old and frail and isn’t fit to move much from her chair by the kitchen fire, but the other is young and energetic, and has been with us for seven years. So, you can see, I have reasons to be grateful despite the sadness, especially since Papa still has all his faculties intact; and though he isn’t robust, he generally has good health—his only complaint is a sort of chronic cough.

‘I hope Mr. Smith will not risk a cheap edition of Jane Eyre yet, he had better wait awhile—the public will be sick of the name of that one book.  I can make no promise as to when another will be ready—neither my time nor my efforts are my own.  That absorption in my employment to which I gave myself up without fear of doing wrong when I wrote Jane Eyre, would now be alike impossible and blamable; but I do what I can, and have made some little progress.  We must all be patient.

‘I hope Mr. Smith won’t rush to publish a cheap edition of Jane Eyre just yet; he should wait a bit—the public will soon tire of that one title. I can't promise when another book will be ready—neither my time nor my effort belongs solely to me. That level of dedication I fully committed to when I wrote Jane Eyre is now both impossible and not ideal; but I’m doing what I can and have made some progress. We all need to exercise patience.’

‘Meantime, I should say, let the public forget at their ease, and let us not be nervous about it.  And as to the critics, if the Bells possess real merit, I do not fear impartial justice being rendered them one day.  I have a very short mental as well as physical sight in some matters, and am far less uneasy at the idea of public impatience, misconstruction, censure, etc., than I am at the thought of the anxiety of those two or three friends in Cornhill to whom I owe much kindness, and whose expectations I would earnestly wish not to disappoint.  If they can make up their minds to wait tranquilly, p. 199and put some confidence in my goodwill, if not my power, to get on as well as may be, I shall not repine; but I verily believe that the “nobler sex” find it more difficult to wait, to plod, to work out their destiny inch by inch, than their sisters do.  They are always for walking so fast and taking such long steps, one cannot keep up with them.  One should never tell a gentleman that one has commenced a task till it is nearly achieved.  Currer Bell, even if he had no let or hindrance, and if his path were quite smooth, could never march with the tread of a Scott, a Bulwer, a Thackeray, or a Dickens.  I want you and Mr. Smith clearly to understand this.  I have always wished to guard you against exaggerated anticipations—calculate low when you calculate on me.  An honest man—and woman too—would always rather rise above expectation than fall below it.

‘In the meantime, I should say, let the public forget at their own pace, and let’s not stress about it. And as for the critics, if the Bells have true merit, I’m not worried that they’ll eventually receive fair judgment. I have a very limited perspective, both mentally and physically on certain matters, and I'm far less anxious about public impatience, misunderstanding, or criticism than I am about the concerns of those two or three friends in Cornhill to whom I owe a lot of kindness, and whose hopes I really don’t want to disappoint. If they can manage to wait patiently and trust in my goodwill, even if not my ability, to do things as best as I can, I won't complain; but I truly believe that the “nobler sex” finds it harder to wait, to grind away, to carve out their future step by step, than their female counterparts do. They always want to move so quickly and take such large strides that it’s hard to keep up. You should never tell a gentleman that you’ve started a task until it’s nearly finished. Currer Bell, even without any obstacles, and with a completely clear path, could never match the confidence of a Scott, a Bulwer, a Thackeray, or a Dickens. I want you and Mr. Smith to clearly understand this. I have always wished to protect you from inflated expectations—keep your assessments low when it comes to me. An honest man—and woman as well—would always prefer to exceed expectations rather than fall short.’

‘Have I lectured enough? and am I understood?

‘Have I lectured enough? Am I being understood?

‘Give my sympathising respects to Mrs. Williams. I hope her little daughter is by this time restored to perfect health.  It pleased me to see with what satisfaction you speak of your son.  I was glad, too, to hear of the progress and welfare of Miss Kavanagh.  The notices of Mr. Harris’s works are encouraging and just—may they contribute to his success!

‘Please give my heartfelt regards to Mrs. Williams. I hope her little daughter is back to perfect health by now. It made me happy to hear how positively you speak about your son. I was also pleased to learn about Miss Kavanagh's progress and well-being. The reviews of Mr. Harris’s works are encouraging and accurate—may they help him succeed!

‘Should Mr. Thackeray again ask after Currer Bell, say the secret is and will be well kept because it is not worth disclosure.  This fact his own sagacity will have already led him to divine.  In the hope that it may not be long ere I hear from you again,—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘If Mr. Thackeray asks about Currer Bell again, just let him know the secret is well kept because it’s not worth revealing. He’s probably already figured that out for himself. Hoping I’ll hear from you again soon,—Sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, May 16th, 1849.

‘Haworth, May 16th, 1849.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I will lose no time in thanking you for your letter and kind offer of assistance.  We have, however, already engaged lodgings.  I am not myself acquainted with Scarbro’, but Anne knows it well, having been there three or four times.  She had a particular preference for the situation of some lodgings (No. 2 Cliff).  We wrote about them, and finding them disengaged, took them.  p. 200Your information is, notwithstanding, valuable, should we find this place in any way ineligible.  It is a satisfaction to be provided with directions for future use.

Dear Miss Wooler,—I want to quickly thank you for your letter and generous offer of help. However, we've already found a place to stay. I haven't been to Scarbro myself, but Anne knows it well, having visited three or four times. She really liked some lodgings (No. 2 Cliff). We inquired about them, and since they were available, we decided to take them. p. 200Your information is still helpful, in case we find this place unsuitable. It's reassuring to have directions for future reference.

‘Next Wednesday is the day fixed for our departure.  Ellen Nussey accompanies us (by Anne’s expressed wish).  I could not refuse her society, but I dared not urge her to go, for I have little hope that the excursion will be one of pleasure or benefit to those engaged in it.  Anne is extremely weak.  She herself has a fixed impression that the sea air will give her a chance of regaining strength; that chance, therefore, we must have.  Having resolved to try the experiment, misgivings are useless; and yet, when I look at her, misgivings will rise.  She is more emaciated than Emily was at the very last; her breath scarcely serves her to mount the stairs, however slowly.  She sleeps very little at night, and often passes most of the forenoon in a semi-lethargic state.  Still, she is up all day, and even goes out a little when it is fine.  Fresh air usually acts as a stimulus, but its reviving power diminishes.

Next Wednesday is the day we've planned to leave. Ellen Nussey is coming with us, as Anne requested. I couldn’t say no to her joining us, but I didn't want to push her to come along, since I don't have much hope that this trip will be enjoyable or beneficial for anyone involved. Anne is really weak. She believes that the sea air will help her regain her strength, so we need to take that chance. Now that we've decided to go through with it, there's no point in having doubts; still, whenever I look at her, doubts come creeping in. She looks more frail than Emily did at her worst; she can barely catch her breath going up the stairs, even slowly. She hardly sleeps at night and often spends most of the morning in a sort of half-asleep state. Yet she gets up during the day and even goes out a bit when the weather is nice. Fresh air usually gives her a boost, but its invigorating effect is fading.

‘With best wishes for your own health and welfare,—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours sincerely,

‘Wishing you the best for your health and well-being,—Sincerely yours, my dear Miss Wooler,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘No. 2 Cliff, Scarboro’, May 27th, 1849.

‘No. 2 Cliff, Scarboro’, May 27th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—The date above will inform you why I have not answered your last letter more promptly.  I have been busy with preparations for departure and with the journey.  I am thankful to say we reached our destination safely, having rested one night at York.  We found assistance wherever we needed it; there was always an arm ready to do for my sister what I was not quite strong enough to do: lift her in and out of the carriages, carry her across the line, etc.

My dear Sir,—The date above will explain why I haven’t replied to your last letter sooner. I’ve been busy preparing to leave and with the journey itself. I’m happy to report that we arrived at our destination safely, after spending a night in York. We received help whenever we needed it; there was always someone ready to assist my sister with things I couldn’t manage due to my own strength limits: lifting her in and out of carriages, carrying her across platforms, and so on.

‘It made her happy to see both York and its Minster, and Scarboro’ and its bay once more.  There is yet no revival of bodily strength—I fear indeed the slow ebb continues.  People who see her tell me I must not expect her to last long—but it is something to cheer her mind.

‘It made her happy to see both York and its Minster, and Scarboro’ and its bay again. There is still no return of physical strength—I fear the slow decline continues. People who see her tell me I shouldn’t expect her to last long—but it’s something to lift her spirits.

p. 201‘Our lodgings are pleasant.  As Anne sits at the window she can look down on the sea, which this morning is calm as glass.  She says if she could breathe more freely she would be comfortable at this moment—but she cannot breathe freely.

p. 201“Our place is nice. As Anne sits by the window, she can see the sea, which is calm like glass this morning. She says she'd feel comfortable right now if she could breathe more easily—but she can’t breathe easily.

‘My friend Ellen is with us.  I find her presence a solace.  She is a calm, steady girl—not brilliant, but good and true.  She suits and has always suited me well.  I like her, with her phlegm, repose, sense, and sincerity, better than I should like the most talented without these qualifications.

‘My friend Ellen is with us. I find her presence comforting. She is a calm, steady girl—not extraordinary, but kind and genuine. She suits me well and always has. I prefer her calmness, composure, common sense, and honesty to anyone more talented who lacks these qualities.'

‘If ever I see you again I should have pleasure in talking over with you the topics you allude to in your last—or rather, in hearing you talk them over.  We see these things through a glass darkly—or at least I see them thus.  So far from objecting to speculation on, or discussion of, the subject, I should wish to hear what others have to say.  By others, I mean only the serious and reflective—levity in such matters shocks as much as hypocrisy.

‘If I ever see you again, I would love to discuss the topics you mentioned in your last message—or rather, I’d enjoy hearing you talk about them. We see things through a foggy lens—at least I do. Rather than opposing speculation or discussion on the subject, I’d be eager to hear what others think. By 'others,' I mean those who are serious and thoughtful—carelessness in these matters is just as upsetting as insincerity.

‘Write to me.  In this strange place your letters will come like the visits of a friend.  Fearing to lose the post, I will add no more at present.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Write to me. In this strange place, your letters will feel like visits from a friend. Afraid of losing the mail, I won’t say more for now.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘May 30th, 1849.

‘May 30th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—My poor sister is taken quietly home at last.  She died on Monday.  With almost her last breath she said she was happy, and thanked God that death was come, and come so gently.  I did not think it would be so soon.

‘My dear Sir,—My poor sister has finally passed away peacefully. She died on Monday. With almost her last breath, she said she was happy and thanked God for the gentle arrival of death. I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

‘You will not expect me to add more at present.—Yours faithfully,

‘You don’t expect me to say more right now.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘June 25th, 1849.

‘June 25th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I am now again at home, where I returned last Thursday.  I call it home still—much as London would be called London if an earthquake should shake its streets to ruins.  But let me not be ungrateful: Haworth parsonage is still a home for me, and not quite a ruined or desolate home either.  Papa is there, and two most affectionate and faithful p. 202servants, and two old dogs, in their way as faithful and affectionate—Emily’s large house-dog which lay at the side of her dying bed, and followed her funeral to the vault, lying in the pew couched at our feet while the burial service was being read—and Anne’s little spaniel.  The ecstasy of these poor animals when I came in was something singular.  At former returns from brief absences they always welcomed me warmly—but not in that strange, heart-touching way.  I am certain they thought that, as I was returned, my sisters were not far behind.  But here my sisters will come no more.  Keeper may visit Emily’s little bed-room—as he still does day by day—and Flossy may look wistfully round for Anne, they will never see them again—nor shall I—at least the human part of me.  I must not write so sadly, but how can I help thinking and feeling sadly?  In the daytime effort and occupation aid me, but when evening darkens, something in my heart revolts against the burden of solitude—the sense of loss and want grows almost too much for me.  I am not good or amiable in such moments, I am rebellious, and it is only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or of the kind servants in the kitchen, or some caress from the poor dogs, which restores me to softer sentiments and more rational views.  As to the night—could I do without bed, I would never seek it.  Waking, I think, sleeping, I dream of them; and I cannot recall them as they were in health, still they appear to me in sickness and suffering.  Still, my nights were worse after the first shock of Branwell’s death—they were terrible then; and the impressions experienced on waking were at that time such as we do not put into language.  Worse seemed at hand than was yet endured—in truth, worse awaited us.

My dear Sir,—I’m back home now, having returned last Thursday. I still call it home—just like London would still be called London, even if an earthquake turned it to ruins. But I shouldn’t be ungrateful: Haworth parsonage is still a home for me, and it’s not completely ruined or desolate either. Dad is there, along with two very devoted and caring p. 202servants, and two old dogs, who are also loyal and loving—Emily’s big house dog that lay by her bedside when she was dying and followed her funeral to the grave, lying in the pew at our feet during the burial service—and Anne’s little spaniel. The joy of these poor animals when I came in was something special. In the past, when I returned after short absences, they always welcomed me warmly—but never in that touching way. I’m sure they thought that as I was back, my sisters weren’t far behind. But my sisters aren’t coming back here anymore. Keeper might still visit Emily’s little bedroom every day, and Flossy might still look around for Anne, but they will never see them again—nor will I—at least not the human part of me. I shouldn’t write this sadly, but how can I help thinking and feeling sadly? During the day, staying busy helps me, but when evening falls, something in my heart rebels against the weight of solitude—the sense of loss and longing almost becomes too much for me. I’m not at my best in those moments—I feel rebellious, and only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or the kind servants in the kitchen, or a little affection from the poor dogs brings me back to calmer feelings and more rational thoughts. As for the night—if I could avoid bed, I would. When I'm awake, I think of them, and when I sleep, I dream of them; and although I can’t remember them as they were when they were healthy, they keep appearing to me in their sickness and suffering. Still, my nights were worse after the initial shock of Branwell’s death—they were terrifying then; the feelings I had when waking during that time were indescribable. It felt like worse was coming than what we had already endured—in truth, worse was waiting for us.

‘All this bitterness must be tasted.  Perhaps the palate will grow used to the draught in time, and find its flavour less acrid.  This pain must be undergone; its poignancy, I trust, will be blunted one day.  Ellen would have come back with me but I would not let her.  I knew it would be better to face the desolation at once—later or sooner the sharp pang must be experienced.

‘All this bitterness has to be lived through. Maybe in time, the taste will become more familiar and less harsh. This pain has to be faced; I hope its intensity fades eventually. Ellen wanted to come back with me, but I wouldn’t allow it. I knew it would be better to face the emptiness right away—whether now or later, the sting had to be felt.

p. 203‘Labour must be the cure, not sympathy.  Labour is the only radical cure for rooted sorrow.  The society of a calm, serenely cheerful companion—such as Ellen—soothes pain like a soft opiate, but I find it does not probe or heal the wound; sharper, more severe means, are necessary to make a remedy.  Total change might do much; where that cannot be obtained, work is the best substitute.

p. 203“Work must be the solution, not just pity. Work is the only true remedy for deep-seated sadness. Being around someone calm and cheerful—like Ellen—eases pain like a gentle sedative, but I realize it doesn’t truly address or heal the hurt; stronger, more intense methods are needed to find a cure. A total transformation might help significantly; when that’s not possible, work is the next best thing.”

‘I by no means ask Miss Kavanagh to write to me.  Why should she trouble herself to do it?  What claim have I on her?  She does not know me—she cannot care for me except vaguely and on hearsay.  I have got used to your friendly sympathy, and it comforts me.  I have tried and trust the fidelity of one or two other friends, and I lean upon it.  The natural affection of my father and the attachment and solicitude of our two servants are precious and consolatory to me, but I do not look round for general pity; conventional condolence I do not want, either from man or woman.

‘I certainly don’t expect Miss Kavanagh to write to me. Why would she? What claim do I have on her? She doesn’t truly know me—she can't care about me except in a vague sense or from what she's heard. I’ve grown accustomed to your supportive friendship, and it comforts me. I’ve tried to rely on the loyalty of a couple of other friends, and I depend on it. The natural affection from my father and the attention of our two servants are valuable and reassuring to me, but I’m not seeking general sympathy; I don’t want conventional condolences from anyone, whether man or woman.

‘The letter you inclosed in your last bore the signature H. S. Mayers—the address, Sheepscombe, Stroud, Gloucestershire; can you give me any information respecting the writer?  It is my intention to acknowledge it one day.  I am truly glad to hear that your little invalid is restored to health, and that the rest of your family continue well.  Mrs. Williams should spare herself for her husband’s and children’s sake.  Her life and health are too valuable to those round her to be lavished—she should be careful of them.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘The letter you attached to your last message was signed H. S. Mayers, with the address Sheepscombe, Stroud, Gloucestershire. Can you provide me with any information about the writer? I plan to acknowledge it one day. I’m really glad to hear that your little one is back to health and that the rest of your family is doing well. Mrs. Williams should take care of herself for her husband and children’s sake. Her life and health are too precious to those around her to be taken for granted—she should be cautious with them. —Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

here lie the remains of
ANNE BRONTË
DAUGHTER OF THE REV. P. BRONTË
incumbent of haworth, yorkshire
She Died, Aged 28, May 28th, 1849

Here lie the remains of
ANNE BRONTË
DAUGHTER OF REV. P. BRONTË
Vicar of Haworth, Yorkshire
She died, Aged 28, May 28th, 1849

p. 204CHAPTER VIII: ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 205TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 205TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘January 3rd, 1850.

‘January 3rd, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I have to acknowledge the receipt of the Morning Chronicle with a good review, and of the Church of England Quarterly and the Westminster with bad ones.  I have also to thank you for your letter, which would have been answered sooner had I been alone; but just now I am enjoying the treat of my friend Ellen’s society, and she makes me indolent and negligent—I am too busy talking to her all day to do anything else.  You allude to the subject of female friendships, and express wonder at the infrequency of sincere attachments amongst women.  As to married women, I can well understand that they should be absorbed in their husbands and children—but single women often like each other much, and derive great solace from their mutual regard.  Friendship, however, is a plant which cannot be forced.  True friendship is no gourd, springing in a night and withering in a day.  When I first saw Ellen I did not care for her; we were school-fellows.  In course of time we learnt each other’s faults and good points.  We were contrasts—still, we suited.  Affection was first a germ, then a sapling, then a strong tree—now, no new friend, however lofty or profound in intellect—not even Miss Martineau herself—could be to me what Ellen is; yet she is no more than a conscientious, observant, calm, well-bred Yorkshire girl.  She is without romance.  If she attempts to read poetry, or poetic prose, aloud, I am irritated and deprive her of the book—if she talks of it, I stop my ears; but she is good; she is true; she is faithful, and I love her.

My dear Sir,—I want to acknowledge that I received the Morning Chronicle with a positive review, and the Church of England Quarterly and the Westminster with negative ones. I also want to thank you for your letter, which I would have responded to sooner if I hadn’t been with my friend Ellen; she makes me lazy and distracted—I spend all day talking to her and don’t get anything else done. You mentioned the subject of female friendships and expressed surprise at how rare genuine attachments are among women. I understand that married women might be completely focused on their husbands and children, but single women often really enjoy each other’s company and find great comfort in their shared affection. However, friendship is something that takes time. True friendship doesn’t sprout overnight and fade away in a day. When I first met Ellen, I didn’t think much of her; we were just classmates. Over time, we came to appreciate each other’s flaws and strengths. We were different, but we complemented each other well. Our bond began small, grew into something deeper, and is now like a strong tree—no new friend, no matter how brilliant or insightful, even Miss Martineau herself, could ever mean as much to me as Ellen does; yet she’s just a thoughtful, observant, and well-mannered Yorkshire girl. She doesn’t have a romantic side. When she tries to read poetry or poetic prose aloud, it frustrates me, and I take the book away from her—if she talks about it, I cover my ears; but she is kind; she is genuine; she is loyal, and I love her.

‘Since I came home, Miss Martineau has written me a long and truly kindly letter.  She invites me to visit her at Ambleside.  I like the idea.  Whether I can realise it or not, it is pleasant to have in prospect.

‘Since I got home, Miss Martineau has sent me a long and truly kind letter. She invited me to visit her in Ambleside. I like the idea. Even if I can’t make it happen, it’s nice to consider.’

‘You ask me to write to Mrs. Williams.  I would rather she wrote to me first; and let her send any kind of letter she likes, without studying mood or manner.—Yours sincerely,

‘You asked me to write to Mrs. Williams. I’d prefer if she wrote to me first; she can send any kind of letter she likes, without worrying about her mood or style.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 207‘Dear Miss Nussey,—I take advantage of the earliest opportunity to thank you for the letter you favoured me with last week, and to apologise for having so long neglected to write to you; indeed, I believe this will be the first letter or note I have ever addressed to you.  I am extremely obliged to Mary for her kind invitation, and I assure you that I should very much have liked to hear the Lectures on Galvanism, as they would doubtless have been amusing and instructive.  But we are often compelled to bend our inclination to our duty (as Miss Wooler observed the other day), and since there are so many holidays this half-year, it would have appeared almost unreasonable to ask for an extra holiday; besides, we should perhaps have got behindhand with our lessons, so that, everything considered, it is perhaps as well that circumstances have deprived us of this pleasure.—Believe me to remain, your affectionate friend,

p. 207‘Dear Miss Nussey,—I want to take this first opportunity to thank you for your letter from last week and to apologize for the delay in my response; in fact, this may be the first letter I've ever sent you. I'm really thankful to Mary for her kind invitation, and I genuinely would have loved to attend the lectures on Galvanism, as I’m sure they would have been both fun and informative. However, we often have to prioritize our responsibilities over our desires (as Miss Wooler mentioned the other day), and with so many holidays this term, it might have seemed unreasonable to request another day off; besides, we could have fallen behind in our studies, so all things considered, it’s probably for the best that we missed out on this opportunity.—Yours sincerely, your affectionate friend,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 13th, 1832.

‘Haworth, January 13th, 1832.

‘Dear Ellen,—The receipt of your letter gave me an agreeable surprise, for notwithstanding your faithful promises, you must excuse me if I say that I had little confidence in their fulfilment, knowing that when school girls once get home they willingly abandon every recollection which tends to remind them of school, and indeed they find such an infinite variety of circumstances to engage their attention and employ their leisure hours, that they are easily persuaded that they have no time to fulfil promises made at school.  It gave me great pleasure, however, to find that you and Miss Taylor are exceptions to the general rule.  The cholera still seems slowly advancing, but let us yet hope, knowing that all things are under the guidance of a merciful Providence.  England has hitherto been highly favoured, for the disease has neither raged with the astounding violence, nor extended itself with the frightful rapidity which marked its progress in many of the continental countries.—From your affectionate friend,

Dear Ellen,—Receiving your letter was a wonderful surprise. Even though you promised to write, I have to admit I didn’t really believe you would, knowing that when schoolgirls return home, they often forget about school. They get involved in so many different activities that it’s easy for them to convince themselves they don’t have time to keep up with school promises. It made me really happy to see that you and Miss Taylor are not like everyone else. The cholera still seems to be getting closer, but let’s stay hopeful, knowing that everything is being watched over by a kind Providence. So far, England has been quite fortunate since the disease hasn’t struck us with the same devastating force or spread as quickly as it has in many other countries.—From your affectionate friend,

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 1st, 1833.

‘Haworth, January 1st, 1833.

‘Dear Ellen,—I believe we agreed to correspond once a p. 208month.  That space of time has now elapsed since I received your last interesting letter, and I now therefore hasten to reply.  Accept my congratulations on the arrival of the New Year, every succeeding day of which will, I trust, find you wiser and better in the true sense of those much-used words.  The first day of January always presents to my mind a train of very solemn and important reflections, and a question more easily asked than answered frequently occurs, viz.—How have I improved the past year, and with what good intentions do I view the dawn of its successor?  These, my dearest Ellen, are weighty considerations which (young as we are) neither you nor I can too deeply or too seriously ponder.  I am sorry your too great diffidence, arising, I think, from the want of sufficient confidence in your own capabilities, prevented you from writing to me in French, as I think the attempt would have materially contributed to your improvement in that language.  You very kindly caution me against being tempted by the fondness of my sisters to consider myself of too much importance, and then in a parenthesis you beg me not to be offended.  O Ellen, do you think I could be offended by any good advice you may give me?  No, I thank you heartily, and love you, if possible, better for it.  I am glad you like Kenilworth.  It is certainly a splendid production, more resembling a romance than a novel, and, in my opinion, one of the most interesting works that ever emanated from the great Sir Walter’s pen.  I was exceedingly amused at the characteristic and naive manner in which you expressed your detestation of Varney’s character—so much so, indeed, that I could not forbear laughing aloud when I perused that part of your letter.  He is certainly the personification of consummate villainy; and in the delineation of his dark and profoundly artful mind, Scott exhibits a wonderful knowledge of human nature as well as surprising skill in embodying his perceptions so as to enable others to become participators in that knowledge.  Excuse the want of news in this very barren epistle, for I really have none to communicate.  Emily and Anne beg to be kindly remembered to you.  Give my best love to your mother and sisters, and as it is very late permit me to conclude with the p. 209assurance of my unchanged, unchanging, and unchangeable affection for you.—Adieu, my sweetest Ellen, I am ever yours,

Dear Ellen,—I believe we agreed to write to each other once a month. That time has passed since I received your last interesting letter, so I'm writing to respond. Accept my congratulations on the New Year, and I hope each day finds you wiser and better in the truest sense of those often-used words. The first day of January always brings serious thoughts to my mind, and I often ask myself a question that’s easier to pose than to answer: How have I improved over the past year, and what good intentions do I have as the new year begins? These, my dearest Ellen, are important thoughts that (even though we are young) neither of us can take lightly. I’m sorry that your shyness, which I think stems from not having enough confidence in your own abilities, kept you from writing to me in French, as I believe that practice would really help your skills in that language. You kindly advise me not to let my sisters’ affection inflate my self-esteem, and you ask me not to take offense in parentheses. Oh, Ellen, do you really think I could be offended by any good advice from you? No, I truly appreciate it and love you even more for it. I’m glad you like Kenilworth. It’s definitely a fantastic work, more like a romance than a novel, and in my opinion, one of the most interesting ever written by the great Sir Walter. I found it incredibly amusing how you expressed your dislike for Varney’s character—so much so that I couldn’t help but laugh when I read that part of your letter. He is certainly the personification of pure villainy; and in portraying his dark and cunning mind, Scott shows an amazing understanding of human nature, as well as an incredible skill in making his insights relatable so that others can share in that understanding. Please excuse the lack of news in this rather dull letter, as I really don’t have any to share. Emily and Anne send their warm regards. Please give my love to your mother and sisters, and since it’s quite late, let me end with the assurance of my steady, unchanging, and constant affection for you.—Adieu, my sweetest Ellen, I am always yours,

‘Charlotte.’

‘Charlotte.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, September 11th, 1833.

‘Haworth, September 11th, 1833.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have hitherto delayed answering your last letter because from what you said I imagined you might be from home.  Since you were here Emily has been very ill.  Her ailment was erysipelas in the arm, accompanied by severe bilious attacks, and great general debility.  Her arm was obliged to be cut in order to relieve it.  It is now, I am happy to say, nearly healed—her health is, in fact, almost perfectly re-established.  The sickness still continues to recur at intervals.  Were I to tell you of the impression you have made on every one here you would accuse me of flattery.  Papa and aunt are continually adducing you as an example for me to shape my actions and behaviour by.  Emily and Anne say “they never saw any one they liked so well as Miss Nussey,” and Tabby talks a great deal more nonsense about you than I choose to report.  You must read this letter, dear Ellen, without thinking of the writing, for I have indited it almost all in the twilight.  It is now so dark that, notwithstanding the singular property of “seeing in the night-time” which the young ladies at Roe Head used to attribute to me, I can scribble no longer.  All the family unite with me in wishes for your welfare.  Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and supply all those expressions of warm and genuine regard which the increasing darkness will not permit me to insert.

'Dear Ellen,—I've delayed writing back to your last letter because I thought you might be out of town. Since your visit, Emily has been quite unwell. She had erysipelas in her arm, along with severe digestive problems and considerable weakness. They needed to operate on her arm to help with the issue. I'm happy to report that it's almost healed now, and her health is nearly back to normal. However, the illness does keep returning occasionally. If I told you how much of an impression you've made on everyone here, you might think I'm just flattering you. Dad and Aunt often use you as a role model for my behavior. Emily and Anne say, “they’ve never met anyone they liked as much as Miss Nussey,” and Tabby talks a lot more nonsense about you than I care to tell. Please read this letter, dear Ellen, without worrying about the handwriting, as I've written most of it in the dim light. It's so dark now that, despite what the young ladies at Roe Head used to say about my ability to see in the dark, I can’t write anymore. The whole family sends their best wishes for your well-being. Please give my regards to your mother and sisters, and include all the warm and genuine feelings that the growing darkness prevents me from writing.'

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, February 11th, 1834.

‘Haworth, February 11th, 1834.

‘Dear Ellen,—My letters are scarcely worth the postage, and therefore I have, till now, delayed answering your last communication; but upwards of two months having elapsed p. 210since I received it, I have at length determined to take up my pen in reply lest your anger should be roused by my apparent negligence.  It grieved me extremely to hear of your precarious state of health.  I trust sincerely that your medical adviser is mistaken in supposing you have any tendency to a pulmonary affection.  Dear Ellen, that would indeed be a calamity.  I have seen enough of consumption to dread it as one of the most insidious and fatal diseases incident to humanity.  But I repeat it, I hope, nay pray, that your alarm is groundless.  If you remember, I used frequently to tell you at school that you were constitutionally nervous—guard against the gloomy impressions which such a state of mind naturally produces.  Take constant and regular exercise, and all, I doubt not, will yet be well.  What a remarkable winter we have had!  Rain and wind continually, but an almost total absence of frost and snow.  Has general ill health been the consequence of wet weather at Birstall or not?  With us an unusual number of deaths have lately taken place.  According to custom I have no news to communicate, indeed I do not write either to retail gossip or to impart solid information; my motives for maintaining our mutual correspondence are, in the first place, to get intelligence from you, and in the second that we may remind each other of our separate existences; without some such medium of reciprocal converse, according to the nature of things, you, who are surrounded by society and friends, would soon forget that such an insignificant being as myself ever lived.  I, however, in the solitude of our wild little hill village, think of my only unrelated friend, my dear ci-devant school companion daily—nay, almost hourly.  Now Ellen, don’t you think I have very cleverly contrived to make up a letter out of nothing?  Goodbye, dearest.  That God may bless you is the earnest prayer of your ever faithful friend,

Dear Ellen,—My letters aren't really worth the postage, so I put off responding to your last message until now. But since it's been over two months since I got it, I've finally decided to write in case you're upset by my apparent neglect. I was very saddened to hear about your uncertain health. I sincerely hope your doctor is wrong about any risk of lung issues. Dear Ellen, that would truly be a disaster. I've seen enough of tuberculosis to fear it as one of the most sneaky and deadly diseases out there. But I'll say it again, I hope, no, pray, that your worries are unfounded. Remember how I used to say at school that you were naturally anxious? Try to guard against the gloomy feelings that come with that mindset. Get regular exercise, and I’m sure everything will be fine. What a strange winter we've had! Constant rain and wind but almost no frost or snow. Has the wet weather at Birstall caused any widespread illness? We've seen an unusual number of deaths on our side. As usual, I don’t have any news to share; honestly, I’m not writing to spread gossip or share significant news. The main reasons I keep in touch are to hear from you and to remind each other that we exist separately. Without some way of connecting, you, surrounded by friends and society, would probably forget that someone as insignificant as I am ever existed. I, however, in the solitude of our little hill village, think about my only non-related friend, my dear former schoolmate, every day—almost every hour. So, Ellen, don’t you think I’ve done a good job turning nothing into a letter? Goodbye, dearest. I earnestly pray that God blesses you. Your ever faithful friend,

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 10th, 1834.

‘Haworth, November 10th, 1834.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have been a long while, a very long while without writing to you.  A letter I received from Mary Taylor p. 211this morning reminded me of my neglect, and made me instantly sit down to atone for it, if possible.  She tells me your aunt, of Brookroyd, is dead, and that Sarah is very ill; for this I am truly sorry, but I hope her case is not yet without hope.  You should however remember that death, should it happen, will undoubtedly be great gain to her.  In your last, dear Ellen, you ask my opinion respecting the amusement of dancing, and whether I thought it objectionable when indulged in for an hour or two in parties of boys and girls.  I should hesitate to express a difference of opinion from Mr. Atkinson, but really the matter seems to me to stand thus: It is allowed on all hands that the sin of dancing consists not in the mere action of shaking the shanks (as the Scotch say), but in the consequences that usually attend it—namely, frivolity and waste of time; when it is used only, as in the case you state, for the exercise and amusement of an hour among young people (who surely may without any breach of God’s commandments be allowed a little light-heartedness), these consequences cannot follow.  Ergo (according to my manner of arguing), the amusement is at such times perfectly innocent.  Having nothing more to say, I will conclude with the expression of my sincere and earnest attachment for, Ellen, your own dear self.

Dear Ellen,—I haven’t written to you in a long time. A letter I got from Mary Taylor p. 211 this morning reminded me of how neglectful I’ve been, so I immediately sat down to fix that, if I can. She tells me your aunt at Brookroyd has passed away and that Sarah is very ill; I’m truly sorry to hear this, but I hope there’s still some hope for her. You should remember that if death does come, it would be a great gain for her. In your last letter, dear Ellen, you asked my opinion about dancing—whether I thought it was wrong to enjoy it for an hour or two at parties with boys and girls. I’d hesitate to disagree with Mr. Atkinson, but here’s how I see it: it’s widely accepted that the problem with dancing isn’t just about moving your feet (as the Scots say), but rather the consequences that usually come with it—like being frivolous and wasting time. When it’s just used, as in the example you mentioned, for a bit of fun and exercise among young people (who certainly can have some light-heartedness without breaking God’s commandments), those consequences don’t apply. Therefore (according to my way of thinking), the amusement is perfectly innocent in those moments. I have nothing more to add, so I’ll wrap up by expressing my sincere and heartfelt affection for you, Ellen, my dear self.

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 12th, 1835.

‘Haworth, January 12th, 1835.

‘Dearest Ellen,—I thought it better not to answer your kind letter too soon, lest I should (in the present fully occupied state of your time) appear intrusive.  I am happy to inform you papa has given me permission to accept the invitation it conveyed, and ere long I hope once more to have the pleasure of seeing almost the only and certainly the dearest friend I possess (out of our own family).  I leave it to you to fix the time, only requesting you not to appoint too early a day; let it be a fortnight or three weeks at least from the date of the present letter.  I am greatly obliged to you for your kind offer of meeting me at Bradford, but papa thinks that such a plan p. 212would involve uncertainty, and be productive of trouble to you.  He recommends that I should go direct in a gig from Haworth at the time you shall determine, or, if that day should prove unfavourable, the first subsequent fine one.  Such an arrangement would leave us both free, and if it meets with your approbation would perhaps be the best we could finally resolve upon.  Excuse the brevity of this epistle, dear Ellen, for I am in a great hurry, and we shall, I trust, soon see each other face to face, which will be better than a hundred letters.  Give my respectful love to your mother and sisters, accept the kind remembrances of all our family, and—Believe me in particular to be, your firm and faithful friend,

Dear Ellen,—I thought it would be better not to reply to your kind letter right away, so I wouldn't seem intrusive given how busy you are. I'm happy to let you know that Dad has allowed me to accept the invitation you sent, and I hope to have the pleasure of seeing again almost the only and definitely the dearest friend I have (outside of family). I'll leave it up to you to decide on the time, but please don't choose a day that's too soon; let it be at least two to three weeks from the date of this letter. I really appreciate your kind offer to meet me in Bradford, but Dad thinks that plan might be uncertain and could cause you some trouble. He suggests that I should go straight from Haworth in a carriage on the day you decide, or if that day doesn't work, then on the next nice day. This arrangement would give us both some flexibility, and if that sounds good to you, it might be the best option for us. Sorry for the short note, dear Ellen, but I'm in a bit of a rush, and I trust we’ll see each other soon, which will be much better than a hundred letters. Please give my love to your mother and sisters, and share warm regards from our family, and—Believe me particularly to be, your loyal and devoted friend,

‘Charlotte Brontë.

‘Charlotte Brontë.

‘P.S.—You ask me to stay a month when I come, but as I do not wish to tire you with my company, and as, besides, papa and aunt both think a fortnight amply sufficient, I shall not exceed that period.  Farewell, dearest, dearest.’

P.S.—You want me to stay a month when I come, but since I don’t want to wear out my welcome, and both Dad and Aunt think two weeks is plenty, I won’t stay longer than that. Goodbye, my dearest, my dearest.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Roe Head, September 10th, 1835.

‘Roe Head, September 10th, 1835.

‘My dear Ellen,—You are far too kind and frequent in your invitations.  You puzzle me: I hardly know how to refuse, and it is still more embarrassing to accept.  At any rate, I cannot come this week, for we are in the very thickest mêlée of the repetitions; I was hearing the terrible fifth section when your note arrived.  But Miss Wooler says I must go to Gomersall next Friday as she promised for me on Whitsunday; and on Sunday morning I will join you at church, if it be convenient, and stay at Rydings till Monday morning.  There’s a free and easy proposal!  Miss Wooler has driven me to it—she says her character is implicated!  I am very sorry to hear that your mother has been ill.  I do hope she is better now, and that all the rest of the family are well.  Will you be so kind as to deliver the accompanying note to Miss Taylor when you see her at church on Sunday?  Dear Ellen, excuse the most horrid scrawl ever penned by mortal hands.  Remember me to your mother and sisters, and—Believe me, E. Nussey’s friend,

My dear Ellen,—You are way too kind and often invite me. You confuse me: I barely know how to say no, and it's even more awkward to say yes. Anyway, I can't come this week because we're in the middle of rehearsals; I was just listening to the terrible fifth section when your note arrived. But Miss Wooler insists I go to Gomersall next Friday since she promised for me on Whitsunday; and on Sunday morning, I’ll join you at church if that works for you, and stay at Rydings until Monday morning. That’s a pretty casual arrangement! Miss Wooler has pushed me into it—she says her reputation is at stake! I'm really sorry to hear that your mother has been unwell. I hope she’s better now and that the rest of the family is doing well. Could you please deliver the note to Miss Taylor when you see her at church on Sunday? Dear Ellen, I apologize for the most awful handwriting ever made by human hands. Please say hi to your mother and sisters for me, and—Believe me, E. Nussey’s friend,

‘Charlotte.’

‘Charlotte.’

p. 213TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 213TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘February 20th, 1837.

‘February 20th, 1837.

‘I read your letter with dismay, Ellen—what shall I do without you?  Why are we so to be denied each other’s society?  It is an inscrutable fatality.  I long to be with you because it seems as if two or three days or weeks spent in your company would beyond measure strengthen me in the enjoyment of those feelings which I have so lately begun to cherish.  You first pointed out to me that way in which I am so feebly endeavouring to travel, and now I cannot keep you by my side, I must proceed sorrowfully alone.

‘I read your letter with disappointment, Ellen—what will I do without you? Why are we denied each other’s company? It feels like some inexplicable fate. I really want to be with you because it seems that just two or three days or weeks in your presence would immensely strengthen the feelings I've recently started to cherish. You were the one who showed me the path I’m now struggling to walk, and now that I can’t have you by my side, I have to move forward sadly on my own.

‘Why are we to be divided?  Surely, Ellen, it must be because we are in danger of loving each other too well—of losing sight of the Creator in idolatry of the creature.  At first I could not say, “Thy will be done.”  I felt rebellious; but I know it was wrong to feel so.  Being left a moment alone this morning I prayed fervently to be enabled to resign myself to every decree of God’s will—though it should be dealt forth with a far severer hand than the present disappointment.  Since then, I have felt calmer and humbler—and consequently happier.  Last Sunday I took up my Bible in a gloomy frame of mind; I began to read; a feeling stole over me such as I have not known for many long years—a sweet placid sensation like those that I remember used to visit me when I was a little child, and on Sunday evenings in summer stood by the open window reading the life of a certain French nobleman who attained a purer and higher degree of sanctity than has been known since the days of the early Martyrs.  I thought of my own Ellen—I wished she had been near me that I might have told her how happy I was, how bright and glorious the pages of God’s holy word seemed to me.  But the “foretaste” passed away, and earth and sin returned.  I must see you before you go, Ellen; if you cannot come to Roe Head I will contrive to walk over to Brookroyd, provided you will let me know the time of your departure.  Should you not be at home at Easter I dare not promise to accept your mother’s and sisters’ invitation.  p. 214I should be miserable at Brookroyd without you, yet I would contrive to visit them for a few hours if I could not for a few days.  I love them for your sake.  I have written this note at a venture.  When it will reach you I know not, but I was determined not to let slip an opportunity for want of being prepared to embrace it.  Farewell, may God bestow on you all His blessings.  My darling—Farewell.  Perhaps you may return before midsummer—do you think you possibly can?  I wish your brother John knew how unhappy I am; he would almost pity me.

‘Why are we being separated? Surely, Ellen, it must be because we're at risk of loving each other too much—of losing sight of the Creator by idolizing the creature. At first, I couldn't bring myself to say, “Thy will be done.” I felt rebellious, but I know that feeling was wrong. When I was briefly alone this morning, I prayed earnestly to submit myself to every decree of God’s will—even if it meant facing a harsher reality than the disappointment I'm feeling now. Since then, I've felt calmer, more humble, and, as a result, happier. Last Sunday, I picked up my Bible when I was in a gloomy mood. As I started reading, an overwhelming feeling washed over me, one that I haven’t experienced in many years—a sweet, peaceful sensation like those I remember from my childhood when I stood by the open window on summer Sunday evenings, reading about a French nobleman who achieved a purer and higher level of sanctity than has been known since the early Martyrs. I thought of my own Ellen—I wished she were here so I could share with her how happy I am, how bright and glorious the pages of God's holy word seemed to me. But that feeling soon faded, and reality and sin returned. I need to see you before you leave, Ellen; if you can’t come to Roe Head, I’ll manage to walk over to Brookroyd, as long as you let me know when you're leaving. If you’re not home by Easter, I can’t promise I’ll accept your mother’s and sisters' invitation. p. 214I would be miserable at Brookroyd without you, yet I would make an effort to visit them for a few hours if I couldn't manage a few days. I love them for your sake. I’ve written this note on a whim. I don’t know when it will reach you, but I was determined not to miss an opportunity just because I wasn’t prepared. Farewell, may God grant you all His blessings. My dear—Farewell. Perhaps you’ll return before midsummer—do you think that's possible? I wish your brother John knew how unhappy I am; he might actually feel sorry for me.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 8th, 1837.

‘June 8th, 1837.

‘My dearest Ellen,—The inclosed, as you will perceive, was written before I received your last.  I had intended to send it by this, but what you said altered my intention.  I scarce dare build a hope on the foundation your letter lays—we have been disappointed so often, and I fear I shall not be able to prevail on them to part with you; but I will try my utmost, and at any rate there is a chance of our meeting soon; with that thought I will comfort myself.  You do not know how selfishly glad I am that you still continue to dislike London and the Londoners—it seems to afford a sort of proof that your affections are not changed.  Shall we really stand once again together on the moors of Haworth?  I dare not flatter myself with too sanguine an expectation.  I see many doubts and difficulties.  But with Miss Wooler’s leave, which I have asked and in part obtained, I will go to-morrow and try to remove them.—Believe me, my own Ellen, yours always truly,

My dearest Ellen,—The enclosed letter, as you'll notice, was written before I got your last one. I planned to send it with this, but what you said changed my mind. I can hardly allow myself to hope based on what your letter suggests—we’ve faced disappointment so many times before, and I worry I won't be able to convince them to let you go; but I will do my best, and at least there’s a chance we could meet soon; that thought will keep me going. You have no idea how selfishly happy I am that you still seem to dislike London and its people—it feels like proof that your feelings haven’t changed. Will we really stand together again on the moors of Haworth? I can’t let myself be too optimistic. I see many doubts and challenges ahead. But with Miss Wooler’s permission, which I have requested and partially received, I will go tomorrow and try to clear them up.—Believe me, my own Ellen, yours always truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 12th, 1839.

‘January 12th, 1839.

‘My dear kind Ellen,—I can hardly help laughing when I reckon up the number of urgent invitations I have received from you during the last three months.  Had I accepted all or even half of them, the Birstallians would certainly have concluded that I had come to make Brookroyd my permanent residence.  When you set your mind upon it, you have a peculiar way of edging one p. 215in with a circle of dilemmas, so that they hardly know how to refuse you; however, I shall take a running leap and clear them all.  Frankly, my dear Ellen, I cannot come.  Reflect for yourself a moment.  Do you see nothing absurd in the idea of a person coming again into a neighbourhood within a month after they have taken a solemn and formal leave of all their acquaintance?  However, I thank both you and your mother for the invitation, which was most kindly expressed.  You give no answer to my proposal that you should come to Haworth with the Taylors.  I still think it would be your best plan.  I wish you and the Taylors were safely here; there is no pleasure to be had without toiling for it.  You must invite me no more, my dear Ellen, until next Midsummer at the nearest.  All here desire to be remembered to you, aunt particularly.  Angry though you are, I will venture to sign myself as usual (no, not as usual, but as suits circumstances).—Yours, under a cloud,

My dear kind Ellen,—I can barely stop myself from laughing when I count up all the urgent invitations I've received from you over the last three months. If I had accepted even half of them, the people of Birstall would definitely think I had moved to Brookroyd for good. When you set your mind to something, you have a unique way of surrounding someone with a circle of dilemmas, making it almost impossible for them to say no; however, I’m going to take a leap and get out of this. Honestly, my dear Ellen, I can't come. Just think about it for a moment. Doesn't it seem a bit ridiculous for someone to return to a neighborhood just a month after saying formal goodbyes to everyone? Still, I appreciate both you and your mother for the kind invitation. You haven’t responded to my suggestion that you come to Haworth with the Taylors. I really believe that would be the best plan for you. I wish you and the Taylors were safely here; there’s no fun to be had without putting in the effort. Please don’t invite me again, my dear Ellen, until next Midsummer at the earliest. Everyone here sends their regards, especially your aunt. Even though you’re upset, I’ll still sign off as usual (well, not exactly as usual, but as fits the situation).—Yours, under a cloud,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 5th, 1838.

‘May 5th, 1838.

‘My dearest Ellen,—Yesterday I heard that you were ill.  Mr. and Miss Heald were at Dewsbury Moor, and it was from them I obtained the information.  This morning I set off to Brookroyd to learn further particulars, from whence I am but just returned.  Your mother is in great distress about you, she can hardly mention your name without tears; and both she and Mercy wish very much to see you at home again.  Poor girl, you have been a fortnight confined to your bed; and while I was blaming you in my own mind for not writing, you were suffering in sickness without one kind female friend to watch over you.  I should have heard all this before and have hastened to express my sympathy with you in this crisis had I been able to visit Brookroyd in the Easter holidays, but an unexpected summons back to Dewsbury Moor, in consequence of the illness and death of Mr. Wooler, prevented it.  Since that time I have been a fortnight and two days quite alone, Miss Wooler being detained in the interim at Rouse Mill.  You p. 216will now see, Ellen, that it was not neglect or failure of affection which has occasioned my silence, though I fear you will long ago have attributed it to those causes.  If you are well enough, do write to me just two lines—just to assure me of your convalescence; not a word, however, if it would harm you—not a syllable.  They value you at home.  Sickness and absence call forth expressions of attachment which might have remained long enough unspoken if their object had been present and well.  I wish your friends (I include myself in that word) may soon cease to have cause for so painful an excitement of their regard.  As yet I have but an imperfect idea of the nature of your illness—of its extent—or of the degree in which it may now have subsided.  When you can let me know all, no particular, however minute, will be uninteresting to me.  How have your spirits been?  I trust not much overclouded, for that is the most melancholy result of illness.  You are not, I understand, going to Bath at present; they seem to have arranged matters strangely.  When I parted from you near White-lee Bar, I had a more sorrowful feeling than ever I experienced before in our temporary separations.  It is foolish to dwell too much on the idea of presentiments, but I certainly had a feeling that the time of our reunion had never been so indefinite or so distant as then.  I doubt not, my dear Ellen, that amidst your many trials, amidst the sufferings that you have of late felt in yourself, and seen in several of your relations, you have still been able to look up and find support in trial, consolation in affliction, and repose in tumult, where human interference can make no change.  I think you know in the right spirit how to withdraw yourself from the vexation, the care, the meanness of life, and to derive comfort from purer sources than this world can afford.  You know how to do it silently, unknown to others, and can avail yourself of that hallowed communion the Bible gives us with God.  I am charged to transmit your mother’s and sister’s love.  Receive mine in the same parcel, I think it will scarcely be the smallest share.  Farewell, my dear Ellen.

My dearest Ellen,—Yesterday I heard that you were unwell. Mr. and Miss Heald were at Dewsbury Moor, and I got the news from them. This morning I went to Brookroyd to find out more, and I just returned. Your mom is really upset about you; she can barely say your name without crying, and both she and Mercy really want to see you back home. Poor girl, you've been stuck in bed for two weeks, and while I was quietly blaming you for not writing, you were suffering from sickness without a single kind female friend to take care of you. I wish I had known all this sooner and could have rushed to show my sympathy during this tough time; I would’ve visited Brookroyd during the Easter holidays, but an unexpected call back to Dewsbury Moor because of Mr. Wooler's illness and death stopped me. Since then, I've been completely alone for the past two weeks and two days, with Miss Wooler being held up at Rouse Mill. You p. 216can see, Ellen, that my silence wasn't due to neglect or lack of affection, though I’m afraid you’ve likely thought that by now. If you’re feeling well enough, please write me just a couple of lines—just to reassure me that you’re recovering; but not a word if it would hurt you—not a syllable. They care about you at home. Illness and separation bring out feelings of attachment that might have remained unspoken if you were present and healthy. I hope your friends (and I include myself in that) will soon have no reason to feel this painful worry. So far, I have only a vague understanding of your illness—its severity—or how much it may have improved now. When you can, please let me know everything; no detail, however small, will be uninteresting to me. How have your spirits been? I hope they haven’t been too low, since that’s the saddest outcome of being sick. I understand you're not going to Bath right now; it seems they’ve arranged things strangely. When I said goodbye to you near White-lee Bar, I felt sadder than ever before in our temporary separations. It’s silly to dwell too long on feelings of premonition, but I truly felt that our reunion felt more uncertain and distant than it ever had before. I have no doubt, my dear Ellen, that despite your many challenges, amidst the suffering you’ve felt and seen in yourself and some of your family members, you’ve still found strength during trials, comfort in affliction, and peace in chaos, where nothing human can change. I think you know the right way to step away from the worries, stresses, and pettiness of life and draw comfort from the purer sources that this world can’t provide. You seem to do it quietly and without others knowing, and you can take solace in the sacred connection the Bible offers us with God. I’ve been asked to send your mother’s and sister’s love. Please accept mine in the same package; I think it will be hardly the smallest share. Goodbye, my dear Ellen.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 217TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 217TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 15th, 1840.

‘May 15th, 1840.

‘My dear Ellen,—I read your last letter with a great deal of interest.  Perhaps it is not always well to tell people when we approve of their actions, and yet it is very pleasant to do so; and as, if you had done wrongly, I hope I should have had honesty enough to tell you so, so now, as you have done rightly, I shall gratify myself by telling you what I think.

My dear Ellen,—I read your last letter with great interest. Maybe it's not always a good idea to tell people when we agree with their choices, but it feels great to do so; and since I hope I would have been honest enough to tell you if you had made a wrong choice, now that you've done the right thing, I'll take the opportunity to share my thoughts.

‘If I made you my father confessor I could reveal weaknesses which you do not dream of.  I do not mean to intimate that I attach a high value to empty compliments, but a word of panegyric has often made me feel a sense of confused pleasure which it required my strongest effort to conceal—and on the other hand, a hasty expression which I could construe into neglect or disapprobation has tortured me till I have lost half a night’s rest from its rankling pangs.

‘If I confided in you like a father confessor, I could reveal weaknesses that you can’t even imagine. I don’t mean to suggest that I place a high value on empty compliments, but a kind word of praise has often given me a confusing sense of pleasure that I had to work hard to hide—and, on the other hand, a quick comment that I could see as neglect or disapproval has tortured me to the point where I’ve lost half a night’s sleep from its lingering pain.

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘P.S.—Don’t talk any more of sending for me—when I come I will send myself.  All send their love to you.  I have no prospect of a situation any more than of going to the moon.  Write to me again as soon as you can.’

P.S.—Stop mentioning the idea of sending for me—when I come, I’ll arrive on my own. Everyone sends their love to you. I have no chance of getting a job any more than I do of going to the moon. Write to me again as soon as you can.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 14th, 1840.

‘August 14th, 1840.

‘My dear Ellen,—As you only sent me a note, I shall only send you one, and that not out of revenge, but because like you I have but little to say.  The freshest news in our house is that we had, a fortnight ago, a visit from some of our South of England relations, John Branwell and his wife and daughter.  They have been staying above a month with Uncle Fennell at Crosstone.  They reckon to be very grand folks indeed, and p. 218talk largely—I thought assumingly.  I cannot say I much admired them.  To my eyes there seemed to be an attempt to play the great Mogul down in Yorkshire.  Mr. Branwell was much less assuming than the womenites; he seemed a frank, sagacious kind of man, very tall and vigorous, with a keen active look.  The moment he saw me he exclaimed that I was the very image of my aunt Charlotte.  Mrs. Branwell sets up for being a woman of great talent, tact, and accomplishment.  I thought there was much more noise than work.  My cousin Eliza is a young lady intended by nature to be a bouncing, good-looking girl—art has trained her to be a languishing, affected piece of goods.  I would have been friendly with her, but I could get no talk except about the Low Church, Evangelical clergy, the Millennium, Baptist Noel, botany, and her own conversion.  A mistaken education has utterly spoiled the lass.  Her face tells that she is naturally good-natured, though perhaps indolent.  Her affectations were so utterly out of keeping with her round rosy face and tall bouncing figure, I could hardly refrain from laughing as I watched her.  Write a long letter next time and I’ll write you ditto.  Good-bye.’

My dear Ellen,—Since you only sent me a note, I’m sending one back, not out of spite, but because, like you, I don’t have much to say. The latest news from our place is that two weeks ago, we had a visit from some relatives from the South of England, John Branwell and his wife and daughter. They’ve been staying with Uncle Fennell at Crosstone for over a month. They think quite highly of themselves and p. 218talk a lot—perhaps too much for my taste. I can’t say I was very impressed. It seemed to me like they were trying to show off in Yorkshire. Mr. Branwell was much more down-to-earth than the women; he appeared to be a straightforward, wise man, tall and strong, with a keen, lively expression. As soon as he saw me, he exclaimed that I looked just like my aunt Charlotte. Mrs. Branwell considers herself a woman of great talent, charm, and skill. I thought there was more talk than real substance. My cousin Eliza is the kind of young woman who should naturally be lively and attractive—yet her upbringing has turned her into a pretentious, delicate thing. I would have liked to get along with her, but I could hardly get her to talk about anything other than the Low Church, Evangelical clergy, the Millennium, Baptist Noel, botany, and her own conversion. A misguided education has really messed her up. Her face shows that she’s naturally good-hearted, although maybe a bit lazy. Her pretentiousness was so out of place with her round, rosy face and tall, lively figure that I could barely keep from laughing as I watched her. Write me a long letter next time, and I’ll write you one back. Goodbye.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, February 10th, 1844.

‘Haworth, February 10th, 1844.

‘Dear Ellen,—I cannot tell what occupies your thoughts and time.  Are you ill?  Is some one of your family ill?  Are you married?  Are you dead?  If it be so, you may as well write a word and let me know—for my part, I am again in old England.  I shall tell you nothing further till you write to me.

Dear Ellen,—I can't guess what's going on with you or how you're spending your time. Are you unwell? Is someone in your family sick? Are you married? Have you passed away? If so, you might as well drop me a note to let me know— as for me, I'm back in England now. I won’t say anything more until I hear from you.

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Write to me directly, that is a good girl; I feel really anxious, and have felt so for a long time to hear from you.’

‘Please write to me directly, that would be lovely; I’ve been really anxious, and I’ve felt this way for a long time, to hear from you.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 7th, 1844.

‘April 7th, 1844.

‘Dear Nell,—I have received your note.  It communicated a piece of good news which I certainly did not expect to hear.  I want, however, further enlightenment on the subject.  Can you tell me what has caused the change in Mary’s plans, and brought her so suddenly back to England?  Is it on account of Mary Dixon?  Is it the wish of her brother, or is it her own determination?  I hope, whatever the reason be, it is nothing which can give her uneasiness or do her harm.  Do you know how long she is likely to stay in England? or when she arrives at Hunsworth?

Dear Nell,—I received your note. It brought some wonderful news that completely took me by surprise. However, I need more details on the situation. Can you explain what led to the change in Mary's plans and why she returned to England so suddenly? Is it related to Mary Dixon? Is it her brother's decision, or is it her own? I hope that whatever the reason, it isn't anything that will cause her stress or harm. Do you know how long she’s expected to stay in England? Or when she’ll arrive in Hunsworth?

‘You ask how I am.  I really have felt much better the last week—I think my visit to Brookroyd did me good.  What delightful weather we have had lately.  I wish we had had such while I was with you.  Emily and I walk out a good deal on the moors, to the great damage of our shoes, but I hope to the benefit of our health.

‘You asked how I'm doing. I’ve actually felt much better this past week—I think visiting Brookroyd made a difference. We've had such lovely weather lately. I wish we could have enjoyed it together while I was with you. Emily and I have been walking a lot on the moors, which has really worn out our shoes, but I hope it’s good for our health.

‘Good-bye, dear Ellen.  Send me another of your little notes soon.  Kindest regards to all,

‘Goodbye, dear Ellen. Please send me another one of your little notes soon. Best wishes to everyone,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 9th, 1844.

‘June 9th, 1844.

‘My dear Ellen,—Anne and Branwell are now at home, and they and Emily add their request to mine, that you will join us at the beginning of next week.  Write and let us know what day you will come, and how—if by coach, we will meet you at Keighley.  Do not let your visit be later than the beginning of next week, or you will see little of Anne and Branwell as their holidays are very short.  They will soon have to join the family at Scarborough.  Remember me kindly to your mother and sisters.  I hope they are all well.

My dear Ellen,—Anne and Branwell are back home now, and they, along with Emily, are inviting you to join us at the beginning of next week. Please write back and let us know what day you plan to come and how you’ll be traveling—if you’re taking the coach, we’ll meet you in Keighley. Try not to let your visit be any later than the start of next week, or you won’t have much time with Anne and Branwell since their break is really short. They'll soon need to return to their family in Scarborough. Please give my best to your mother and sisters. I hope they’re all well.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

p. 220TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 220TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 14th, 1844.

‘November 14th, 1844.

‘Dear Ellen,—Your letter came very apropos, as, indeed, your letters always do; but this morning I had something of a headache, and was consequently rather out of spirits, and the epistle (scarcely legible though it be—excuse a rub) cheered me.  In order to evince my gratitude, as well as to please my own inclination, I sit down to answer it immediately.  I am glad, in the first place, to hear that your brother is going to be married, and still more so to learn that his wife-elect has a handsome fortune—not that I advocate marrying for money in general, but I think in many cases (and this is one) money is a very desirable contingent of matrimony.

Dear Ellen,—Your letter arrived just when I needed it, as your letters always do; but I had a bit of a headache this morning and was feeling a bit down, and your note (though hard to read—sorry about that) really lifted my spirits. To show my appreciation, and because I want to, I’m writing back right away. First of all, I’m glad to hear that your brother is getting married, and even happier to learn that his fiancée comes from a nice family—not that I usually believe people should marry for money, but in many cases (including this one), having money is a very nice bonus when it comes to marriage.

‘I wonder when Mary Taylor is expected in England.  I trust you will be at home while she is at Hunsworth, and that you, she, and I, may meet again somewhere under the canopy of heaven.  I cannot, dear Ellen, make any promise about myself and Anne going to Brookroyd at Christmas; her vacations are so short she would grudge spending any part of them from home.

‘I’m curious when Mary Taylor is expected to arrive in England. I hope you’ll be at home while she’s in Hunsworth, and that the three of us can meet again somewhere outdoors. I can’t, dear Ellen, promise that Anne and I will go to Brookroyd for Christmas; her breaks are so short, she wouldn’t want to spend any time away from home.

‘The catastrophe, which you related so calmly, about your book-muslin dress, lace bertha, etc., convulsed me with cold shudderings of horror.  You have reason to curse the day when so fatal a present was offered you as that infamous little “varmint.”  The perfect serenity with which you endured the disaster proves most fully to me that you would make the best wife, mother, and mistress in the world.  You and Anne are a pair for marvellous philosophical powers of endurance; no spoilt dinners, scorched linen, dirtied carpets, torn sofa-covers, squealing brats, cross husbands, would ever discompose either of you.  You ought never to marry a good-tempered man, it would be mingling honey with sugar, like sticking white roses upon a black-thorn cudgel.  With this very picturesque metaphor I close my letter.  Good-bye, and write very soon.

‘The disaster you described so calmly about your book-muslin dress, lace bertha, etc., sent chills down my spine. You have every reason to curse the day that little “varmint” came into your life. The complete calmness with which you handled the situation shows me clearly that you would be an amazing wife, mother, and homemaker. You and Anne have a remarkable ability to endure; no ruined dinners, scorched linens, dirty carpets, torn sofa covers, screaming kids, or grumpy husbands would ever rattle either of you. You should never marry a good-tempered man; it would be like mixing honey with sugar, like putting white roses on a black-thorn cudgel. With that colorful metaphor, I’ll end my letter. Goodbye, and write back soon.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 10th, 1845.

‘June 10th, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen,—It is very vexatious for you to have had to go to Sheffield in vain.  I am glad to hear that there is an omnibus on Thursday, and I have told Emily and Anne I will try to come on that day.  The opening of the railroad is now postponed till July 7th.  I should not like to put you off again, and for that and some other reasons they have decided to give up the idea of going to Scarbro’, and instead, to make a little excursion next Monday and Tuesday, to Ilkley or elsewhere.  I hope no other obstacle will arise to prevent my going to Hathersage.  I do long to be with you, and I feel nervously afraid of being prevented, or put off in some way.  Branwell only stayed a week with us, but he is to come home again when the family go to Scarboro’.  I will write to Brookroyd directly.  Yesterday I had a little note from Henry inviting me to go to see you.  This is one of your contrivances, for which you deserve smothering.  You have written to Henry to tell him to write to me.  Do you think I stood on ceremony about the matter?

Dear Ellen,—It’s really frustrating that you had to go to Sheffield for nothing. I’m glad to hear there’s a bus on Thursday, and I’ve told Emily and Anne that I’ll try to come that day. The opening of the railroad has now been postponed to July 7th. I don’t want to let you down again, so for that reason and a few others, they’ve decided to skip the trip to Scarborough and instead take a little trip next Monday and Tuesday to Ilkley or somewhere else. I hope nothing else comes up that stops me from going to Hathersage. I really want to be with you, and I feel anxious that something will prevent it or delay me. Branwell only stayed with us for a week, but he’ll be back when the family goes to Scarborough. I’ll write to Brookroyd right away. Yesterday I got a little note from Henry inviting me to see you. This is one of your schemes, and you deserve to be smothered for it. You told Henry to write to me, didn’t you? Did you think I was going to be formal about it?

p. 222‘The French papers have ceased to come.  Good-bye for the present.

p. 222‘The French newspapers have stopped arriving. Goodbye for now.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MRS. NUSSEY

TO MRS. NUSSEY

‘July 23rd, 1845.

‘July 23rd, 1845.

‘My dear Mrs. Nussey,—I lose no time after my return home in writing to you and offering you my sincere thanks for the kindness with which you have repeatedly invited me to go and stay a few days at Brookroyd.  It would have given me great pleasure to have gone, had it been only for a day, just to have seen you and Miss Mercy (Miss Nussey I suppose is not at home) and to have been introduced to Mrs. Henry, but I have stayed so long with Ellen at Hathersage that I could not possibly now go to Brookroyd.  I was expected at home; and after all home should always have the first claim on our attention.  When I reached home (at ten o’clock on Saturday night) I found papa, I am thankful to say, pretty well, but he thought I had been a long time away.

My dear Mrs. Nussey,—I wanted to write to you right away after I got home to sincerely thank you for your kind invitations to stay with you at Brookroyd. I would have loved to come, even if just for a day, to see you and Miss Mercy (I assume Miss Nussey is not at home) and to meet Mrs. Henry. However, I stayed with Ellen at Hathersage for so long that I couldn't possibly make it to Brookroyd now. I was expected at home, and after all, home should always come first. When I got home (at ten o’clock on Saturday night), I was glad to find that Papa was pretty well, but he did think I had been gone a long time.

‘I left Ellen well, and she had generally good health while I stayed with her, but she is very anxious about matters of business, and apprehensive lest things should not be comfortable against the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Henry—she is so desirous that the day of their arrival at Hathersage should be a happy one to both.

‘I left Ellen in good shape, and she was generally healthy while I was with her, but she’s really worried about business matters and concerned that everything won’t be comfortable when Mr. and Mrs. Henry arrive—she’s so eager for their arrival day at Hathersage to be a happy one for both of them.

‘I hope, my dear Mrs. Nussey, you are well; and I should be very happy to receive a little note either from you or from Miss Mercy to assure me of this.—Believe me, yours affectionately and sincerely,

‘I hope, my dear Mrs. Nussey, that you are well; and I would be very happy to receive a little note from you or Miss Mercy to let me know this.—Believe me, yours affectionately and sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘July 24th, 1845.

‘July 24th, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen,—A series of toothaches, prolonged and severe, bothering me both day and night, have kept me very stupid of late, and prevented me from writing to you.  More than once I have sat down and opened my desk, but have not been able to get up to par.  To-day, after a night of fierce pain, I am better—much better, and I take advantage of the interval of p. 223ease to discharge my debt.  I wish I had £50 to spare at present, and that you, Emily, Anne, and I were all at liberty to leave home without our absence being detrimental to any body.  How pleasant to set off en masse to the seaside, and stay there a few weeks, taking in a stock of health and strength.—We could all do with recreation.  Adversity agrees with you, Ellen.  Your good qualities are never so obvious as when under the pressure of affliction.  Continued prosperity might develope too much a certain germ of ambition latent in your character.  I saw this little germ putting out green shoots when I was staying with you at Hathersage.  It was not then obtrusive, and perhaps might never become so.  Your good sense, firm principle, and kind feeling might keep it down.  Holding down my head does not suit my toothache.  Give my love to your mother and sisters.  Write again as soon as may be.—Yours faithfully,

Dear Ellen,—I've been dealing with a series of toothaches that have been bad enough to keep me out of it both day and night, which has stopped me from writing to you. More than once, I've sat down to write but just couldn't get it together. Today, after a painful night, I'm feeling better—much better—and I'm taking this chance to write back. I wish I had £50 to spare right now, and that you, Emily, Anne, and I could all leave home without it causing any issues for anyone. How great would it be to head to the seaside together and spend a few weeks there, soaking up some health and strength? We could all use a break. You've handled tough times well, Ellen. Your best qualities shine through during hard times. If things were always good for you, that little bit of ambition in you might grow too much. I noticed that little ambition starting to show when I was with you in Hathersage. It wasn't overwhelming then and might never become so, thanks to your good sense, strong principles, and kindness. Unfortunately, leaning my head down doesn’t help my toothache. Please give my love to your mom and sisters. Write back as soon as you can.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 18th, 1845.

‘August 18th, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen,—I am writing to you, not because I have anything to tell you, but because I want you to write to me.  I am glad to see that you were pleased with your new sister.  When I was at Hathersage you were talking of writing to Mary Taylor.  I have lately written to her a brief, shabby epistle of which I am ashamed, but I found when I began to write I had really very little to say.  I sent the letter to Hunsworth, and I suppose it will go sometime.  You must write to me soon, a long letter.  Remember me respectfully to Mr. and Mrs. Henry Nussey.  Give my love to Miss R.—Yours,

‘Dear Ellen,—I’m writing to you, not because I have anything specific to share, but because I want you to write back to me. I'm happy to hear that you liked your new sister. When I was at Hathersage, you mentioned that you were going to write to Mary Taylor. I've recently sent her a short, poorly written letter that I’m embarrassed about, but I realized when I started writing that I had very little to say. I sent the letter to Hunsworth, so it should arrive eventually. You need to write to me soon, a long letter. Please say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Henry Nussey for me. Send my love to Miss R.—Yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘December 14th, 1845.

‘December 14th, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen,—I was glad to get your last note, though it was so short and crusty.  Three weeks had elapsed without my having heard a word from you, and I began to fear some new misfortune had occurred.  I was relieved to find such was not the case.  Anne is obliged by the kind regret you express at p. 224not being able to ask her to Brookroyd.  She wishes you could come to Haworth.  Do you scold me out of habit, or are you really angry?  In either case it is all nonsense.  You know as well as I do that to go to Brookroyd is always a pleasure to me, and that to one who has so little change, and so few friends as I have, it must be a great pleasure, but I am not at all times in the mood or circumstances to take my pleasure.  I wish so much to see you, that I shall certainly sometime after New Year’s Day, if all be well, be going over to Birstall.  Now I could not go if I would.  If you think I stand upon ceremony in this matter, you miscalculate sadly.  I have known you, and your mother and sisters, too long to be ceremonious with any of you.  Invite me no more now, till I invite myself—be too proud to trouble yourself; and if, when at last I mention coming (for I shall give you warning), it does not happen to suit you, tell me so, with quiet hauteur.  I should like a long letter next time.  No more lovers’ quarrels.

Dear Ellen,—I was happy to receive your last note, even though it was brief and a bit sharp. Three weeks went by without hearing from you, and I started to worry something bad had happened. I was relieved to find that wasn’t the case. Anne appreciates your kind regret about not being able to invite her to Brookroyd. She wishes you could come to Haworth. Are you scolding me out of habit, or are you really upset? Either way, it’s all nonsense. You know as well as I do that going to Brookroyd is always a pleasure for me, and for someone like me—who has so little change and so few friends—it must be a great pleasure, but I’m not always in the right mood or situation to enjoy it. I really want to see you, so I will definitely come over to Birstall sometime after New Year’s Day if all goes well. Right now, I could not go even if I wanted to. If you think I’m being formal about this, you’re mistaken. I’ve known you, your mother, and your sisters for too long to be formal with any of you. Don’t invite me again until I invite myself—don’t worry about it; and if, when I finally mention coming (and I will give you a heads-up), it doesn’t work for you, just let me know calmly. I’d like a long letter next time. No more lovers’ quarrels.

‘Good-bye.  Best love to your mother and sisters.

‘Goodbye. Best wishes to your mom and sisters.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 28th, 1847.

‘January 28th, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen,—Long may you look young and handsome enough to dress in white, dear, and long may you have a right to feel the consciousness that you look agreeable.  I know you have too much judgment to let an overdose of vanity spoil the blessing and turn it into a misfortune.  After all though, age will come on, and it is well you have something better than a nice face for friends to turn to when that is changed.  I hope this excessively cold weather has not harmed you or yours much.  It has nipped me severely, taken away my appetite for a while and given me toothache; in short, put me in the ailing condition, in which I have more than once had the honour of making myself such a nuisance both at Brookroyd and Hunsworth.  The consequence is that at this present speaking I look almost old enough to be your mother—grey, sunk, and withered.  To-day, however, it is milder, and I hope soon to feel better; indeed I am not ill now, and my toothache is now subsided, but I p. 225experience a loss of strength and a deficiency of spirit which would make me a sorry companion to you or any one else.  I would not be on a visit now for a large sum of money.

Dear Ellen,—May you always look young and attractive enough to wear white, my dear, and may you always feel good about how you look. I know you're too sensible to let too much vanity ruin this blessing and turn it into a burden. Still, age will catch up with all of us, and it’s good that you have something more than a pretty face for your friends to rely on when that changes. I hope this freezing weather hasn’t affected you or your loved ones too much. It has really hit me hard, taken away my appetite for a bit, and given me a toothache; in short, I've found myself feeling unwell, making a nuisance of myself more than once at Brookroyd and Hunsworth. As a result, right now I look almost old enough to be your mother—grey, tired, and worn out. Today, though, it’s milder, and I hope to feel better soon; in fact, I’m not ill right now, and my toothache has eased up, but I p. 225feel weak and low-spirited, which would make me a poor companion for you or anyone else. I wouldn’t want to be visiting now for any amount of money.

‘Write soon.  Give my best love to your mother and sisters.—Good-bye, dear Nell,

‘Write soon. Give my love to your mom and sisters.—Goodbye, dear Nell,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 21st, 1847.

‘April 21st, 1847.

‘Dear Nell,—I am very much obliged to you for your gift, which you must not undervalue, for I like the articles; they look extremely pretty and light.  They are for wrist frills, are they not?  Will you condescend to accept a yard of lace made up into nothing?  I thought I would not offer to spoil it by stitching it into any shape.  Your creative fingers will turn it to better account than my destructive ones.  I hope, such as it is, they will not peck it out of the envelope at the Bradford Post-office, where they generally take the liberty of opening letters when they feel soft as if they contained articles.  I had forgotten all about your birthday and mine, till your letter arrived to remind me of it.  I wish you many happy returns of yours.  Of course your visit to Haworth must be regulated by Miss Ringrose’s movements.  I was rather amused at your fearing I should be jealous.  I never thought of it.  She and I could not be rivals in your affections.  You allot her, I know, a different set of feelings to what you allot me.  She is amiable and estimable, I am not amiable, but still we shall stick to the last I don’t doubt.  In short, I should as soon think of being jealous of Emily and Anne in these days as of you.  If Miss Ringrose does not come to Brookroyd about Whitsuntide, I should like you to come.  I shall feel a good deal disappointed if the visit is put off—I would rather Miss Ringrose fixed her time in summer, and then I would come to see you (D.V.) in the autumn.  I don’t think it will be at all a good plan to go back with you.  We see each other so seldom, that I would far rather divide the visits.  Remember me to all.—Yours faithfully,

Dear Nell,—Thank you so much for your gift, which I truly appreciate and hope you don’t underestimate. I really like the items; they look beautiful and light. They are for wrist frills, right? Would you mind accepting a yard of lace that I haven’t done anything with? I thought it best not to ruin it by trying to shape it. Your talented hands will use it much better than my clumsy ones. I hope, despite everything, that they won’t take it out of the envelope at the Bradford Post-office, where they often open letters if they seem soft, thinking they contain something. I completely forgot about your birthday and mine until your letter reminded me. I wish you many happy returns on yours. Naturally, your visit to Haworth will depend on Miss Ringrose’s plans. I was a bit amused that you thought I might be jealous. I never considered it. She and I could never be rivals for your affection. I know you have a different kind of feelings for her than you do for me. She is kind and admirable, while I'm not exactly kind; yet I know we’ll always stick together. Honestly, I wouldn't even think about being jealous of Emily and Anne these days, let alone you. If Miss Ringrose doesn’t come to Brookroyd around Whitsuntide, I’d love for you to come instead. I would feel quite disappointed if the visit gets postponed—I’d prefer if Miss Ringrose chose a summer date, and then I could visit you (D.V.) in the fall. I don’t think it’s a good idea to return with you. We see each other so infrequently that I'd much rather split the visits. Please send my regards to everyone.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 226TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 226TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 25th, 1847.

‘May 25th, 1847.

‘Dear Nell,—I have a small present for Mercy.  You must fetch it, for I repeat you shall come to Haworth before I go to Brookroyd.

Dear Nell,—I have a small gift for Mercy. You have to get it, because I insist that you come to Haworth before I go to Brookroyd.

‘I do not say this from pique or anger—I am not angry now—but because my leaving home at present would from solid reasons be difficult to manage.  If all be well I will visit you in the autumn, at present I cannot come.  Be assured that if I could come I should, after your last letter, put scruples and pride away and “go over into Macedonia” at once.  I never could manage to help you yet.  You have always found me something like a new servant, who requires to be told where everything is, and shown how everything is to be done.

‘I’m not saying this out of frustration or anger—I’m not angry now—but because leaving home right now would be really tough for me due to practical reasons. If all goes well, I’ll come visit you in the autumn, but at the moment I can’t make it. Rest assured, if I could make it, after your last letter, I would set aside my reservations and “go over into Macedonia” immediately. I’ve never been able to help you yet. You’ve always found me a bit like a new helper who needs to be shown where everything is and how everything is done.

‘My sincere love to your mother and Mercy.—Yours,

‘Much love to your mom and Mercy.—Yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 29th, 1847.

‘May 29th, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen,—Your letter and its contents were most welcome.  You must direct your luggage to Mr. Brontë’s, and we will tell the carrier to inquire for it.  The railroad has been opened some time, but it only comes as far as Keighley.  If you arrive about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, Emily, Anne, and I will all meet you at the station.  We can take tea jovially together at the Devonshire Arms, and walk home in the cool of the evening.  This arrangement will be much better than fagging through four miles in the heat of noon.  Write by return of post if you can, and say if this plan suits you.—Yours,

'Dear Ellen,—Your letter and its contents were a delightful surprise. You should send your luggage to Mr. Brontë’s, and we’ll ask the carrier to look for it. The train has been running for a while now, but it only goes as far as Keighley. If you arrive around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, Emily, Anne, and I will meet you at the station. We can enjoy tea together at the Devonshire Arms and stroll home in the cool evening air. This plan will be much nicer than trudging through four miles in the midday heat. Please write back as soon as you can and let me know if this works for you.—Yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 10th, 1847.

‘November 10th, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen,—The old pang of fearing you should fancy I forget you drives me to write to you, though heaven knows I have precious little to say, and if it were not that I wish to hear from you, and hate to appear disregardful when I am not so, I p. 227might let another week or perhaps two slip away without writing.  There is much in Ruth’s letter that I thought very melancholy.  Poor girls! theirs, I fear, must be a very unhappy home.  Yours and mine, with all disadvantages, all absences of luxury and wealth and style, are, I doubt not, happier.  I wish to goodness you were rich, that you might give her a temporary asylum, and a relief from uneasiness, suffering, and gloom.  What you say about the effects of ether on your sister rather startled me.  I had always consoled myself with the idea of having some teeth extracted some day under its soothing influence, but now I should think twice before I consented to inhale it; one would not like to make a fool of one’s self.—I am, yours faithfully,

Dear Ellen,—The familiar worry that you might think I've forgotten you pushes me to write, even though I really don't have much to say. If it weren't for my desire to hear from you and my reluctance to seem indifferent when I'm not, I could easily let another week or maybe two go by without writing. There's a lot in Ruth's letter that I found quite sad. Poor girls! Their home must be very unhappy, I fear. Yours and mine, despite all their shortcomings, lack of luxury, wealth, and style, are probably happier. I really wish you were wealthy so you could offer her a temporary refuge from her worries, suffering, and sadness. What you mentioned about the effects of ether on your sister surprised me. I had always comforted myself with the thought of getting some teeth pulled one day while under its calming influence, but now I would think twice before agreeing to breathe it in; no one wants to make a fool of themselves.—I am, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 11th, 1848.

‘March 11th, 1848.

‘Dear Ellen,—There is a great deal of good-sense in your last letter.  Be thankful that God gave you sense, for what are beauty, wealth, or even health without it?  I had a note from Miss Ringrose the other day.  I do not think I shall write again, for the reasons I before mentioned to you; but the note moved me much, it was almost all about her dear Ellen, a kind of gentle enthusiasm of affection, enough to make one smile and weep—her feelings are half truth, half illusion.  No human being could be altogether what she supposes you to be, yet your kindness must have been very great.  If one were only rich, how delightful it would be to travel and spend the winter in climates where there are no winters.  Give my love to your mother and sisters.—Believe me, faithfully yours,

Dear Ellen,—Your last letter had a lot of good sense in it. Be grateful that God gave you common sense, because what are beauty, wealth, or even health without it? I received a note from Miss Ringrose the other day. I don’t think I’ll write again, for the reasons I’ve mentioned to you before; but the note really touched me. It was almost entirely about her dear Ellen, filled with a gentle enthusiasm of affection that could make one both smile and cry—her feelings are part truth and part illusion. No one could be exactly what she believes you to be, yet your kindness must have been immense. If only we were rich, how wonderful it would be to travel and spend the winter in places that don’t have winter. Please send my love to your mother and sisters.—Believe me, faithfully yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 22nd, 1848.

‘April 22nd, 1848.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have just received your little parcel, and beg to thank you in all our names for its contents, and also for your letter, of the arrival of which I was, to speak truth, getting rather impatient.

'Dear Ellen,—I just got your little package, and I want to thank you on behalf of all of us for what was inside, and for your letter as well. Honestly, I was starting to get a bit impatient waiting for it.'

‘The housewife’s travelling companion is a most commodious p. 228thing—just the sort of article which suits one to a T, and which yet I should never have the courage or industry to sit down and make for myself.  I shall keep it for occasions of going from home, it will save me a world of trouble.  It must have required some thought to arrange the various compartments and their contents so aptly.  I had quite forgotten till your letter reminded me that it was the anniversary of your birthday and mine.  I am now thirty-two.  Youth is gone—gone—and will never come back; can’t help it.  I wish you many returns of your birthday and increase of happiness with increase of years.  It seems to me that sorrow must come sometime to every body, and those who scarcely taste it in their youth often have a more brimming and bitter cup to drain in after-life; whereas, those who exhaust the dregs early, who drink the lees before the wine, may reasonably expect a purer and more palatable draught to succeed.  So, at least, one fain would hope.  It touched me at first a little painfully to hear of your purposed governessing, but on second thoughts I discovered this to be quite a foolish feeling.  You are doing right even though you should not gain much.  The effort will do you good; no one ever does regret a step towards self-help; it is so much gained in independence.

‘The housewife’s travel companion is a really convenient thing—just the type of item that fits perfectly, and yet I would never have the courage or motivation to make one for myself. I will keep it for trips away from home; it will save me a lot of trouble. It must have taken some thought to organize the different compartments and their contents so well. I had completely forgotten, until your letter reminded me, that it was the anniversary of both your birthday and mine. I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone—gone—and won’t come back; there’s nothing I can do about it. I wish you many happy returns of your birthday and more happiness as the years go by. It seems to me that sorrow must eventually come to everyone, and those who barely experience it in their youth often have a heavier burden to bear later in life. In contrast, those who face difficulties early on and experience the unpleasantness before the good times might reasonably expect a more enjoyable and rewarding experience afterward. At least, that’s what one would hope. I was initially a bit hurt to hear about your plan to become a governess, but on second thoughts, I realized this was a silly reaction. You are making the right choice even if you don’t gain much. The effort will benefit you; no one ever regrets taking a step towards self-sufficiency; it’s a significant gain in independence.’

‘Give my love to your mother and sisters.—Yours faithfully,

‘Send my love to your mom and sisters.—Yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 24th, 1848.

‘May 24th, 1848.

‘Dear Ellen,—I shall begin by telling you that you have no right to be angry at the length of time I have suffered to slip by since receiving your last, without answering it, because you have often kept me waiting much longer; and having made this gracious speech, thereby obviating reproaches, I will add that I think it a great shame when you receive a long and thoroughly interesting letter, full of the sort of details you fully relish, to read the same with selfish pleasure and not even have the manners to thank your correspondent, and express how much you enjoyed the narrative.  I did enjoy the narrative in your last very keenly; the exquisitely characteristic traits p. 229concerning the Bakers were worth gold; just like not only them but all their class—respectable, well-meaning people enough, but with all that petty assumption of dignity, that small jealousy of senseless formalities, which to such people seems to form a second religion.  Your position amongst them was detestable.  I admire the philosophy with which you bore it.  Their taking offence because you stayed all night at their aunt’s is rich.  It is right not to think much of casual attentions; it is quite justifiable also to derive from them temporary gratification, insomuch as they prove that their object has the power of pleasing.  Let them be as ephemera—to last an hour, and not be regretted when gone.

‘Dear Ellen,—I’ll start by saying that you have no reason to be upset about how long it’s taken me to reply since I got your last letter, because you’ve often made me wait much longer; and having said that to avoid any blame, I will add that I think it’s a real shame when you receive a long, fascinating letter full of the details you enjoy and read it selfishly without even bothering to thank the person who wrote it or to say how much you liked the story. I did enjoy your last letter a great deal; the wonderfully characteristic details about the Bakers were priceless; just like them and all their kind—respectable, well-meaning enough, but they have that petty sense of dignity and small jealousy of pointless formalities, which seems to form a second religion for them. Your position among them was terrible. I admire how you handled it. Their being offended because you stayed all night at their aunt’s is amusing. It's right not to care too much about casual attentions; it’s also totally understandable to find some temporary pleasure in them, since they show that their source can bring joy. Let them be like short-lived things—here for a moment and not missed when they’re gone.

‘Write to me again soon and—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Write to me again soon and—Believe me, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 3, 1849.

‘August 3, 1849.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have received the furs safely.  I like the sables very much, and shall keep them; and ‘to save them’ shall keep the squirrel, as you prudently suggested.  I hope it is not too much like the steel poker to save the brass one.  I return Mary’s letter.  It is another page from the volume of life, and at the bottom is written “Finis”—mournful word.  Macaulay’s History was only lent to myself—all the books I have from London I accept only as a loan, except in peculiar cases, where it is the author’s wish I should possess his work.

Dear Ellen,—I have received the furs safely. I really like the sables and will keep them; and to protect them, I’ll keep the squirrel like you wisely suggested. I hope it doesn’t seem too much like saving the steel poker to keep the brass one. I’m returning Mary’s letter. It’s another page from the book of life, and at the bottom, it says “Finis”—such a sad word. Macaulay’s History was only lent to me—all the books I have from London I take only as a loan, except in special cases where the author wishes for me to own their work.

‘Do you think in a few weeks it will be possible for you to come to see me?  I am only waiting to get my labour off my hands to permit myself the pleasure of asking you.  At our house you can read as much as you please.

‘Do you think you could come see me in a few weeks? I’m just waiting to finish my work so I can enjoy asking you. At our place, you can read as much as you want.

‘I have been much better, very free from oppression or irritation of the chest, during the last fortnight or ten days.  Love to all.—Good-bye, dear Nell.

‘I’ve been feeling much better, really free from any pressure or irritation in my chest, over the last two weeks or so. Love to everyone.—Goodbye, dear Nell.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 23rd, 1849.

‘August 23rd, 1849.

‘Dear Ellen,—Papa has not been well at all lately—he has had another attack of bronchitis.  I felt very uneasy about him p. 230for some days, more wretched indeed than I care to tell you.  After what has happened, one trembles at any appearance of sickness, and when anything ails papa I feel too keenly that he is the last, the only near and dear relation I have in the world.  Yesterday and to-day he has seemed much better, for which I am truly thankful.

Dear Ellen,—Dad hasn't been well at all lately—he's had another bout of bronchitis. I felt really uneasy about him p. 230for the past few days, more miserable than I want to admit. After what’s happened, I get anxious at any sign of illness, and when anything is wrong with Dad, I feel too strongly that he is the last, the only close family I have in the world. Yesterday and today he seems to be doing much better, for which I'm truly thankful.

‘For myself, I should be pretty well but for a continually recurring feeling of slight cold, slight soreness in the throat and chest, of which, do what I will, I cannot quite get rid.  Has your cough entirely left you?  I wish the atmosphere would return to a salubrious condition, for I really think it is not healthy.  English cholera has been very prevalent here.

‘For me, I’d be doing pretty well if it weren't for this nagging feeling of a slight chill and some soreness in my throat and chest that I just can't shake off. Has your cough completely gone away? I wish the air would go back to being healthy, because I honestly feel it's not good for us. English cholera has been really common here.

‘I do wish to see you.’

‘I do wish to see you.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 16, 1850.

‘August 16th, 1850.

‘Dear Nell,—I am going on Monday (D.V.) a journey, whereof the prospect cheers me not at all, to Windermere, in Westmoreland, to spend a few days with Sir J. K. S., who has taken a house there for the autumn and winter.  I consented to go with reluctance, chiefly to please papa, whom a refusal on my part would have much annoyed; but I dislike to leave him.  I trust he is not worse, but his complaint is still weakness.  It is not right to anticipate evil, and to be always looking forward in an apprehensive spirit; but I think grief is a two-edged sword—it cuts both ways: the memory of one loss is the anticipation of another.  Take moderate exercise and be careful, dear Nell, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

Dear Nell,—I'm heading out on Monday (D.V.) for a trip that I'm not looking forward to at all, to Windermere, in Westmoreland, to spend a few days with Sir J. K. S., who has rented a house there for the autumn and winter. I agreed to go, though reluctantly, mainly to make my dad happy, since turning him down would have really upset him; but I really don’t want to leave him. I hope he’s not worse, but he’s still feeling weak. It's not right to expect the worst or to keep looking ahead with worry, but I feel like grief is a double-edged sword—it hurts both ways: remembering one loss makes you fearful of another. Take it easy and be careful, dear Nell, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 10th, 1851.

‘May 10th, 1851.

‘DEAR NELL,—Poor little Flossy!  I have not yet screwed up nerve to tell papa about her fate, it seems to me so piteous.  However, she had a happy life with a kind mistress, whatever her death has been.  Little hapless plague!  She had more goodness and patience shown her than she deserved, I fear.

‘DEAR NELL,—Poor little Flossy! I still haven’t mustered the courage to tell Dad about what happened to her; it just feels so sad. However, she had a happy life with a loving owner, no matter how it ended. Poor little troublemaker! She received more kindness and patience than she probably deserved, I’m afraid.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 231TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 231TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, July 26th, 1852.

‘Haworth, July 26th, 1852.

‘Dear Ellen,—I should not have written to you to-day by choice.  Lately I have again been harassed with headache—the heavy electric atmosphere oppresses me much, yet I am less miserable just now than I was a little while ago.  A severe shock came upon me about papa.  He was suddenly attacked with acute inflammation of the eye.  Mr. Ruddock was sent for; and after he had examined him, he called me into another room, and said papa’s pulse was bounding at 150 per minute, that there was a strong pressure of blood upon the brain, that, in short, the symptoms were decidedly apoplectic.

‘Dear Ellen,—I wouldn’t have chosen to write to you today. Recently, I've been struggling with headaches again—the heavy, electric atmosphere really weighs me down, but I feel a bit better right now compared to earlier. A big shock hit me regarding Dad. He suddenly had a severe inflammation in his eye. Mr. Ruddock was called in, and after examining him, he took me to another room and told me that Dad’s pulse was racing at 150 beats per minute, there was a lot of pressure on his brain, and basically, the symptoms were definitely concerning for a stroke.

‘Active measures were immediately taken.  By the next day the pulse was reduced to ninety.  Thank God he is now better, though not well.  The eye is a good deal inflamed.  He does not know his state.  To tell him he had been in danger of apoplexy would almost be to kill him at once—it would increase the rush to the brain and perhaps bring about rupture.  He is kept very quiet.

‘Active measures were taken right away. By the next day, his pulse dropped to ninety. Thank God he's better now, though still not well. His eye is quite inflamed. He doesn't realize his condition. Telling him he was in danger of a stroke would almost be fatal—it could raise the pressure in his brain and possibly lead to a rupture. He's being kept very calm.

‘Dear Nell, you will excuse a short note.  Write again soon.  Tell me all concerning yourself that can relieve you.—Yours faithfully,

‘Dear Nell, I hope you’ll forgive me for this brief note. Please write back soon. Share everything about yourself that might help you feel better.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 3rd, 1852.

‘August 3rd, 1852.

‘Dear Ellen,—I write a line to say that papa is now considered out of danger.  His progress to health is not without relapse, but I think he gains ground, if slowly, surely.  Mr. Ruddock says the seizure was quite of an apoplectic character; there was a partial paralysis for two days, but the mind remained clear, in spite of a high degree of nervous irritation.  One eye still remains inflamed, and papa is weak, but all muscular affection is gone, and the pulse is accurate.  One cannot be too thankful that papa’s sight is yet spared—it was the fear of losing that which chiefly distressed him.

Dear Ellen,—I’m writing to let you know that Dad is now considered out of danger. His recovery isn’t without setbacks, but I believe he’s making progress, although it’s slow and steady. Mr. Ruddock said the seizure was quite apoplectic; he had partial paralysis for two days, but his mind remained clear, despite a lot of nervous irritation. One eye is still inflamed, and Dad is weak, but there are no more muscular issues, and his pulse is steady. We can’t be too grateful that Dad’s eyesight is still intact—it was the thought of losing it that troubled him the most.

p. 232‘With best wishes for yourself, dear Ellen,—I am, yours faithfully,

p. 232‘Wishing you all the best, dear Ellen,—I am, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘My headaches are better.  I have needed no help, but I thank you sincerely for your kind offers.’

‘My headaches are better. I haven’t needed any help, but I sincerely thank you for your kind offers.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, August 12th, 1852.

‘Haworth, August 12th, 1852.

‘Dear Ellen,—Papa has varied occasionally since I wrote to you last.  Monday was a very bad day, his spirits sunk painfully.  Tuesday and yesterday, however, were much better, and to-day he seems wonderfully well.  The prostration of spirits which accompanies anything like a relapse is almost the most difficult point to manage.  Dear Nell, you are tenderly kind in offering your society; but rest very tranquil where you are; be fully assured that it is not now, nor under present circumstances, that I feel the lack either of society or occupation; my time is pretty well filled up, and my thoughts appropriated.

Dear Ellen,—Dad has had some ups and downs since I last wrote to you. Monday was really tough; his mood dropped a lot. Tuesday and yesterday were much better, and today he seems to be doing remarkably well. The emotional low that comes with any kind of setback is one of the hardest things to deal with. Dear Nell, I appreciate your kind offer to keep me company, but please stay calm where you are; rest assured that right now, and given the current situation, I don’t feel the need for company or distractions; my time is mostly taken up, and my mind is occupied.

‘Mr. Ruddock now seems quite satisfied there is no present danger whatever; he says papa has an excellent constitution and may live many years yet.  The true balance is not yet restored to the circulation, but I believe that impetuous and dangerous termination to the head is quite obviated.  I cannot permit myself to comment much on the chief contents of your last; advice is not necessary.  As far as I can judge, you seem hitherto enabled to take these trials in a good and wise spirit.  I can only pray that such combined strength and resignation may be continued to you.  Submission, courage, exertion, when practicable—these seem to be the weapons with which we must fight life’s long battle.—Yours faithfully,

‘Mr. Ruddock now seems quite confident that there’s no current danger at all; he says Dad has a great constitution and could live for many more years. The balance in the circulation isn’t fully restored yet, but I believe that a sudden and serious issue to the head has been effectively avoided. I can't really comment much on the main points of your last message; no advice is needed. From what I can tell, you seem to be handling these challenges with a positive and wise attitude. I can only hope that such strength and acceptance continue to be with you. Patience, bravery, and effort, when possible—these seem to be the tools we need to fight life’s long battle.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 234CHAPTER IX: MARY TAYLOR

‘She was pretty, and very childish-looking, dressed in a red-coloured frock with short sleeves and low neck, as then worn by young girls.  Miss Wooler in later years used to say that when Mary went to her as a pupil she thought her too pretty to live.  She was not talkative at school, but industrious, and always ready with lessons.  She was always at the top in class lessons, with Charlotte Brontë and the writer; seldom a change was made, and then only with the three—one move.  Charlotte and she were great friends for a time, but there was no withdrawing from me on either side, and Charlotte never quite knew how an estrangement arose with Mary, but it lasted a long time.  Then a time came that both Charlotte and Mary were so proficient in schoolroom attainments there was no more for them to learn, and Miss Wooler set them Blair’s p. 235Belles Lettres to commit to memory.  We all laughed at their studies.  Charlotte persevered, but Mary took her own line, flatly refused, and accepted the penalty of disobedience, going supper-less to bed for about a month before she left school.  When it was moonlight, we always found her engaged in drawing on the chest of drawers, which stood in the bay window, quite happy and cheerful.  Her rebellion was never outspoken.  She was always quiet in demeanour.  Her sister Martha, on the contrary, spoke out vigorously, daring Miss Wooler so much, face to face, that she sometimes received a box on the ear, which hardly any saint could have withheld.  Then Martha would expatiate on the danger of boxing ears, quoting a reverend brother of Miss Wooler’s.  Among her school companions, Martha was called “Miss Boisterous,” but was always a favourite, so piquant and fascinating were her ways.  She was not in the least pretty, but something much better, full of change and variety, rudely outspoken, lively, and original, producing laughter with her own good-humour and affection.  She was her father’s pet child.  He delighted in hearing her sing, telling her to go to the piano, with his affectionate “Patty lass.”

‘She was attractive and looked quite youthful, wearing a red dress with short sleeves and a low neckline, similar to what young girls wore back then. Miss Wooler would later say that when Mary first joined her as a student, she thought Mary was too beautiful to be real. She wasn’t very talkative at school, but she was diligent and always prepared for her lessons. She consistently ranked at the top of her class, along with Charlotte Brontë and the writer; there was rarely any change, and when there was, it only involved the three of them—one shift. Charlotte and Mary were good friends for a while, but neither distanced herself from the other, and Charlotte could never fully grasp how a rift formed with Mary, but it lasted for quite some time. Eventually, both Charlotte and Mary became so skilled in their studies that there was nothing left for them to learn, and Miss Wooler had them memorize Blair’s p. 235Belles Lettres. We all found their studies entertaining. Charlotte kept at it, but Mary chose her own path, outright refusing and accepting the consequences of her defiance, going to bed without dinner for nearly a month before leaving school. During moonlit nights, we would often find her joyfully drawing on the chest of drawers by the bay window. Her rebellion was never loud; she always kept her cool. In contrast, her sister Martha was very outspoken, often challenging Miss Wooler so boldly that sometimes she got a smack on the ear, which even the most virtuous person might not have held back from giving. Then Martha would elaborate on the risks of being smacked, referencing a reverend brother of Miss Wooler’s. Among her classmates, Martha was called “Miss Boisterous,” but she was always a favorite because of her vibrant and captivating personality. She wasn't pretty at all, but she was much more—full of energy and variety, outspoken, animated, and original, bringing laughter with her good humor and warmth. She was her father’s favorite. He loved to hear her sing, affectionately encouraging her to go to the piano with his “Patty lass.”

‘Mary never had the impromptu vivacity of her sister, but was lively in games that engaged her mind.  Her music was very correct, but entirely cultivated by practice and perseverance.  Anything underhand was detestable to both Mary and Martha; they had no mean pride towards others, but accepted the incidents of life with imperturbable good-sense and insight.  They were not dressed as well as other pupils, for economy at that time was the rule of their household.  The girls had to stitch all over their new gloves before wearing them, by order of their mother, to make them wear longer.  Their dark blue cloth coats were worn when too short, and black beaver bonnets quite plainly trimmed, with the ease and contentment of a fashionable costume.  Mr. Taylor was a banker as well as a monopolist of army cloth manufacture in the district.  He lost money, and gave up banking.  He set his mind on paying all creditors, and effected this during his lifetime as far as p. 236possible, willing that his sons were to do the remainder, which two of his sons carried out, as was understood, during their lifetime—Mark and Martin of Shirley.’

‘Mary never had the spontaneous energy of her sister, but she was lively in games that challenged her mind. Her music was very precise, but it was entirely the result of practice and determination. Anything dishonest was repulsive to both Mary and Martha; they didn’t have any petty pride towards others, but accepted life’s situations with steady common sense and insight. They weren’t as well-dressed as the other students, since frugality was the norm in their household. The girls had to sew all over their new gloves before wearing them, as their mother instructed, to make them last longer. Their dark blue cloth coats were worn when too short, and their plain black beaver bonnets were simply trimmed, yet they wore them with the ease and satisfaction of a stylish outfit. Mr. Taylor was a banker and also had a monopoly on army cloth production in the area. He lost money and gave up banking. He focused on paying off all his creditors and managed to do this as much as possible during his lifetime, wanting his sons to take care of the rest, which two of his sons, Mark and Martin from Shirley, accomplished during their lives—understood by all.’

‘The two next are girls, Rose and Jessie; they are both now at their father’s knee; they seldom go near their mother, except when obliged to do so.  Rose, the elder, is twelve years old; she is like her father—the most like him of the whole group—but it is a granite head copied in ivory; all is softened in colour and line.  Yorke himself has a harsh face; his daughter’s is not harsh, neither is it quite pretty; it is simple—childlike in feature; the round cheeks bloom; as to the grey eyes, they are otherwise than childlike—a serious soul lights them—a young soul yet, but it will mature, if the body lives; and neither father nor mother has a spirit to compare with it.  Partaking of the essence of each, it will one day be better than either—stronger, much purer, more aspiring.  Rose is a still, and sometimes a stubborn girl now; her mother wants to make of her such a woman as she is herself—a woman of dark and dreary duties; and Rose has a mind full-set, thick-sown with the germs of ideas her mother never knew.  It is agony to her often to have these ideas trampled on and repressed.  She has never rebelled yet; but if hard driven, she will rebel one day, and then it will be once for all.  Rose loves her father; her father does not rule her with a rod of iron; he is good to her.  He sometimes fears she will not live, so bright are the sparks of intelligence which, at moments, flash from her glance and gleam in her language.  This idea makes him often sadly tender to her.

The next two are girls, Rose and Jessie; they're both with their dad now and rarely go to their mom unless it's really necessary. Rose, the older one, is twelve; she looks the most like her dad in the family, but her features are softened, almost like ivory. Yorke himself has a tough face; while his daughter's isn't harsh, it isn't exactly pretty either—it's simple and has childlike features; her round cheeks are rosy, and her gray eyes are different from those of a typical child—they shine with a serious soul, a youthful spirit that will develop if she lives; neither her father nor mother has a spirit quite like hers. She draws from both of them and one day will surpass them—stronger, purer, and more ambitious. Rose is a quiet and sometimes stubborn girl; her mother wants to shape her into a woman like herself—a woman burdened with gloomy, tiresome responsibilities; but Rose has her own thoughts, filled with ideas her mother never understands. It often hurts her when these ideas are dismissed. She hasn’t rebelled yet; but if she's pushed too hard, she will rebel one day, and it will be significant. Rose loves her father; he doesn't control her harshly; he treats her well. Sometimes he worries that she won’t survive because of the bright sparks of intelligence that sometimes show in her eyes and shine through her words. This thought often makes him feel deeply affectionate toward her.

‘He has no idea that little Jessie will die young, she is so gay and chattering, arch—original even now; passionate when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed; by turns gentle and rattling; exacting yet generous; fearless—of her mother, for instance, whose irrationally hard and strict rule she has often defied—yet reliant on any who will help her.  Jessie, with her p. 237little piquant face, engaging prattle, and winning ways, is made to be a pet; and her father’s pet she accordingly is.’

‘He has no idea that little Jessie will die young; she's so cheerful and talkative, playful—original even now; passionate when provoked, but very affectionate if you show her kindness; sometimes gentle and energetic; demanding yet generous; fearless—especially with her mom, whose unfairly strict rules she has often challenged—but still dependent on anyone willing to help her. Jessie, with her adorable face, engaging chatter, and charming personality, is meant to be a pet; and she is, in fact, her father's pet.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, June 20th, 1833.

‘Haworth, June 20th, 1833.

‘Dear Ellen,—I know you will be very angry because I have not written sooner; my reason, or rather my motive for this apparent neglect was, that I had determined not to write until I could ask you to pay us your long-promised visit.  Aunt thought it would be better to defer it until about the middle of summer, as the winter and even the spring seasons are remarkably cold and bleak among our mountains.  Papa now desires me to present his respects to your mother, and say that he should feel greatly obliged if she would allow us the pleasure of your company for a few weeks at Haworth.  I will leave it to you to fix whatever day may be most convenient, but let it be an early one.  I received a letter from Pag Taylor yesterday; she was in high dudgeon at my inattention in not promptly answering her last epistle.  I however sat down immediately and wrote a very humble reply, candidly confessing my faults and soliciting forgiveness; I hope it has proved successful.  Have you suffered much from that troublesome though not (I am happy to hear) generally fatal disease, the influenza?  We have so far steered clear of it, but I know not how long we may continue to escape.  Your last letter revealed a state of mind which seemed to promise much.  As I read it I could not help wishing that my own feelings more resembled yours; but unhappily all the good thoughts that enter my mind evaporate almost before I have had time to ascertain their existence; every right resolution which I form is so transient, so fragile, and so easily broken, that I sometimes fear I shall never be what I ought.  Earnestly hoping that this may not be your case, p. 238that you may continue steadfast till the end,—I remain, dearest Ellen, your ever faithful friend,

Dear Ellen,—I know you must be really upset that I haven’t written sooner. The reason, or rather my excuse, for this delay is that I wanted to wait until I could invite you for that long-promised visit. Aunt thought it would be better to wait until around the middle of summer since winter and even spring here are so cold and bleak in the mountains. Dad wants me to send his regards to your mom and ask if she would let us enjoy your company for a few weeks at Haworth. I’ll leave it up to you to choose whatever day works best, but please make it an early one. I received a letter from Pag Taylor yesterday; she was really upset that I didn’t respond to her last letter quickly. I immediately sat down and wrote a very apologetic reply, honestly admitting my mistakes and asking for forgiveness; I hope it worked. Have you been suffering much from that annoying — though thankfully not usually deadly — flu? We’ve managed to avoid it so far, but who knows how long that will last? Your last letter showed a mindset that seemed very promising. As I read it, I couldn’t help wishing that my own feelings matched yours more closely; but unfortunately, all the good ideas that come to my mind seem to vanish almost before I can fully realize they’re there. Every good intention I make is so fleeting, so fragile, and so easily shattered that I sometimes worry I’ll never become who I’m meant to be. I sincerely hope this isn’t the case for you, p. 238and that you remain steadfast to the end,—I remain, dearest Ellen, your ever faithful friend,

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

‘Charlotte Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 3rd, 1841.

‘January 3rd, 1841.

‘My dear Ellen,—I received the news in your last with no surprise, and with the feeling that this removal must be a relief to Mr. Taylor himself and even to his family.  The bitterness of death was past a year ago, when it was first discovered that his illness must terminate fatally; all between has been lingering suspense.  This is at an end now, and the present certainty, however sad, is better than the former doubt.  What will be the consequence of his death is another question; for my own part, I look forward to a dissolution and dispersion of the family, perhaps not immediately, but in the course of a year or two.  It is true, causes may arise to keep them together awhile longer, but they are restless, active spirits, and will not be restrained always.  Mary alone has more energy and power in her nature than any ten men you can pick out in the united parishes of Birstall and Haworth.  It is vain to limit a character like hers within ordinary boundaries—she will overstep them.  I am morally certain Mary will establish her own landmarks, so will the rest of them.

My dear Ellen,—I received your last message and wasn't surprised by the news. I believe this change must be a relief for Mr. Taylor and his family. The harsh reality of death struck us over a year ago when it became clear that his illness would be fatal; everything since then has been a painful waiting game. That wait is now over, and although the situation is sad, it’s better than the uncertainty we faced before. What will happen after his death is a different issue; personally, I expect the family to fall apart, maybe not immediately, but within a year or two. It's true that circumstances might arise to keep them together a bit longer, but they are restless, vibrant people who won’t stay confined for long. Mary alone has more determination and strength than any ten men you could find in all of Birstall and Haworth. It's pointless to try to limit someone like her to ordinary boundaries—she will break through them. I’m quite sure Mary will forge her own path, and so will the others.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTË

‘Upperwood House, April 2nd, 1841.

‘Upperwood House, April 2nd, 1841.

‘Dear E. J.,—I received your last letter with delight as p. 239usual.  I must write a line to thank you for it and the inclosure, which however is too bad—you ought not to have sent me those packets.  I had a letter from Anne yesterday; she says she is well.  I hope she speaks absolute truth.  I had written to her and Branwell a few days before.  I have not heard from Branwell yet.  It is to be hoped that his removal to another station will turn out for the best.  As you say, it looks like getting on at any rate.

Dear E. J.,—I was really happy to get your last letter as usual. I just had to write a quick note to thank you for it and the enclosed items, although it’s unfortunate—you really shouldn’t have sent me those packets. I got a letter from Anne yesterday; she says she's doing well. I hope she’s being completely honest. I wrote to her and Branwell a few days ago. I haven’t heard from Branwell yet. Let’s hope that his move to a new place turns out to be a good thing. As you said, it seems like things are at least moving forward.

‘I have got up my courage so far as to ask Mrs. White to grant me a day’s holiday to go to Birstall to see Ellen Nussey, who has offered to send a gig for me.  My request was granted, but so coldly and slowly.  However, I stuck to my point in a very exemplary and remarkable manner.  I hope to go next Saturday.  Matters are progressing very strangely at Gomersall.  Mary Taylor and Waring have come to a singular determination, but I almost think under the peculiar circumstances a defensible one, though it sounds outrageously odd at first.  They are going to emigrate—to quit the country altogether.  Their destination unless they change is Port Nicholson, in the northern island of New Zealand!!!  Mary has made up her mind she can not and will not be a governess, a teacher, a milliner, a bonnet-maker nor housemaid.  She sees no means of obtaining employment she would like in England, so she is leaving it.  I counselled her to go to France likewise and stay there a year before she decided on this strange unlikely-sounding plan of going to New Zealand, but she is quite resolved.  I cannot sufficiently comprehend what her views and those of her brothers may be on the subject, or what is the extent of their information regarding Port Nicholson, to say whether this is rational enterprise or absolute madness.  With love to papa, aunt, Tabby, etc.—Good-bye.

‘I’ve gathered enough courage to ask Mrs. White for a day off to go to Birstall to see Ellen Nussey, who has offered to send a carriage for me. My request was granted, but it was done very coldly and with hesitation. Still, I stood my ground in a pretty impressive way. I hope to go next Saturday. Things are getting quite strange at Gomersall. Mary Taylor and Waring have made a peculiar decision, which I think, given the circumstances, is justifiable, even though it sounds completely crazy at first. They are planning to emigrate—leave the country altogether. Their intended destination, unless they change their minds, is Port Nicholson in the North Island of New Zealand!!! Mary has made it clear that she cannot and will not be a governess, teacher, milliner, bonnet-maker, or housemaid. She sees no way to find a job she wants in England, so she’s leaving. I suggested she might consider going to France first and staying there for a year before deciding on this strange plan to go to New Zealand, but she’s absolutely determined. I can’t fully understand what her thoughts, and those of her brothers, might be on this or how much they know about Port Nicholson to say whether this is a sensible venture or total madness. Love to Dad, Aunt, Tabby, etc.—Goodbye.

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘P.S.—I am very well; I hope you are.  Write again soon.’

P.S.—I’m doing great; I hope you are too. Write back soon.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY.

‘Brussels, Sept. 9th, 1841.

‘Brussels, Sept. 9th, 1841.

‘My dear Ellen,—I received your letter from Mary, and you say I am to write though I have nothing to say.  My sister will tell you all about me, for she has more time to write than I have.

My dear Ellen,—I received your letter from Mary, and you said I should write even if I don’t have much to say. My sister will update you on everything about me since she has more time to write than I do.

‘Whilst Mary and John have been with me, we have been to Liege and Spa, where we stayed eight days.  I found my little knowledge of French very useful in our travels.  I am going to begin working again very hard, now that John and Mary are going away.  I intend beginning German directly.  I would write some more but this pen of Mary’s won’t write; you must scold her for it, and tell her to write you a long account of my proceedings.  You must write to me sometimes.  George Dixon is coming here the last week in September, and you must send a letter for me to Mary to be forwarded by him.  Good-bye.  May you be happy.

‘While Mary and John were with me, we visited Liege and Spa, where we spent eight days. I found my limited French very useful during our travels. I'm planning to get back to work now that John and Mary are leaving. I aim to start learning German right away. I would write more, but this pen of Mary’s isn’t working; you should scold her about it and ask her to give you a detailed account of what I’ve been doing. Please write to me sometimes. George Dixon is coming here the last week in September, so please send a letter for me to Mary to be forwarded by him. Goodbye. I hope you find happiness.’

‘Martha Taylor.’

‘Martha Taylor.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Brussels, April 1st, 1843.

‘Brussels, April 1st, 1843.

‘Dear Ellen,—That last letter of yours merits a good dose of panegyric—it was both long and interesting; send me quickly such another, longer still if possible.  You will have heard of Mary Taylor’s resolute and intrepid proceedings.  Her public letters will have put you in possession of all details—nothing is left for me to say except perhaps to express my opinion upon it.  I have turned the matter over on all sides and really I cannot consider it otherwise than as very rational.  Mind, I did not jump to this opinion at once, but was several days before I formed it conclusively.

Dear Ellen,—Your last letter was truly impressive—it was both long and interesting; please send me another one soon, even longer if possible. You must have heard about Mary Taylor’s brave and fearless actions. Her public letters will have given you all the information—there’s not much more for me to add except perhaps to share my thoughts on it. I’ve considered the situation from all angles, and honestly, I can’t see it any other way than as very reasonable. Just so you know, I didn’t come to this conclusion immediately; it took me several days to form my final opinion.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

p. 241TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 241TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Sunday Evening, June 1st, 1845.

‘Sunday Evening, June 1st, 1845.

‘Dear Ellen,—You probably know that another letter has been received from Mary Taylor.  It is, however, possible that your absence from home will have prevented your seeing it, so I will give you a sketch of its contents.  It was written at about 4° N. of the Equator.  The first part of the letter contained an account of their landing at Santiago.  Her health at that time was very good, and her spirits seemed excellent.  They had had contrary winds at first setting out, but their voyage was then prosperous.  In the latter portion of the letter she complains of the excessive heat, and says she lives chiefly on oranges; but still she was well, and freer from headache and other ailments than any other person on board.  The receipt of this letter will have relieved all her friends from a weight of anxiety.  I am uneasy about what you say respecting the French newspapers—do you mean to intimate that you have received none?  I have despatched them regularly.  Emily and I keep them usually three days, sometimes only two, and then send them forward to you.  I see by the cards you sent, and also by the newspaper, that Henry is at last married.  How did you like your office of bridesmaid? and how do you like your new sister and her family?  You must write to me as soon as you can, and give me an observant account of everything.

‘Dear Ellen,—You probably know that we received another letter from Mary Taylor. However, since you’re away, you might not have seen it, so I’ll summarize its contents. It was written near the Equator. The first part of the letter talks about their arrival at Santiago. At that time, she was in good health and seemed really happy. They faced some bad winds at first, but the rest of the trip went well. In the latter part of the letter, she mentions the intense heat and says she mostly eats oranges, but she’s still doing well and feels better than anyone else on board. Getting this letter will definitely ease the worries of all her friends. I’m concerned about what you said regarding the French newspapers—are you suggesting that you haven’t received any? I’ve been sending them out regularly. Emily and I usually keep them for three days, sometimes just two, and then we forward them to you. From the cards you sent and the newspaper, I see that Henry is finally married. How was it being a bridesmaid? And how do you feel about your new sister and her family? You need to write to me as soon as you can and give me a detailed account of everything.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Manchester, September 13th, 1846.

‘Manchester, September 13th, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen,—Papa thinks his own progress rather slow, but the doctor affirms he is getting on very well.  He complains of extreme weakness and soreness in the eye, but I suppose that is to be expected for some time to come.  He is still kept in the dark, but now sits up the greater part of the day, and is allowed a little fire in the room, from the light of which he is carefully screened.

‘Dear Ellen,—Dad thinks his recovery is going pretty slowly, but the doctor says he’s doing really well. He talks about feeling very weak and having soreness in his eye, but I guess that’s normal for a while. He’s still kept in the dark, but now he sits up for most of the day and is allowed a small fire in the room, while they carefully shield him from the light.

‘By this time you will have got Mary’s letters; most interesting they are, and she is in her element because she is where she p. 242has a toilsome task to perform, an important improvement to effect, a weak vessel to strengthen.  You ask if I had any enjoyment here; in truth, I can’t say I have, and I long to get home, though, unhappily, home is not now a place of complete rest.  It is sad to think how it is disquieted by a constant phantom, or rather two—sin and suffering; they seem to obscure the cheerfulness of day, and to disturb the comfort of evening.

‘By now, you should have received Mary’s letters; they’re really fascinating, and she’s thriving because she has a challenging task at hand, an important improvement to make, and someone delicate to uplift. You asked if I enjoyed my time here; honestly, I can’t say that I have, and I’m eager to return home, although, sadly, home is no longer a place of complete peace. It’s heartbreaking to think how it’s troubled by a constant presence, or rather two—sin and suffering; they seem to dim the brightness of the day and disrupt the comfort of the evening.

‘Give my love to all at Brookroyd, and believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Send my love to everyone at Brookroyd, and know that I’m yours sincerely,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 5th, 1847.

‘June 5th, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen,—I return you Mary Taylor’s letter; it made me somewhat sad to read it, for I fear she is not quite content with her existence in New Zealand.  She finds it too barren.  I believe she is more home-sick than she will confess.  Her gloomy ideas respecting you and me prove a state of mind far from gay.  I have also received a letter; its tone is similar to your own, and its contents too.

‘Dear Ellen,—I’m returning Mary Taylor’s letter; it made me a bit sad to read it because I worry she’s not really happy living in New Zealand. She thinks it’s too empty. I believe she misses home more than she’ll admit. Her negative feelings about you and me indicate she’s not in a good place. I also received a letter; its tone is a lot like yours, and the content too.

‘What brilliant weather we have had.  Oh! I do indeed regret you could not come to Haworth at the time fixed, these warm sunny days would have suited us exactly; but it is not to be helped.  Give my best love to your mother and Mercy.—Yours faithfully,

‘What amazing weather we’ve had. Oh! I really wish you could have come to Haworth when we planned; these warm sunny days would have been just perfect for us. But there’s nothing we can do about it. Give my love to your mother and Mercy.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. BRONTË.’

‘C. BRONTË.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, June 26th, 1848.

‘Haworth, June 26th, 1848.

‘Dear Ellen,—I should have answered your last long ago if I had known your address, but you omitted to give it me, and I have been waiting in the hope that you would perhaps write again and repair the omission.  Finding myself deceived in this expectation however, I have at last hit on the plan of sending the letter to Brookroyd to be directed; be sure to give me your address when you reply to this.

Dear Ellen,—I would have replied to your last message much sooner if I had your address, but you forgot to give it. I’ve been hoping you’d write again and correct that oversight. However, since I’ve been let down by that expectation, I’ve decided to send this letter to Brookroyd to be forwarded. Please make sure to give me your address when you reply.

‘I was glad to hear that you were well received at London, and that you got safe to the end of your journey.  Your naïveté in p. 243gravely inquiring my opinion of the “last new novel” amuses me.  We do not subscribe to a circulating library at Haworth, and consequently “new novels” rarely indeed come in our way, and consequently, again, we are not qualified to give opinions thereon.

‘I was glad to hear that you were well received in London and that you made it safely to the end of your journey. Your naïveté in seriously asking for my opinion on the “latest new novel” amuses me. We don’t subscribe to a circulating library here in Haworth, so “new novels” hardly ever come our way, and because of that, we aren’t really qualified to give opinions on them.p. 243

‘About three weeks ago, I received a brief note from Hunsworth, to the effect that Mr. Joe Taylor and his cousin Henry would make some inquiries respecting Mme.  Héger’s school on account of Ellen Taylor, and that if I had no objection, they would ride over to Haworth in a day or two.  I said they might come if they would.  They came, accompanied by Miss Mossman, of Bradford, whom I had never seen, only heard of occasionally.  It was a pouring wet and windy day; we had quite ceased to expect them.  Miss Mossman was quite wet, and we had to make her change her things, and dress her out in ours as well as we could.  I do not know if you are acquainted with her; I thought her unaffected and rather agreeable-looking, though she has very red hair.  Henry Taylor does indeed resemble John most strongly.  Joe looked thin; he was in good spirits, and I think in tolerable good-humour.  I would have given much for you to have been there.  I had not been very well for some days before, and had some difficulty in keeping up the talk, but I managed on the whole better than I expected.  I was glad Miss Mossman came, for she helped.  Nothing new was communicated respecting Mary.  Nothing of importance in any way was said the whole time; it was all rattle, rattle, of which I should have great difficulty now in recalling the substance.  They left almost immediately after tea.  I have not heard a word respecting them since, but I suppose they got home all right.  The visit strikes me as an odd whim.  I consider it quite a caprice, prompted probably by curiosity.

About three weeks ago, I received a short note from Hunsworth, saying that Mr. Joe Taylor and his cousin Henry would like to ask about Mme. Héger’s school for Ellen Taylor, and that if I was okay with it, they would come over to Haworth in a day or two. I said they could come if they wanted to. They arrived, along with Miss Mossman from Bradford, who I had never met before, only heard about now and then. It was pouring rain and very windy; we had stopped expecting them. Miss Mossman was completely soaked, so we had to get her to change and dress in our clothes as best as we could. I don't know if you know her; I found her quite genuine and somewhat pleasant-looking, although she has very red hair. Henry Taylor really resembles John a lot. Joe looked thin; he was in good spirits, and I think generally in decent humor. I really would have liked it if you could have been there. I hadn’t been feeling very well for a few days before and had some trouble keeping the conversation going, but overall I did better than I expected. I was glad that Miss Mossman came because she helped. Nothing new was said about Mary. There was nothing significant discussed the entire time; it was mostly small talk, which I'm having a hard time remembering now. They left shortly after tea. I haven't heard anything about them since, but I assume they got home safely. The visit feels like a strange whim. I see it as a bit of a caprice, likely driven by curiosity.

‘Joe Taylor mentioned that he had called at Brookroyd, and that Anne had told him you were ill, and going into the South for change of air.

‘Joe Taylor mentioned that he had stopped by Brookroyd, and that Anne told him you were sick and heading down South for a change of scenery.

‘I hope you will soon write to me again and tell me particularly how your health is, and how you get on.  Give my p. 244regards to Mary Gorham, for really I have a sort of regard for her by hearsay, and—Believe me, dear Nell, yours faithfully,

‘I hope you’ll write to me again soon and let me know how you’re feeling and how things are going. Please send my regards to Mary Gorham, as I’ve grown to have a sort of fondness for her through hearsay, and—Believe me, dear Nell, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

‘Wellington, April 10th, 1849.

‘Wellington, April 10th, 1849.

‘Dear Charlotte,—I’ve been delighted to receive a very interesting letter from you with an account of your visit to London, etc.  I believe I have tacked this acknowledgment to the tail of my last letter to you, but since then it has dawned on my comprehension that you are becoming a very important personage in this little world, and therefore, d’ye see? I must write again to you.  I wish you would give me some account of Newby, and what the man said when confronted with the real Ellis Bell.  By the way, having got your secret, will he keep it?  And how do you contrive to get your letters under the address of Mr. Bell?  The whole scheme must be particularly interesting to hear about, if I could only talk to you for half a day.  When do you intend to tell the good people about you?

Dear Charlotte,—I was excited to receive your fascinating letter about your visit to London, etc. I think I added this acknowledgment to the end of my last letter, but since then, I've realized that you’re becoming quite a significant figure in this little world, so I thought I should write to you again. I’d love to hear about Newby and what he said when he finally met the real Ellis Bell. By the way, now that you’ve revealed your secret, will he keep it? And how do you manage to send your letters addressed to Mr. Bell? The whole situation must be really interesting to hear about; I wish I could talk to you for half a day. When do you plan to reveal your story to everyone?

‘I am now hard at work expecting Ellen Taylor.  She may possibly be here in two months.  I once thought of writing you some of the dozens of schemes I have for Ellen Taylor, but as the choice depends on her I may as well wait and tell you the one she chooses.  The two most reasonable are keeping a school and keeping a shop.  The last is evidently the most healthy, but the most difficult of accomplishment.  I have written an account of the earthquakes for Chambers, and intend (now don’t remind me of this a year hence, because la femme propose) to write some more.  What else I shall do I don’t know.  I find the writing faculty does not in the least depend on the leisure I have, but much more on the active work I have to do.  I write at my novel a little and think of my other book.  What this will turn out, God only knows.  It is not, and never can be forgotten.  It is my child, my baby, and I assure you such a p. 245wonder as never was.  I intend him when full grown to revolutionise society and faire époque in history.

‘I’m currently busy getting ready for Ellen Taylor’s arrival. She might be here in two months. I thought about sharing some of the many plans I have for her, but since it really depends on her choice, I’ll wait and tell you which one she picks. The two most practical options are running a school or opening a shop. The latter is clearly healthier but also the harder one to make happen. I’ve written an article about earthquakes for Chambers and plan (now don’t remind me of this a year from now, because la femme propose) to write some more. I’m not sure what else I’ll do. I find that my ability to write doesn’t really depend on my free time at all but much more on the active work I have to get done. I work a little on my novel and think about my other book. What it eventually becomes, only God knows. It’s something I can never forget. It’s my child, my baby, and I assure you it’s a wonder like no other. I plan for it, when fully grown, to revolutionize society and faire époque in history.

‘In the meantime I’m doing a collar in crochet work.

‘In the meantime, I’m working on a crochet collar.

‘Pag.’

‘Pag.’

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

‘Wellington, New Zealand,
‘July 24th, 1849.

‘Wellington, New Zealand,
‘July 24th, 1849.

‘Dear Charlotte,—About a month since I received and read Jane Eyre.  It seemed to me incredible that you had actually written a book.  Such events did not happen while I was in England.  I begin to believe in your existence much as I do in Mr. Rochester’s.  In a believing mood I don’t doubt either of them.  After I had read it I went on to the top of Mount Victoria and looked for a ship to carry a letter to you.  There was a little thing with one mast, and also H.M.S. Fly, and nothing else.  If a cattle vessel came from Sydney she would probably return in a few days, and would take a mail, but we have had east wind for a month and nothing can come in.

Dear Charlotte,—About a month ago, I received and read Jane Eyre. I found it hard to believe that you had actually written a book. Things like that didn’t happen when I was in England. I’m starting to believe in your existence just like I do in Mr. Rochester’s. When I’m in a believing mood, I don’t doubt either of them. After reading it, I went up to the top of Mount Victoria and looked for a ship to send a letter to you. There was a small boat with one mast, along with H.M.S. Fly, and that was it. If a cattle ship came from Sydney, it would probably head back in a few days and could take mail, but we’ve had an east wind for a month, and nothing can come in.

‘Aug. 1.—The Harlequin has just come from Otago, and is to sail for Singapore when the wind changes, and by that route (which I hope to take myself sometime) I send you this.  Much good may it do you.  Your novel surprised me by being so perfect as a work of art.  I expected something more changeable and unfinished.  You have polished to some purpose.  If I were to do so I should get tired, and weary every one else in about two pages.  No sign of this weariness in your book—you must have had abundance, having kept it all to yourself!

Aug. 1.—The Harlequin just arrived from Otago and is ready to set sail for Singapore when the wind changes, and through that route (which I hope to take myself sometime) I’m sending you this. I hope it brings you much good. Your novel amazed me with how perfect it is as a work of art. I expected something more variable and unfinished. You’ve done an excellent job polishing it. If I were to do that, I’d get bored and probably bore everyone else in about two pages. There’s no sign of that boredom in your book—you must have had plenty of inspiration, keeping it all to yourself!

‘You are very different from me in having no doctrine to preach.  It is impossible to squeeze a moral out of your production.  Has the world gone so well with you that you have no protest to make against its absurdities?  Did you never sneer or declaim in your first sketches?  I will scold you well when I see you.  I do not believe in Mr. Rivers.  There are no good men of the Brocklehurst species.  A missionary either goes into his office for a piece of bread, or p. 246he goes from enthusiasm, and that is both too good and too bad a quality for St. John.  It’s a bit of your absurd charity to believe in such a man.  You have done wisely in choosing to imagine a high class of readers.  You never stop to explain or defend anything, and never seem bothered with the idea.  If Mrs. Fairfax or any other well-intentioned fool gets hold of this what will she think?  And yet, you know, the world is made up of such, and worse.  Once more, how have you written through three volumes without declaring war to the knife against a few dozen absurd doctrines, each of which is supported by “a large and respectable class of readers”?  Emily seems to have had such a class in her eye when she wrote that strange thing Wuthering Heights.  Anne, too, stops repeatedly to preach commonplace truths.  She has had a still lower class in her mind’s eye.  Emily seems to have followed the bookseller’s advice.  As to the price you got, it was certainly Jewish.  But what could the people do?  If they had asked you to fix it, do you know yourself how many ciphers your sum would have had?  And how should they know better?  And if they did, that’s the knowledge they get their living by.  If I were in your place, the idea of being bound in the sale of two more would prevent me from ever writing again.  Yet you are probably now busy with another.  It is curious for me to see among the old letters one from Anne sending a copy of a whole article on the currency question written by Fonblanque!  I exceedingly regret having burnt your letters in a fit of caution, and I’ve forgotten all the names.  Was the reader Albert Smith?  What do they all think of you?

‘You are very different from me because you have no beliefs to promote. It’s impossible to pull a moral from your work. Has the world treated you so well that you have no complaints about its absurdities? Did you never mock or rant in your early drafts? I’ll give you a good talking-to when I see you. I don’t trust Mr. Rivers. There are no good people like the Brocklehursts. A missionary either takes on the role out of necessity or enthusiasm, which are both qualities that are either too good or too bad for St. John. It’s a bit naive of you to believe in someone like him. You’ve made a smart choice in imagining a more sophisticated audience. You never take the time to explain or defend anything, and you don’t seem concerned about it. If Mrs. Fairfax or any other well-meaning fool gets a hold of this, what will she think? And yet, you know, the world is filled with people like that and worse. Again, how have you managed to write three volumes without launching a war against a bunch of ridiculous beliefs, each backed by "a large and respectable class of readers"? Emily seems to have had such a class in mind when she wrote that strange book Wuthering Heights. Anne, too, frequently pauses to preach obvious truths. She seems to have an even lower class in her mind. Emily appears to have followed the bookseller’s advice. As for the amount you received, it was definitely unreasonable. But what could they do? If they had asked you to set the price, do you even know how many zeros your figure would have had? And how should they know any better? Even if they did, that’s the kind of knowledge they rely on for their livelihoods. If I were in your position, the thought of being committed to selling two more books would stop me from ever writing again. Yet you’re probably busy working on another one. It’s interesting to see among the old letters one from Anne sending a copy of a whole article on the currency issue written by Fonblanque! I really regret burning your letters out of caution; I’ve forgotten all the names. Was the reader Albert Smith? What do they all think of you?

‘I mention the book to no one and hear no opinions.  I lend it a good deal because it’s a novel, and it’s as good as another!  They say “it makes them cry.”  They are not literary enough to give an opinion.  If ever I hear one I’ll embalm it for you.  As to my own affair, I have written 100 pages, and lately 50 more.  It’s no use writing faster.  I get so disgusted, I can do nothing.

‘I don’t mention the book to anyone and don’t hear any opinions about it. I lend it out a lot because it’s a novel, and it’s just as good as any other! They say “it makes them cry.” They’re not really literary enough to share an opinion. If I ever hear one, I’ll save it for you. As for my own project, I’ve written 100 pages, and recently 50 more. Writing faster doesn’t help. I get so frustrated that I can’t do anything.’

‘If I could command sufficient money for a twelve-month, I would go home by way of India and write my travels, which p. 247would prepare the way for my novel.  With the benefit of your experience I should perhaps make a better bargain than you.  I am most afraid of my health.  Not that I should die, but perhaps sink into a state of betweenity, neither well nor ill, in which I should observe nothing, and be very miserable besides.  My life here is not disagreeable.  I have a great resource in the piano, and a little employment in teaching.

‘If I could have enough money for a year, I would go home through India and write about my travels, which p. 247would set the stage for my novel. With your experience, I might be able to negotiate a better deal than you. I’m really worried about my health. Not that I’m going to die, but I might end up in a state where I'm neither well nor sick, during which I wouldn't notice anything and would be pretty miserable. My life here isn’t bad. I have a lot of solace in playing the piano and a bit of work in teaching.

‘It’s a pity you don’t live in this world, that I might entertain you about the price of meat.  Do you know, I bought six heifers the other day for £23, and now it is turned so cold I expect to hear one-half of them are dead.  One man bought twenty sheep for £8, and they are all dead but one.  Another bought 150 and has 40 left.

‘It’s a shame you don’t live here so I could chat with you about meat prices. You know, I bought six heifers the other day for £23, and now that it's gotten so cold, I expect half of them are dead. One guy bought twenty sheep for £8, and all but one have died. Another bought 150 and has 40 left.

‘I have now told you everything I can think of except that the cat’s on the table and that I’m going to borrow a new book to read—no less than an account of all the systems of philosophy of modern Europe.  I have lately met with a wonder, a man who thinks Jane Eyre would have done better to marry Mr. Rivers!  He gives no reason—such people never do.

‘I have now told you everything I can think of except that the cat’s on the table and that I’m going to borrow a new book to read—specifically, an account of all the systems of philosophy in modern Europe. I recently came across a surprise, a guy who thinks Jane Eyre would have been better off marrying Mr. Rivers! He doesn't give any reason—people like that never do.

‘Mary Taylor.’

‘Mary Taylor.’

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

‘Wellington, New Zealand.

‘Wellington, New Zealand.

‘Dear Charlotte,—I have set up shop!  I am delighted with it as a whole—that is, it is as pleasant or as little disagreeable as you can expect an employment to be that you earn your living by.  The best of it is that your labour has some return, and you are not forced to work on hopelessly without result.  Du reste, it is very odd.  I keep looking at myself with one eye while I’m using the other, and I sometimes find myself in very queer positions.  Yesterday I went along the shore past the wharfes and several warehouses on a street where I had never been before during all the five years I have been in Wellington.  I opened the door of a long place filled with packages, with passages up the middle, and a row of high windows on one side.  At the far end of the room a man was writing at a desk beneath a window.  I walked all the length of the room very slowly, for p. 248what I had come for had completely gone out of my head.  Fortunately the man never heard me until I had recollected it.  Then he got up, and I asked him for some stone-blue, saltpetre, tea, pickles, salt, etc.  He was very civil.  I bought some things and asked for a note of them.  He went to his desk again; I looked at some newspapers lying near.  On the top was a circular from Smith & Elder containing notices of the most important new works.  The first and longest was given to Shirley, a book I had seen mentioned in the Manchester Examiner as written by Currer Bell.  I blushed all over.  The man got up, folding the note.  I pulled it out of his hand and set off to the door, looking odder than ever, for a partner had come in and was watching.  The clerk said something about sending them, and I said something too—I hope it was not very silly—and took my departure.

Dear Charlotte,—I’ve started my own shop! I’m really happy with it overall—that is, it’s as enjoyable or as little frustrating as you can expect a job you rely on for your living to be. The best part is that your work actually has some payoff, and you’re not forced to grind away without seeing any results. By the way, it’s all quite strange. I keep observing myself with one eye while using the other, and I sometimes find myself in some really awkward situations. Yesterday, I walked along the shore past the wharves and several warehouses on a street I hadn’t visited in the five years I’ve been in Wellington. I opened the door to a long space filled with packages, with walkways down the middle, and a row of tall windows on one side. At the far end of the room, a man was writing at a desk under a window. I slowly walked the length of the room because what I had come for had completely slipped my mind. Luckily, the man didn’t notice me until I remembered it. Then he stood up, and I asked him for some stone-blue paint, saltpeter, tea, pickles, salt, and so on. He was very polite. I bought a few things and asked for a note of them. He returned to his desk, and I glanced at some newspapers nearby. On top was a circular from Smith & Elder with notices about the most important new books. The first and longest was about Shirley, a book I had seen mentioned in the Manchester Examiner as written by Currer Bell. I blushed all over. The man got up, folding the note. I quickly grabbed it from his hand and made my way to the door, looking stranger than ever because a partner had come in and was watching. The clerk mentioned sending them, and I said something too—I hope it wasn’t too silly—and then I left.

‘I have seen some extracts from Shirley in which you talk of women working.  And this first duty, this great necessity, you seem to think that some women may indulge in, if they give up marriage, and don’t make themselves too disagreeable to the other sex.  You are a coward and a traitor.  A woman who works is by that alone better than one who does not; and a woman who does not happen to be rich and who still earns no money and does not wish to do so, is guilty of a great fault, almost a crime—a dereliction of duty which leads rapidly and almost certainly to all manner of degradation.  It is very wrong of you to plead for toleration for workers on the ground of their being in peculiar circumstances, and few in number or singular in disposition.  Work or degradation is the lot of all except the very small number born to wealth.

‘I have seen some excerpts from Shirley where you discuss women working. You seem to believe that some women might be able to work if they give up marriage and don’t make themselves too difficult for men. You’re a coward and a traitor. A woman who works is inherently better than one who doesn’t; and a woman who isn’t rich and still doesn’t earn any money or wish to do so is guilty of a serious fault—almost a crime—a failure to fulfill her duty that leads to all kinds of degradation. It’s very wrong of you to argue for tolerance for workers because of their unique circumstances, whether they are few in number or have unusual dispositions. Work or degradation is the fate of all except for the very small number born into wealth.

‘Ellen is with me, or I with her.  I cannot tell how our shop will turn out, but I am as sanguine as ever.  Meantime we certainly amuse ourselves better than if we had nothing to do.  We like it, and that’s the truth.  By the Cornelia we are going to send our sketches and fern leaves.  You must look at them, and it will need all your eyes to understand them, for they are a mass of confusion.  They are all within two miles of Wellington, and some of them rather like—Ellen’s sketch of p. 249me especially.  During the last six months I have seen more “society” than in all the last four years.  Ellen is half the reason of my being invited, and my improved circumstances besides.  There is no one worth mentioning particularly.  The women are all ignorant and narrow, and the men selfish.  They are of a decent, honest kind, and some intelligent and able.  A Mr. Woodward is the only literary man we know, and he seems to have fair sense.  This was the clerk I bought the stone-blue of.  We have just got a mechanic’s institute, and weekly lectures delivered there.  It is amusing to see people trying to find out whether or not it is fashionable and proper to patronise it.  Somehow it seems it is.  I think I have told you all this before, which shows I have got to the end of my news.  Your next letter to me ought to bring me good news, more cheerful than the last.  You will somehow get drawn out of your hole and find interests among your fellow-creatures.  Do you know that living among people with whom you have not the slightest interest in common is just like living alone, or worse?  Ellen Nussey is the only one you can talk to, that I know of at least.  Give my love to her and to Miss Wooler, if you have the opportunity.  I am writing this on just such a night as you will likely read it—rain and storm, coming winter, and a glowing fire.  Ours is on the ground, wood, no fender or irons; no matter, we are very comfortable.

‘Ellen is with me, or I’m with her. I can’t tell how our shop will turn out, but I’m as optimistic as ever. Meanwhile, we definitely have more fun than if we had nothing to do. We like it, and that’s the truth. By the Cornelia, we are going to send our sketches and fern leaves. You have to look at them, and it will take all your attention to understand them because they’re a complete mess. They’re all within two miles of Wellington, and some of them are quite nice—especially Ellen’s sketch of p. 249me. Over the last six months, I’ve socialized more than in all the last four years. Ellen is half the reason I get invited, along with my improved circumstances. There’s no one really worth mentioning. The women are all ignorant and narrow-minded, and the men are selfish. They’re decent and honest, and some are intelligent and capable. A Mr. Woodward is the only literary person we know, and he seems to be reasonably sensible. This is the clerk I bought the stone-blue from. We just got a mechanic’s institute, and there are weekly lectures held there. It’s amusing to see people trying to figure out if it’s fashionable and acceptable to support it. Somehow it seems to be. I think I’ve told you all of this before, which shows I’ve run out of news. Your next letter should bring me good news, something more cheerful than the last. You’ll somehow get drawn out of your hole and find interests among your fellow humans. Do you know that living among people with whom you have nothing in common is just like living alone, or worse? Ellen Nussey is the only one you can talk to, as far as I know. Send my love to her and to Miss Wooler if you get the chance. I’m writing this on a night just like the one you’ll likely read it—rain and storm, coming winter, and a warm fire. Ours is on the ground, with wood, no fender or irons; it doesn’t matter, we’re very comfortable.’

‘Pag.’

‘Pag.’

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

‘Wellington, N. Z., April 3rd, 1850.

‘Wellington, N. Z., April 3rd, 1850.

‘Dear Charlotte,—About a week since I received your last melancholy letter with the account of Anne’s death and your utter indifference to everything, even to the success of your last book.  Though you do not say this, it is pretty plain to be seen from the style of your letter.  It seems to me hard indeed that you who would succeed, better than any one, in making friends and keeping them, should be condemned to solitude from your poverty.  To no one would money bring more happiness, for no one would use it better than you would.  For me, p. 250with my headlong self-indulgent habits, I am perhaps better without it, but I am convinced it would give you great and noble pleasures.  Look out then for success in writing; you ought to care as much for that as you do for going to Heaven.  Though the advantages of being employed appear to you now the best part of the business, you will soon, please God, have other enjoyments from your success.  Railway shares will rise, your books will sell, and you will acquire influence and power; and then most certainly you will find something to use it in which will interest you and make you exert yourself.

Dear Charlotte,—About a week ago, I got your last sad letter about Anne’s death and your complete indifference to everything, even to how your latest book did. Although you don’t say it outright, it's pretty clear from your writing. It seems really unfair that someone like you, who would excel at making and keeping friends, should be stuck in solitude because of your financial situation. No one would benefit more from money than you, and no one would use it better. As for me, p. 250with my reckless self-indulgent ways, I might be better off without it, but I truly believe it would bring you great and meaningful joy. So focus on succeeding in your writing; you should care about that just as much as you care about going to Heaven. While you might think that being busy with work is the best part of the deal right now, soon, God willing, you'll find other joys in your success. Railway shares will go up, your books will sell, and you'll gain influence and power; and then for sure, you'll discover something to invest that in that will excite you and inspire you to put in the effort.

‘I have got into a heap of social trickery since Ellen came, never having troubled my head before about the comparative numbers of young ladies and young gentlemen.  To Ellen it is quite new to be of such importance by the mere fact of her femininity.  She thought she was coming wofully down in the world when she came out, and finds herself better received than ever she was in her life before.  And the class are not in education inferior, though they are in money.  They are decent well-to-do people: six grocers, one draper, two parsons, two clerks, two lawyers, and three or four nondescripts.  All these but one have families to “take tea with,” and there are a lot more single men to flirt with.  For the last three months we have been out every Sunday sketching.  We seldom succeed in making the slightest resemblance to the thing we sit down to, but it is wonderfully interesting.  Next year we hope to send a lot home.  With all this my novel stands still; it might have done so if I had had nothing to do, for it is not want of time but want of freedom of mind that makes me unable to direct my attention to it.  Meantime it grows in my head, for I never give up the idea.  I have written about a volume I suppose.  Read this letter to Ellen Nussey.

‘I’ve gotten caught up in a lot of social games since Ellen arrived, never really thinking before about how many young ladies there are compared to young gentlemen. For Ellen, it’s totally new to be valued just for being a woman. She believed she was really falling in status when she came out, yet now she’s being welcomed better than she ever has been in her life. And the social class isn’t in education any lower, even if they are financially. They’re decent, well-off people: six grocers, one draper, two clergymen, two clerks, two lawyers, and three or four others. Except for one, they all have families to “take tea with,” and there are plenty more single men to flirt with. For the past three months, we’ve been out sketching every Sunday. We rarely manage to produce anything that truly resembles what we’re drawing, but it’s incredibly interesting. Next year we hope to send a lot of drawings home. Meanwhile, my novel is stuck; it might have been stuck anyway, even if I had nothing to do, because it’s not a lack of time but a lack of mental freedom that keeps me from focusing on it. In the meantime, it’s growing in my mind since I never let go of the idea. I’ve probably written about a volume by now. Read this letter to Ellen Nussey.’

‘Mary Taylor.’

‘Mary Taylor.’

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

‘Wellington, August 13th, 1850.

‘Wellington, August 13th, 1850.

‘Dear Charlotte,—After waiting about six months we have just got Shirley.  It was landed from the Constantinople on Monday afternoon, just in the thick of our preparations for a p. 251“small party” for the next day.  We stopped spreading red blankets over everything (New Zealand way of arranging the room) and opened the box and read all the letters.  Soyer’s Housewife and Shirley were there all right, but Miss Martineau’s book was not.  In its place was a silly child’s tale called Edward Orland.  On Tuesday we stayed up dancing till three or four o’clock, what for I can’t imagine.  However, it was a piece of business done.  On Wednesday I began Shirley and continued in a curious confusion of mind till now, principally at the handsome foreigner who was nursed in our house when I was a little girl.  By the way, you’ve put him in the servant’s bedroom.  You make us all talk much as I think we should have done if we’d ventured to speak at all.  What a little lump of perfection you’ve made me!  There is a strange feeling in reading it of hearing us all talking.  I have not seen the matted hall and painted parlour windows so plain these five years.  But my father is not like.  He hates well enough and perhaps loves too, but he is not honest enough.  It was from my father I learnt not to marry for money nor to tolerate any one who did, and he never would advise any one to do so, or fail to speak with contempt of those who did.  Shirley is much more interesting than Jane Eyre, who never interests you at all until she has something to suffer.  All through this last novel there is so much more life and stir that it leaves you far more to remember than the other.  Did you go to London about this too?  What for?  I see by a letter of yours to Mr. Dixon that you have been.  I wanted to contradict some of your opinions, now I can’t.  As to when I’m coming home, you may well ask.  I have wished for fifteen years to begin to earn my own living; last April I began to try—it is too soon to say yet with what success.  I am woefully ignorant, terribly wanting in tact, and obstinately lazy, and almost too old to mend.  Luckily there is no other dance for me, so I must work.  Ellen takes to it kindly, it gratifies a deep ardent wish of hers as of mine, and she is habitually industrious.  For her, ten years younger, our shop will be a blessing.  She may possibly secure an independence, and skill to keep it and use it, before the prime of life p. 252is past.  As to my writings, you may as well ask the Fates about that too.  I can give you no information.  I write a page now and then.  I never forget or get strange to what I have written.  When I read it over it looks very interesting.

Dear Charlotte,—After waiting about six months, we've finally received Shirley. It arrived from the Constantinople on Monday afternoon, right in the middle of our preparations for a p. 251 “small party” the next day. We stopped covering everything with red blankets (the New Zealand way of setting up the room) and opened the box to read all the letters. Soyer’s Housewife and Shirley were there as expected, but Miss Martineau’s book was missing. In its place was a silly children's story called Edward Orland. On Tuesday, we stayed up dancing until three or four o’clock, why I can't even imagine. Still, it was something we got done. On Wednesday, I started Shirley and have been in a strange mix of thoughts since then, mainly about the handsome foreigner who was cared for in our house when I was a little girl. By the way, you’ve placed him in the servant’s bedroom. You make us all talk just like I think we would have if we’d dared to speak at all. What a little perfect version of me you’ve created! There’s a weird feeling in reading it, like hearing us all having conversations. I haven't seen the matted hall and painted parlor windows so clearly in five years. But my father isn’t like that. He knows how to hate well and maybe loves too, but he’s not honest enough. It was from my dad that I learned not to marry for money or to put up with anyone who does, and he would never advise anyone to do so or hesitate to speak contemptuously of those who did. Shirley is way more interesting than Jane Eyre, who doesn’t catch your interest at all until she has something to suffer. Throughout this latest novel, there’s so much more life and energy that it leaves you with far more to remember than the other. Did you go to London for this too? Why? I see from a letter you sent to Mr. Dixon that you have been. I wanted to argue against some of your opinions, but now I can’t. As for when I’m coming home, you can well ask. I’ve wished for fifteen years to start earning my own living; last April I began to try – it’s too early to say with what success. I’m painfully ignorant, sadly lacking in tact, and stubbornly lazy, and almost too old to change. Fortunately, there’s no other option for me, so I must work. Ellen is adjusting well; it meets a deep, strong wish of hers as well as mine, and she is naturally industrious. For her, who is ten years younger, our shop will be a blessing. She might just manage to achieve some independence, along with the skills to maintain and use it, before the prime of life p. 252 is over. As for my writing, you might as well ask the Fates about that too. I can't give you any updates. I write a page here and there. I never forget or become detached from what I’ve written. When I read it again, it all seems very interesting.

‘Mary Taylor.’

‘Mary Taylor.’

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

‘Wellington, N. Z.

‘Wellington, N. Z.

‘My dear Miss Brontë,—I shall tell you everything I can think of, since you said in one of your letters to Pag that you wished me to write to you.  I have been here a year.  It seems a much shorter time, and yet I have thought more and done more than I ever did in my life before.  When we arrived, Henry and I were in such a hurry to leave the ship that we didn’t wait to be fetched, but got into the first boat that came alongside.  When we landed we inquired where Waring lived, but hadn’t walked far before we met him.  I had never seen him before, but he guessed we were the cousins he expected, so caught us and took us along with him.  Mary soon joined us, and we went home together.  At first I thought Mary was not the least altered, but when I had seen her for about a week I thought she looked rather older.  The first night Mary and I sat up till 2 a.m. talking.  Mary and I settled we would do something together, and we talked for a fortnight before we decided whether we would have a school or shop; it ended in favour of the shop.  Waring thought we had better be quiet, and I believe he still thinks we are doing it for amusement; but he never refuses to help us.  He is teaching us book-keeping, and he buys things for us now and then.  Mary gets as fierce as a dragon and goes to all the wholesale stores and looks at things, gets patterns, samples, etc., and asks prices, and then comes home, and we talk it over; and then she goes again and buys what we want.  She says the p. 253people are always civil to her.  Our keeping shop astonishes every body here; I believe they think we do it for fun.  Some think we shall make nothing of it, or that we shall get tired; and all laugh at us.  Before I left home I used to be afraid of being laughed at, but now it has very little effect upon me.

‘My dear Miss Brontë,—I’m going to share everything I can think of since you mentioned in one of your letters to Pag that you wanted me to write to you. I’ve been here for a year. It feels like a much shorter time, yet I’ve thought and done more than I ever did in my life before. When we arrived, Henry and I were so eager to leave the ship that we didn’t wait to be picked up; we just jumped into the first boat that came by. Once we landed, we asked where Waring lived, but we hadn’t walked far when we ran into him. I’d never met him before, but he figured out that we were the cousins he was expecting, so he grabbed us and took us with him. Mary quickly caught up with us, and we went home together. At first, I thought Mary hadn’t changed at all, but after about a week, I noticed she seemed a bit older. The first night, Mary and I stayed up talking until 2 a.m.. We decided we wanted to do something together, and spent two weeks discussing whether to start a school or a shop; we ultimately decided on the shop. Waring thought it would be best to keep it low-key, and I think he still believes we’re doing it for fun, but he never says no when we ask for help. He’s teaching us bookkeeping and occasionally buys things for us. Mary gets really determined and visits all the wholesale stores to check things out, get patterns, samples, etc., and asks for prices. Then she comes home, we discuss it, and she goes back to buy what we need. She says the p. 253people are always nice to her. Everyone here is surprised by our shopkeeping; I think they believe we’re just doing it for fun. Some think we won’t make anything of it or that we’ll get bored and laugh at us. Before I left home, I used to worry about being laughed at, but now it hardly affects me at all.

‘Mary and I are settled together now: I can’t do without Mary and she couldn’t get on by herself.  I built the house we live in, and we made the plan ourselves, so it suits us.  We take it in turns to serve in the shop, and keep the accounts, and do the housework—I mean, Mary takes the shop for a week and I the kitchen, and then we change.  I think we shall do very well if no more severe earthquakes come, and if we can prevent fire.  When a wooden house takes fire it doesn’t stop; and we have got an oil cask about as high as I am, that would help it.  If some sparks go out at the chimney-top the shingles are in danger.  The last earthquake but one about a fortnight ago threw down two medicine bottles that were standing on the table and made other things jingle, but did no damage.  If we have nothing worse than that I don’t care, but I don’t want the chimney to come down—it would cost £10 to build it up again.  Mary is making me stop because it is nearly 9 p.m. and we are going to Waring’s to supper.  Good-bye.—Yours truly,

‘Mary and I are settled together now: I can’t imagine life without Mary, and she wouldn't manage on her own. I built the house we live in, and we designed it ourselves, so it fits our needs perfectly. We take turns working in the shop, managing the accounts, and doing the housework—I mean, Mary takes the shop for a week, and I handle the kitchen, and then we switch. I think we’ll do just fine as long as we don’t have any more major earthquakes and can keep fire hazards at bay. When a wooden house catches fire, it spreads quickly, and we have an oil barrel about as tall as I am that could make things worse. If some sparks escape from the chimney, the shingles could catch fire. The last earthquake, about two weeks ago, knocked over two medicine bottles on the table and made some other things rattle, but thankfully didn’t cause any real damage. If we don’t have anything worse than that, I’m not too worried, but I really want to avoid the chimney collapsing—it would cost £10 to rebuild it. Mary is making me wrap this up since it’s nearly 9 p.m. and we’re heading to Waring’s for supper. Goodbye.—Yours truly,

‘Ellen Taylor.’

‘Ellen Taylor.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, July 4th, 1849.

‘Haworth, July 4th, 1849.

‘I get on as well as I can.  Home is not the home it used to be—that you may well conceive; but so far, I get on.

‘I manage as best as I can. Home isn't the same as it used to be—that much is obvious; but for now, I get by.’

‘I cannot boast of vast benefits derived from change of air yet; but unfortunately I brought back the seeds of a cold with me from that dismal Easton, and I have not got rid of it yet.  Still I think I look better than I did before I went.  How are you?  You have never told me.

‘I can’t say I’ve gained a lot from the change of scenery yet; but unfortunately, I caught a cold while I was in that gloomy Easton, and I still haven’t shaken it off. Still, I think I look better than I did before I went. How are you? You’ve never told me.'

‘Mr. Williams has written to me twice since my return, chiefly on the subject of his third daughter, who wishes to be a governess, and has some chances of a presentation to Queen’s College, an establishment connected with the Governess Institution; p. 254this will secure her four years of instruction.  He says Mr. George Smith is kindly using his influence to obtain votes, but there are so many candidates he is not sanguine of success.

‘Mr. Williams has written to me twice since I got back, mainly about his third daughter, who wants to become a governess and has some opportunities for a spot at Queen’s College, an institution linked to the Governess Institution; p. 254this will ensure she gets four years of education. He mentions that Mr. George Smith is graciously using his influence to gather votes, but with so many candidates, he isn’t very hopeful about success.

‘I had a long letter from Mary Taylor—interesting but sad, because it contained many allusions to those who are in this world no more.  She mentioned you, and seemed impressed with an idea of the lamentable nature of your unoccupied life.  She spoke of her own health as being excellent.

‘I received a long letter from Mary Taylor—interesting but bittersweet, because it had many references to those who are no longer in this world. She mentioned you and seemed concerned about how unfortunate your idle life is. She talked about her own health being great.

‘Give my love to your mother and sisters, and,—Believe me, yours,

‘Send my love to your mom and sisters, and—Believe me, yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, May 18th.

‘Haworth, May 18th.

‘Dear Ellen,—I inclose Mary Taylor’s letter announcing Ellen’s death, and two last letters—sorrowful documents, all of them.  I received them this morning from Hunsworth without any note or directions where to send them, but I think, if I mistake not, Amelia in a previous note told me to transmit them to you.—Yours faithfully,

Dear Ellen,—I’m enclosing Mary Taylor’s letter notifying me of Ellen’s death, along with the last two letters—all pretty sorrowful. I got them this morning from Hunsworth without any note or instructions on where to send them, but I believe, if I’m not mistaken, Amelia mentioned in a previous note that I should send them to you.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

TO MISS CHARLOTTE BRONTË

‘Wellington, N. Z.

‘Wellington, N. Z.

‘Dear Charlotte,—I began a letter to you one bitter cold evening last week, but it turned out such a sad one that I have left it and begun again.  I am sitting all alone in my own house, or rather what is to be mine when I’ve paid for it.  I bought it of Henry when Ellen died—shop and all, and carry on by myself.  I have made up my mind not to get any assistance.  I have not too much work, and the annoyance of having an unsuitable companion was too great to put up with without necessity.  I find now that it was Ellen that made me so busy, and without her to nurse I have plenty of time.  I have begun to keep the house very tidy; it makes it less desolate.  I take great interest in my trade—as much as I could do in anything that was not all pleasure.  But the best part of my life is the excitement of arrivals from England.  Reading all the news, written and printed, is like living another life quite separate from this one.  The old letters are strange—very, when p. 255I begin to read them, but quite familiar notwithstanding.  So are all the books and newspapers, though I never see a human being to whom it would ever occur to me to mention anything I read in them.  I see your nom de guerre in them sometimes.  I saw a criticism on the preface to the second edition of Wuthering Heights.  I saw it among the notables who attended Thackeray’s lectures.  I have seen it somehow connected with Sir J. K. Shuttleworth.  Did he want to marry you, or only to lionise you? or was it somebody else?

Dear Charlotte,—I started a letter to you one really cold evening last week, but it turned out to be so sad that I set it aside and decided to start fresh. I'm sitting here all alone in my house, or more accurately, what will be mine once I've paid for it. I bought it from Henry when Ellen passed away—shop and everything, and I'm managing it on my own. I've resolved not to get any help. I don't have too much work, and the hassle of dealing with an unsuitable companion was too much to bear without a real need. I’ve realized now that it was Ellen who kept me so busy, and without her to care for, I suddenly have plenty of time. I've started keeping the house very tidy; it makes it feel less empty. I'm really interested in my work—at least as much as I can be in something that's not entirely enjoyable. But the best part of my days is the thrill of getting updates from England. Reading all the news, whether it's handwritten or printed, feels like living a different life separate from this one. The old letters are odd—very much so, when I start to read them, but strangely familiar nonetheless. The same goes for all the books and newspapers, even though I never encounter anyone I’d ever think to mention anything I read to. I sometimes see your nom de guerre in them. I came across a critique of the preface to the second edition of Wuthering Heights. I noticed it among the notable attendees at Thackeray’s lectures. I've also seen it somehow associated with Sir J. K. Shuttleworth. Did he want to marry you, or just to make a big deal out of you? Or was it someone else?

‘Your life in London is a “new country” to me, which I cannot even picture to myself.  You seem to like it—at least some things in it, and yet your late letters to Mrs. J. Taylor talk of low spirits and illness.  “What’s the matter with you now?” as my mother used to say, as if it were the twentieth time in a fortnight.  It is really melancholy that now, in the prime of life, in the flush of your hard-earned prosperity, you can’t be well.  Did not Miss Martineau improve you?  If she did, why not try her and her plan again?  But I suppose if you had hope and energy to try, you would be well.  Well, it’s nearly dark and you will surely be well when you read this, so what’s the use of writing?  I should like well to have some details of your life, but how can I hope for it?  I have often tried to give you a picture of mine, but I have not the skill.  I get a heap of details, mostly paltry in themselves, and not enough to give you an idea of the whole.  Oh, for one hour’s talk!  You are getting too far off and beginning to look strange to me.  Do you look as you used to do, I wonder?  What do you and Ellen Nussey talk about when you meet?  There! it’s dark.

‘Your life in London feels like a “new world” to me, something I can’t even imagine. You seem to enjoy it—at least some parts of it—yet your recent letters to Mrs. J. Taylor mention feeling low and unwell. “What’s wrong with you now?” as my mother would have asked, as if it were the twentieth time this fortnight. It’s really sad that now, in the prime of your life and enjoying the success you’ve worked hard for, you can’t be healthy. Didn’t Miss Martineau help you? If she did, why not reach out to her and try her method again? But I guess if you had the hope and energy to try, you’d be feeling better. Well, it’s almost dark, and I’m sure you’ll be well when you read this, so what’s the point of writing? I would love to hear some details about your life, but how can I expect that? I’ve often attempted to give you a picture of mine, but I lack the skill. I end up with a bunch of details, mostly trivial, and not enough to convey the bigger picture. Oh, for just one hour of conversation! You’re drifting too far away and starting to feel unfamiliar to me. I wonder if you look as you used to? What do you and Ellen Nussey talk about when you meet? There! It’s dark now.

‘Sunday night.—I have let the vessel go that was to take this.  As there were others going soon I did not much care.  I am in the height of cogitation whether to send for some worsted stockings, etc.  They will come next year at this time, and who can tell what I shall want then, or shall be doing?  Yet hitherto we have sent such orders, and have guessed or known pretty well what we should want.  I have just been looking over a list of four pages long in Ellen’s handwriting.  These things ought to come by the next vessel, or part of them at least.  p. 256When tired of that I began to read some pages of “my book” intending to write some more, but went on reading for pleasure.  I often do this, and find it very interesting indeed.  It does not get on fast, though I have written about one volume and a half.  It’s full of music, poverty, disputing, politics, and original views of life.  I can’t for the life of me bring the lover into it, nor tell what he’s to do when he comes.  Of the men generally I can never tell what they’ll do next.  The women I understand pretty well, and rare tracasserie there is among them—they are perfectly feminine in that respect at least.

Sunday night.—I let the ship go that was supposed to take this. Since there were others leaving soon, I didn't mind too much. I'm debating whether to order some wool stockings and other things. They’ll arrive around this time next year, and who knows what I’ll need or be doing then? But up until now, we've placed such orders and have generally guessed or known what we would need. I just looked over a four-page list in Ellen’s handwriting. These items should arrive on the next ship, or at least part of them. p. 256When I got bored with that, I started reading some pages of “my book,” planning to write more, but I ended up reading for fun instead. I do this often, and I find it really interesting. It’s not progressing quickly, though I’ve written about one and a half volumes. It’s full of music, poverty, argument, politics, and unique takes on life. For the life of me, I can’t figure out how to bring the lover into it or what he’ll do when he arrives. I can never predict what the men will do next. The women are pretty easy to understand, and there’s rarely any drama among them—they are perfectly feminine in that regard at least.

‘I am just now in a state of famine.  No books and no news from England for this two months.  I am thinking of visiting a circulating library from sheer dulness.  If I had more time I should get melancholy.  No one can prize activity more than I do.  I never am long without it than a gloom comes over me.  The cloud seems to be always there behind me, and never quite out of sight but when I keep on at a good rate.  Fortunately, the more I work the better I like it.  I shall take to scrubbing the floor before it’s dirty and polishing pans on the outside in my old age.  It is the only thing that gives me an appetite for dinner.

‘I’m currently in a bit of a drought. No books and no news from England for two months. I’m considering visiting a library just out of boredom. If I had more time, I’d probably get depressed. No one values being active more than I do. I can’t stand being inactive for long; that’s when the gloom starts to creep in. It always seems to be lurking behind me, never completely out of sight unless I keep busy. Luckily, the more I work, the more I enjoy it. I’ll probably start scrubbing the floor before it gets dirty and polishing pans in my old age. It’s the only thing that makes me look forward to dinner.’

‘Pag.

‘Pag.

‘Give my love to Ellen Nussey.’

‘Send my love to Ellen Nussey.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Wellington, N. Z., 8th Jan. 1857.

‘Wellington, N. Z., 8th Jan. 1857.

‘Dear Ellen,—A few days ago I got a letter from you, dated 2nd May 1856, along with some patterns and fashion-book.  They seem to have been lost somehow, as the box ought to have come by the Hastings, and only now makes its appearance by the Philip Lang.  It has come very apropos for a new year’s gift, and the patterns were not opened twenty-four hours before a silk cape was cut out by one of them.  I think I made a very impertinent request when I asked you to give yourself so much trouble.  The poor woman for whom I wanted them is now a first-rate dressmaker—her drunken husband, who was her main misfortune, having taken himself off and not been heard of lately.

Dear Ellen,—A few days ago, I received a letter from you dated May 2, 1856, along with some patterns and a fashion book. They seem to have gotten lost somehow, as the box was supposed to have arrived on the Hastings, but only just showed up on the Philip Lang. It has come at the perfect time for a New Year’s gift, and I didn’t wait twenty-four hours before one of the patterns was used to cut out a silk cape. I realize I made a pretty cheeky request when I asked you to put yourself to such trouble. The poor woman I had in mind for these patterns is now an excellent dressmaker—her drunk husband, who was her biggest problem, has left and hasn’t been heard from in a while.

p. 257‘I am glad to hear that Mrs. Gaskell is progressing with the Life.

p. 257“I’m happy to hear that Mrs. Gaskell is making progress with the Life.

‘I wish I had kept Charlotte’s letters now, though I never felt it safe to do so until latterly that I have had a home of my own.  They would have been much better evidence than my imperfect recollection, and infinitely more interesting.  A settled opinion is very likely to look absurd unless you give the grounds for it, and even if I could remember them it might look as if there might be other facts which I have neglected which ought to have altered it.  Your news of the “neighbours” is very interesting, especially of Miss Wooler and my old schoolfellows.  I wish I knew how to give you some account of my ways here and the effect of my position on me.  First of all, it agrees with me.  I am in better health than at any time since I left school.  My life now is not overburdened with work, and what I do has interest and attraction in it.  I think it is that part that I shall think most agreeable when I look back on my death-bed—a number of small pleasures scattered over my way, that, when seen from a distance, will seem to cover it thick.  They don’t cover it by any means, but I never had so many.

‘I wish I had kept Charlotte’s letters now, even though I never felt it was safe to do so until recently, when I finally have a place of my own. They would have been way better evidence than my imperfect memory, and way more interesting. A fixed opinion can easily seem ridiculous unless you explain why you hold it, and even if I could remember my reasons, it might look like there are other facts I’ve overlooked that should have changed my view. Your news about the “neighbors” is really interesting, especially about Miss Wooler and my old classmates. I wish I knew how to share what my life is like here and how my situation has affected me. First of all, it suits me well. I’m in better health than I’ve been at any point since I left school. My life right now isn’t overloaded with work, and what I do is engaging and enjoyable. I think that’s the part I’ll find most pleasant when I look back on my life as I’m nearing death—a collection of small joys along the way that, viewed from afar, will seem to cover my life completely. They don’t cover it by any means, but I’ve never had so many.’

‘I look after my shopwoman, make out bills, decide who shall have “trust” and who not.  Then I go a-buying, not near such an anxious piece of business now that I understand my trade, and have, moreover, a good “credit.”  I read a good deal, sometimes on the sofa, a vice I am much given to in hot weather.  Then I have some friends—not many, and no geniuses, which fact pray keep strictly to yourself, for how the doings and sayings of Wellington people in England always come out again to New Zealand!  They are not very interesting any way.  This is my fault in part, for I can’t take interest in their concerns.  A book is worth any of them, and a good book worth them all put together.

‘I take care of my shop assistant, prepare invoices, and decide who gets “credit” and who doesn’t. Then I go shopping, which isn’t nearly as stressful now that I know my trade and have a solid “credit score.” I read a lot, sometimes on the sofa, a habit I indulge in during hot weather. I have a few friends—not many, and no geniuses, so please keep that to yourself, because news about what people in Wellington do always seems to get back to New Zealand! They aren’t very interesting anyway. This is partially my fault, since I can’t seem to care about their lives. A good book is worth more than any of them, and a great book is worth more than all of them put together.

‘Our east winds are much the pleasantest and healthiest we have.  The soft moist north-west brings headache and depression—it even blights the trees.—Yours affectionately,

Our east winds are definitely the most pleasant and healthiest we have. The soft, moist northwest winds bring headaches and a feeling of heaviness—they even harm the trees.—Yours affectionately,

‘Mary Taylor.’

‘Mary Taylor.’

p. 258TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 258TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Wellington, 4th June 1858.

‘Wellington, 4th June 1858.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have lately heard that you are leaving Brookroyd.  I shall not even see Brookroyd again, and one of the people who lived there; and one whom I used to see there I shall never see more.  Keep yourself well, dear Ellen, and gather round you as much happiness and interest as you can, and let me find you cheery and thriving when I come.  When that will be I don’t yet know; but one thing is sure, I have given over ordering goods from England, so that I must sometime give over for want of anything to sell.  The last things ordered I expect to arrive about the beginning of the year 1859.  In the course of that year, therefore, I shall be left without anything to do or motive for staying.  Possibly this time twelve months I may be leaving Wellington.

Dear Ellen,—I recently heard that you're leaving Brookroyd. I won't even get to see Brookroyd again, and one of the people who lived there; and one person I used to see there, I will never see again. Take care of yourself, dear Ellen, and surround yourself with as much happiness and interest as you can. I hope to find you happy and thriving when I visit. I don't know when that will be yet, but one thing is certain: I’ve stopped ordering goods from England, which means I won’t have anything to sell soon. The last items I ordered should arrive around the beginning of 1859. So, by the end of that year, I’ll have nothing to do or any reason to stay. It's possible that this time next year I might be leaving Wellington.

‘We are here in the height of a political crisis.  The election for the highest office in the province (Superintendent) comes off in about a fortnight.  There is altogether a small storm going on in our teacup, quite brisk enough to stir everything in it.  My principal interest therein is the sale of election ribbons, though I am afraid, owing to the bad weather, there will be little display.  Besides the elections, there is nothing interesting.  We all go on pretty well.  I have got a pony about four feet high, that carries me about ten miles from Wellington, which is much more than walking distance, to which I have been confined for the last ten years.  I have given over most of the work to Miss Smith, who will finally take the business, and if we had fine weather I think I should enjoy myself.  My main want here is for books enough to fill up my idle time.  It seems to me that when I get home I will spend half my income on books, and sell them when I have read them to make it go further.  I know this is absurd, but people with an unsatisfied appetite think they can eat enormously.

‘We are in the middle of a political crisis. The election for the highest office in the province (Superintendent) is happening in about two weeks. There’s quite a bit of commotion in our small bubble, enough to shake everything up. My main interest is the sale of election ribbons, though I worry that, due to the bad weather, there won't be much of a display. Aside from the elections, nothing else is really happening. We're all doing pretty well. I’ve got a pony about four feet tall that takes me about ten miles from Wellington, which is way more than I’ve walked in the past ten years. I’ve handed over most of the work to Miss Smith, who will eventually take over the business, and if the weather were nice, I think I’d really enjoy myself. What I mostly want here is enough books to fill my free time. I feel like when I get home, I’ll spend half my income on books, and then sell them after I’ve read them to stretch my budget. I know this is silly, but people with unfulfilled cravings think they can consume a lot.’

‘Remember me kindly to Miss Wooler, and tell me all about her in your next.—Yours affectionately,

‘Please give my regards to Miss Wooler and share all the news about her in your next message.—Yours affectionately,

‘Mary Taylor.’

‘Mary Taylor.’

p. 260CHAPTER X: MARGARET WOOLER

‘I am afraid we cannot give you very much information about our aunt, Miss Wooler,’ writes one of her kindred.  ‘She was the eldest of a large family, born June 10th, 1792.  She was extremely intelligent and highly educated, and throughout her long life, which lasted till within a week of completing her ninety-third year, she took the greatest interest in religious, political, and every charitable work, being a life governor to many institutions.  Part of her early life was spent in the Isle of Wight with relations, where she was very intimate with the Sewell family, one of whom was the author of Amy Herbert.  By her own family, she was ever looked up to with the greatest respect, being always called “Sister” by her brothers and sisters all her life.  After she retired from her school at Roe Head, and afterwards Dewsbury Moor, she used sometimes to make her home for months together with my father and mother at Heckmondwike Vicarage; then she would go away for a few months to the sea-side, either alone or with one of her sisters.  The last ten or twelve years of her life were spent at Gomersall, along with two of her sisters and a niece.  The three sisters all p. 261died within a year, the youngest going first and the eldest last.  They are buried in Birstall Churchyard, close to my parents and sister.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t share much information about our aunt, Miss Wooler,” writes one of her relatives. “She was the oldest of a large family, born on June 10th, 1792. She was very intelligent and well-educated, and throughout her long life, which lasted until just a week before her ninety-third birthday, she was deeply involved in religious, political, and charitable work, serving as a life governor for many organizations. Part of her early life was spent in the Isle of Wight with relatives, where she became very close to the Sewell family, one of whom wrote Amy Herbert. Her family always held her in high regard, referring to her as 'Sister' throughout her life. After retiring from her school at Roe Head, and later Dewsbury Moor, she sometimes stayed for months at a time with my parents at Heckmondwike Vicarage; then she would spend some time at the seaside, either alone or with one of her sisters. The last ten or twelve years of her life were spent in Gomersall, alongside two of her sisters and a niece. The three sisters all p. 261died within a year, with the youngest passing first and the eldest last. They are buried in Birstall Churchyard, close to my parents and sister.

‘Miss Brontë was her pupil when at Roe Head; the late Miss Taylor and Miss E. Nussey were also her pupils at the same time.  Afterwards Miss Brontë stayed on as governess.  My father prepared Miss Brontë for confirmation when he was curate-in-charge at Mirfield Parish Church.  When Miss Brontë was married, Miss Wooler was one of the guests.  Mr. Brontë, not feeling well enough to go to Church that morning, my aunt gave her away, as she had no other relative there to do it.

“Miss Brontë was her student at Roe Head; the late Miss Taylor and Miss E. Nussey were also her students at the same time. Later, Miss Brontë continued on as a governess. My father prepared Miss Brontë for confirmation when he was the curate-in-charge at Mirfield Parish Church. When Miss Brontë got married, Miss Wooler was one of the guests. Mr. Brontë, not feeling well enough to go to church that morning, asked my aunt to give her away, as she had no other relatives there to do it.”

‘Miss Wooler kept up a warm friendship with her former pupil, up to the time of her death.

“Miss Wooler maintained a close friendship with her former student until her death.

‘My aunt was a most loyal subject, and devotedly attached to the Church.  She made a point of reading the Bible steadily through every year, and a chapter out of her Italian Testament each day, for she used to say “she never liked to lose anything she had learnt.”  It was always a pleasure, too, if she met with any one who could converse with her in French.

“My aunt was a very loyal supporter and deeply committed to the Church. She made it a point to read the Bible all the way through every year, as well as a chapter from her Italian Testament each day, because she used to say 'she never wanted to forget anything she had learned.' It was always a joy for her to meet someone who could chat with her in French.

‘I fear these few items will not be of much use, but it is difficult to record anything of one who led such a quiet and retiring, but useful life.’

“I’m afraid these few details might not be very helpful, but it’s hard to summarize someone who lived such a quiet and humble, yet impactful life.”

‘My recollections of Miss Wooler,’ writes Miss Nussey, ‘are, that she was short and stout, but graceful in her movements, very fluent in conversation and with a very sweet voice.  She had Charlotte and myself to stay with her sometimes after we left school.  We had delightful sitting-up times with her when the pupils had gone to bed.  She would treat us so confidentially, relating her six years’ residence in the Isle of Wight with an uncle and aunt—Dr. More and his wife.  Dr. More was on the military staff, and the society of the island had claims upon him.  Mrs. More was a fine woman and very benevolent.  Personally, Miss Wooler was like a lady abbess.  She wore white, well-fitting dresses embroidered.  Her long hair plaited, formed a coronet, and long large ringlets fell from her head to shoulders.  She was not pretty or handsome, but her quiet dignity made her p. 262presence imposing.  She was nobly scrupulous and conscientious—a woman of the greatest self-denial.  Her income was small.  She lived on half of it, and gave the remainder to charitable objects.’

“My memories of Miss Wooler,” writes Miss Nussey, “are that she was short and stout, but graceful in her movements, very talkative, and had a really sweet voice. She often had Charlotte and me visit her after we graduated from school. We had wonderful late-night talks with her once the students were in bed. She confided in us, sharing stories about her six years living in the Isle of Wight with her uncle and aunt—Dr. More and his wife. Dr. More was part of the military staff, and the island's social scene kept him busy. Mrs. More was a remarkable woman and very kind-hearted. Miss Wooler had the presence of a lady abbess. She wore white, well-tailored dresses with embroidery. Her long hair was braided into a crown, with big ringlets cascading from her head to her shoulders. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but her calm dignity made her presence striking. She was deeply principled and conscientious—a woman with the highest standards of self-denial. Her income was modest; she lived on half of it and donated the rest to charity.”

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, August 28th, 1848.

‘Haworth, August 28th, 1848.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I will write without further delay.  It often happens that when we linger at first in answering a friend’s letter, obstacles occur to retard us to an inexcusably late period.

'My dear Miss Wooler,—Since you want to hear from me while you’re away, I’ll write right away. It often happens that when we hesitate to reply to a friend's letter, other things come up that delay us until it’s unacceptably late.'

‘In my last I forgot to answer a question you asked me, and was sorry afterwards for the omission; I will begin, therefore, by replying to it, though I fear what I can give will now come a little late.  You said Mrs. Chapham had some thoughts of sending her daughter to school, and wished to know whether the Clergy Daughters’ School at Casterton was an eligible place.

‘In my last letter, I forgot to answer a question you asked, and I regretted that afterward, so I’ll start by replying to it, even though my answer might be a bit late. You mentioned that Mrs. Chapham was thinking about sending her daughter to school and wanted to know if the Clergy Daughters’ School at Casterton was a good option.

‘My personal knowledge of that institution is very much out of date, being derived from the experience of twenty years ago; the establishment was at that time in its infancy, and a sad rickety infancy it was.  Typhus fever decimated the school periodically, and consumption and scrofula in every variety of form, which bad air and water, and bad, insufficient diet can generate, preyed on the ill-fated pupils.  It would not then have been a fit place for any of Mrs. Chapham’s children.  But, I understand, it is very much altered for the better since those p. 263days.  The school is removed from Cowan Bridge (a situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque—low, damp, beautiful with wood and water) to Casterton; the accommodation, the diet, the discipline, the system of tuition, all are, I believe, entirely altered and greatly improved.  I was told that such pupils as behaved well and remained at school till their educations were finished were provided with situations as governesses if they wish to adopt that vocation, and that much care was exercised in the selection; it was added they were also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on quitting Casterton.

‘My knowledge of that school is quite outdated, based on my experience twenty years ago; back then, it was still getting started, and it had its troubling issues. Typhus fever would regularly hit the school, and various forms of tuberculosis and scrofula, caused by poor air and water as well as inadequate diet, affected the unfortunate students. It wouldn't have been a suitable place for any of Mrs. Chapham’s children. However, I hear it has improved significantly since those days. The school has relocated from Cowan Bridge (which was just as unhealthy as it was pretty—low, damp, and beautiful with woods and water) to Casterton; the facilities, the food, the discipline, and the teaching methods have all been completely revamped and greatly improved. I’ve been told that students who behave well and stay until they finish their education are helped to find jobs as governesses if they choose, and that great care is taken in the selection process; it was also mentioned that they receive a great wardrobe upon leaving Casterton.

‘If I have the opportunity of reading The Life of Dr. Arnold, I shall not fail to profit thereby; your recommendation makes me desirous to see it.  Do you remember once speaking with approbation of a book called Mrs. Leicester’s School, which you said you had met with, and you wondered by whom it was written?  I was reading the other day a lately published collection of the Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Serjeant Talfourd, where I found it mentioned that Mrs. Leicester’s School was the first production of Lamb and his sister.  These letters are themselves singularly interesting; they have hitherto been suppressed in all previous collections of Lamb’s works and relics, on account of the frequent allusions they contain to the unhappy malady of Miss Lamb, and a frightful incident which darkened her earlier years.  She was, it appears, a woman of the sweetest disposition, and, in her normal state, of the highest and clearest intellect, but afflicted with periodical insanity which came on once a year, or oftener.  To her parents she was a most tender and dutiful daughter, nursing them in their old age, when one was physically and the other mentally infirm, with unremitting care, and at the same time toiling to add something by needlework to the slender resources of the family.  A succession of laborious days and sleepless nights brought on a frenzy fit, in which she had the miserable misfortune to kill her own mother.  She was afterwards placed in a madhouse, where she would have been detained for life, had not her brother Charles promised to devote himself to her and take her under his care—and for her sake renounce a project p. 264of marriage he then entertained.  An instance of abnegation of self scarcely, I think, to be paralleled in the annals of the “coarser sex.”  They passed their subsequent lives together—models of fraternal affection, and would have been very happy but for the dread visitation to which Mary Lamb continued liable all her life.  I thought it both a sad and edifying history.  Your account of your little niece’s naïve delight in beholding the morning sea for the first time amused and pleased me; it proves she has some sensations—a refreshing circumstance in a day and generation when the natural phenomenon of children wholly destitute of all pretension to the same is by no means an unusual occurrence.

‘If I get the chance to read The Life of Dr. Arnold, I won’t miss that opportunity; your recommendation makes me eager to check it out. Do you remember mentioning a book called Mrs. Leicester’s School, which you praised and were curious about the author? I was reading a newly published collection of the Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Serjeant Talfourd, where I found out that Mrs. Leicester’s School was the first work by Lamb and his sister. These letters are really interesting; they’ve been left out of previous collections of Lamb’s works because they often refer to the unfortunate illness of Miss Lamb and a tragic event from her early years. It turns out she was a woman with a kind spirit and, when well, an incredibly sharp mind, but she suffered from periodic insanity that affected her once a year or more often. She was a devoted and loving daughter to her parents, caring for them in their old age, while one struggled with physical issues and the other with mental challenges, all while trying to support the family’s meager income through needlework. A series of exhausting days and sleepless nights led to a breakdown during which she sadly ended up killing her own mother. After that, she was placed in a mental institution, where she could have stayed for life if her brother Charles hadn’t promised to take care of her and give up his marriage plans for her sake. That’s a level of selflessness that I don't think can be matched in the history of the “coarser sex.” They spent the rest of their lives together—examples of brotherly love, and would have been very happy if not for the constant worry about Mary Lamb’s ongoing struggles with mental health. I found it both a tragic and uplifting story. Your description of your little niece's innocent joy at seeing the morning sea for the first time delighted and entertained me; it shows she has real feelings—a refreshing realization in a time when it’s not unusual for children to lack any such depth.’

‘I have written a long letter as you requested me, but I fear you will not find it very amusing.  With love to your little companion,—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours affectionately and respectfully,

‘I’ve written a long letter as you asked, but I worry you might not find it very entertaining. With love to your little friend,—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours affectionately and respectfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Papa, I am most thankful to say, continues in very good health, considering his age.  My sisters likewise are pretty well.’

‘Dad is in really good health, considering his age. My sisters are also doing pretty well.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, March 31st, 1848.

‘Haworth, March 31st, 1848.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I had been wishing to hear from you for some time before I received your last.  There has been so much sickness during the last winter, and the influenza especially has been so severe and so generally prevalent, that the sight of suffering around us has frequently suggested fears for absent friends.  Ellen Nussey told me, indeed, that neither you nor Miss C. Wooler had escaped the influenza, but, since your letter contains no allusion to your own health or hers, I trust you are completely recovered.  I am most thankful to say that papa has hitherto been exempted from any attack.  My sister and myself have each had a visit from it, but Anne is the only one with whom it stayed long or did much mischief; in her case it was attended with distressing cough and fever; but she is now better, though it has left her chest weak.

My dear Miss Wooler,—I had been wanting to hear from you for some time before I got your last message. There has been a lot of illness over the past winter, and the flu, in particular, has been very severe and widespread, making us worry about our friends who aren’t here. Ellen Nussey told me that neither you nor Miss C. Wooler managed to escape the flu, but since your letter doesn’t mention your health or hers, I hope you’re both fully recovered. I’m glad to say that Dad has so far avoided getting sick. My sister and I both had a bout with it, but Anne is the only one who had it for a long time and it caused her a lot of trouble; in her case, it came with a bad cough and fever, but she’s doing better now, even though it left her chest a bit weak.

‘I remember well wishing my lot had been cast in the troubled times of the late war, and seeing in its exciting p. 265incidents a kind of stimulating charm which it made my pulse beat fast only to think of—I remember even, I think, being a little impatient that you would not fully sympathise with my feelings on this subject, that you heard my aspirations and speculations very tranquilly, and by no means seemed to think the flaming sword could be any pleasant addition to the joys of paradise.  I have now outlived youth; and, though I dare not say that I have outlived all its illusions, that the romance is quite gone from life, the veil fallen from truth, and that I see both in naked reality, yet, certainly, many things are not to me what they were ten years ago; and amongst the rest, “the pomp and circumstance of war” have quite lost in my eyes their factitious glitter.  I have still no doubt that the shock of moral earthquakes wakens a vivid sense of life both in nations and individuals; that the fear of dangers on a broad national scale diverts men’s minds momentarily from brooding over small private perils, and, for the time, gives them something like largeness of views; but, as little doubt have I that convulsive revolutions put back the world in all that is good, check civilisation, bring the dregs of society to its surface—in short, it appears to me that insurrections and battles are the acute diseases of nations, and that their tendency is to exhaust by their violence the vital energies of the countries where they occur.  That England may be spared the spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the Continent and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray!

‘I remember wishing I had lived in the intense times of the recent war and feeling a thrilling charm in the exciting events that made my heart race just thinking about them. I even recall being a bit impatient that you didn’t fully share my feelings on this; you listened to my dreams and speculations calmly and didn’t seem to think that the flaming sword would add anything good to the joys of paradise. I have now outlived my youth, and while I can’t say I’ve lost all its illusions, that the romance of life is completely gone, and that I see everything in harsh reality, many things are definitely not what they were a decade ago. Among them, “the pomp and circumstance of war” has completely lost its artificial sparkle for me. I still believe that the shock of moral earthquakes brings a vivid sense of life to both nations and individuals; that the fear of major dangers distracts people’s minds from worrying about small personal threats, and for a time gives them a broader perspective. But I am equally convinced that violent revolutions set back all that is good, hinder civilization, and bring out the worst in society—in short, it seems to me that uprisings and wars are the acute illnesses of nations, and their tendency is to exhaust the vital energies of the countries where they occur. I sincerely pray that England may be spared the spasms, cramps, and frenzy now gripping the Continent and threatening Ireland!’

‘With the French and Irish I have no sympathy.  With the Germans and Italians I think the case is different—as different as the love of freedom is from the lust of license.’

‘I have no sympathy for the French and Irish. With the Germans and Italians, I believe it's a different situation—just as different as the love of freedom is from the desire for excess.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, September 27th, 1850.

‘Haworth, September 27th, 1850.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—When I tell you that I have already been to the Lakes this season, and that it is scarcely more than a month since I returned, you will understand that it is no longer within my power to accept your kind invitation.

My dear Miss Wooler,—When I tell you that I’ve already been to the Lakes this season, and that it’s barely been a month since I got back, you’ll understand that I can no longer accept your kind invitation.

p. 266‘I wish I could have gone to you.  I wish your invitation had come first; to speak the truth, it would have suited me better than the one by which I profited.  It would have been pleasant, soothing, in many ways beneficial, to have spent two weeks with you in your cottage-lodgings.  But these reflections are vain.  I have already had my excursion, and there is an end of it.  Sir J. K. Shuttleworth is residing near Windermere, at a house called “The Briary,” and it was there I was staying for a little while in August.  He very kindly showed me the scenery—as it can be seen from a carriage—and I discerned that the “Lake Country” is a glorious region, of which I had only seen the similitude in dream—waking or sleeping.  But, my dear Miss Wooler, I only half enjoyed it, because I was only half at my ease.  Decidedly I find it does not agree with me to prosecute the search of the picturesque in a carriage; a waggon, a spring-cart, even a post-chaise might do, but the carriage upsets everything.  I longed to slip out unseen, and to run away by myself in amongst the hills and dales.  Erratic and vagrant instincts tormented me, and these I was obliged to control, or rather, suppress, for fear of growing in any degree enthusiastic, and thus drawing attention to the “lioness,” the authoress, the artist.  Sir J. K. Shuttleworth is a man of ability and intellect, but not a man in whose presence one willingly unbends.

p. 266‘I wish I could have visited you. I wish your invitation had arrived first; honestly, it would have suited me better than the one I accepted. It would have been nice, comforting, and in many ways advantageous to spend two weeks with you in your cozy cottage. But these thoughts are pointless. I've already had my getaway, and that's that. Sir J. K. Shuttleworth is staying near Windermere, at a place called “The Briary,” and that’s where I was for a bit in August. He generously showed me the scenery—as it can be viewed from a carriage—and I realized that the “Lake Country” is a stunning area, which I had only envisioned in dreams—whether awake or asleep. However, my dear Miss Wooler, I only enjoyed it partially because I was only partially comfortable. I distinctly find it doesn’t suit me to explore the picturesque from a carriage; a wagon, a spring cart, or even a post-chaise might work, but the carriage ruins everything. I desperately wanted to slip away unnoticed and wander alone among the hills and valleys. Restless and wandering instincts tormented me, and I had to control, or rather suppress, them for fear of becoming overly enthusiastic and thus drawing attention to the “lioness,” the author, the artist. Sir J. K. Shuttleworth is a capable and intelligent man, but not someone with whom one easily relaxes.

‘You say you suspect I have found a large circle of acquaintance by this time.  No, I cannot say that I have.  I doubt whether I possess either the wish or the power to do so.  A few friends I should like to know well; if such knowledge brought proportionate regard I could not help concentrating my feelings.  Dissipation, I think, appears synonymous with dilution.  However, I have as yet scarcely been tried.  During the month I spent in London in the spring, I kept very quiet, having the fear of “lionising” before my eyes.  I only went out once to dinner, and was once present at an evening party; and the only visits I have paid have been to Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and my publishers.  From this system I should not like to depart.  As far as I can see, indiscriminate visiting tends only p. 267to a waste of time and a vulgarising of character.  Besides, it would be wrong to leave papa often; he is now in his 75th year, the infirmities of age begin to creep upon him.  During the summer he has been much harassed by chronic bronchitis, but, I am thankful to say, he is now somewhat better.  I think my own health has derived benefit from change and exercise.

‘You say you think I’ve probably made a lot of acquaintances by now. No, I can’t say that I have. I doubt I have the desire or the ability to do so. There are a few friends I’d like to get to know better; if that connection led to mutual appreciation, I couldn’t help but focus my feelings. I believe that too much socializing is similar to diluting oneself. However, I haven’t really been tested yet. During the month I spent in London in the spring, I kept a low profile, fearing the attention of being “lionized.” I only went out to dinner once and attended one evening gathering; the only visits I made were to Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and my publishers. I wouldn’t want to change this approach. From what I can see, random visiting only leads to a waste of time and a lowering of character. Plus, it wouldn’t be right to leave my Dad too often; he’s now 75, and the challenges of aging are starting to take hold. Over the summer, he suffered a lot from chronic bronchitis, but I’m grateful to say he’s feeling a bit better now. I think my own health has improved from the change and exercise.’

‘You ask after Ellen Nussey.  When I saw Ellen, about two months ago, she looked remarkably well.  I sometimes hear small fragments of gossip which amuse me.  Somebody professes to have authority for saying that “When Miss Brontë was in London she neglected to attend divine service on the Sabbath, and in the week spent her time in going about to balls, theatres, and operas.”  On the other hand, the London quidnuncs make my seclusion a matter of wonder, and devise twenty romantic fictions to account for it.  Formerly I used to listen to report with interest and a certain credulity; I am now grown deaf and sceptical.  Experience has taught me how absolutely devoid of foundations her stories may be.

‘You’re asking about Ellen Nussey. When I saw her about two months ago, she looked really well. I sometimes hear little bits of gossip that amuse me. Someone claims to know that “When Miss Brontë was in London, she skipped church on Sundays and spent her week going to balls, theaters, and operas.” On the flip side, the London gossipers find my isolation intriguing and create all sorts of romantic stories to explain it. In the past, I used to listen to rumors with interest and a bit of belief; now I’ve become deaf to them and skeptical. Experience has shown me how baseless those stories can be.

‘With the sincere hope that your own health is better, and kind remembrances to all old friends whenever you see them or write to them (and whether or not their feeling to me has ceased to be friendly, which I fear is the case in some instances),—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, always yours, affectionately and respectfully,

‘With the genuine hope that your health is improving, and warm regards to all old friends whenever you see or write to them (and whether or not their feelings toward me have stopped being friendly, which I worry may be true in some cases),—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, always yours, affectionately and respectfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, July 14th, 1851.

‘Haworth, July 14th, 1851.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—My first feeling on receiving your note was one of disappointment; but a little consideration sufficed to show me that “all was for the best.”  In truth, it was a great piece of extravagance on my part to ask you and Ellen together; it is much better to divide such good things.  To have your visit in prospect will console me when hers is in retrospect.  Not that I mean to yield to the weakness of clinging dependently to the society of friends, however dear, but still as an occasional treat I must value and even seek such society p. 268as a necessary of life.  Let me know, then, whenever it suits your convenience to come to Haworth, and, unless some change I cannot now foresee occurs, a ready and warm welcome will await you.  Should there be any cause rendering it desirable to defer the visit, I will tell you frankly.

My dear Miss Wooler,—When I first received your note, I felt disappointed; but after thinking it over, I realized that “everything happens for a reason.” Honestly, it was rather extravagant of me to invite both you and Ellen at the same time; it's much better to share such wonderful experiences. Knowing that I’ll have your visit to look forward to will make me feel better when I think back on hers. I don’t want to fall into the habit of relying too much on friends for company, no matter how dear they are, but I definitely appreciate and even seek out such friendships as a necessary part of life from time to time. So, please let me know when it’s convenient for you to come to Haworth, and unless something unexpected happens, I’ll be ready to give you a warm welcome. If there’s any reason to postpone your visit, I'll let you know honestly. p. 268

‘The pleasures of society I cannot offer you, nor those of fine scenery, but I place very much at your command the moors, some books, a series of “curling-hair times,” and an old pupil into the bargain.  Ellen may have told you that I have spent a month in London this summer.  When you come you shall ask what questions you like on that point, and I will answer to the best of my stammering ability.  Do not press me much on the subject of the “Crystal Palace.”  I went there five times, and certainly saw some interesting things, and the coup d’oeil is striking and bewildering enough, but I never was able to get up any raptures on the subject, and each renewed visit was made under coercion rather than my own free-will.  It is an excessively bustling place; and, after all, it’s wonders appeal too exclusively to the eye and rarely touch the heart or head.  I make an exception to the last assertion in favour of those who possess a large range of scientific knowledge.  Once I went with Sir David Brewster, and perceived that he looked on objects with other eyes than mine.

‘I can't offer you the joys of socializing or beautiful landscapes, but I can definitely share the moors, some books, a series of "curling-hair times," and an old student thrown in. Ellen may have mentioned that I spent a month in London this summer. When you come, feel free to ask me any questions about that, and I'll answer as best as I can. Please don’t press me too much about the "Crystal Palace." I went there five times and saw some interesting things, and while the view is striking and a bit overwhelming, I never felt any real excitement about it, and each visit felt more like an obligation than something I wanted to do. It’s a very hectic place; after all, its wonders appeal mainly to the eye and rarely touch the heart or mind. I’ll make an exception for those who have a broad scientific background. Once, I went with Sir David Brewster, and I noticed he saw things very differently than I did.'

‘Ellen I find is writing, and will therefore deliver her own messages of regard.  If papa were in the room he would, I know, desire his respects; and you must take both respects and a good bundle of something more cordial from yours very faithfully,

‘Ellen is writing and will send her own messages of regard. If Dad were here, I know he would want to send his respects; and you must accept both our regards and a nice bundle of something more friendly from yours very faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, September 22nd, 1851.

‘Haworth, September 22nd, 1851.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Our visitor (a relative from Cornwall) having left us, the coast is now clear, so that whenever you feel inclined to come, papa and I will be truly glad to see you.  I do wish the splendid weather we have had and are having may accompany you here.  I fear I have somewhat grudged the fine days, fearing a change before you come.—p. 269Believe me, with papa’s regards, yours respectfully and affectionately,

My dear Miss Wooler,—Now that our visitor (a relative from Cornwall) has left, the coast is clear, so anytime you want to come, Dad and I would be really happy to see you. I really hope the gorgeous weather we've been having sticks around for your visit. I've been a bit stingy with enjoying the nice days, worried it would change before you arrive.—p. 269Believe me, with Dad’s regards, yours respectfully and affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Come soon; if you can, on Wednesday.’

‘Please come soon; if possible, come on Wednesday.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘October 3rd, 1851.

‘October 3rd, 1851.

‘Dear Nell,—Do not think I have forgotten you because I have not written since your last.  Every day I have had you more or less in my thoughts, and wondered how your mother was getting on; let me have a line of information as soon as possible.  I have been busy, first with a somewhat unexpected visitor, a cousin from Cornwall, who has been spending a few days with us, and now with Miss Wooler, who came on Monday.  The former personage we can discuss any time when we meet.  Miss Wooler is and has been very pleasant.  She is like good wine: I think time improves her; and really whatever she may be in person, in mind she is younger than when at Roe Head.  Papa and she get on extremely well.  I have just heard papa walk into the dining-room and pay her a round compliment on her good-sense.  I think so far she has been pretty comfortable and likes Haworth, but as she only brought a small hand-basket of luggage with her she cannot stay long.

Dear Nell,—Don't think I've forgotten you just because I haven't written since your last message. You've been on my mind nearly every day, and I've been wondering how your mother is doing; please send me a quick update as soon as you can. I've been busy, first with an unexpected visitor, a cousin from Cornwall, who has been staying with us for a few days, and now with Miss Wooler, who arrived on Monday. We can talk about my cousin whenever we meet. Miss Wooler is really nice and seems to get better with time; honestly, she seems younger in her mind compared to when she was at Roe Head. Dad and she get along very well. I just heard Dad walk into the dining room and compliment her on her good sense. So far, I think she’s been quite comfortable and enjoying Haworth, but since she only brought a small hand-basket of things, she can't stay for long.

‘How are you?  Write directly.  With my love to your mother, etc., good-bye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘How are you? Write directly. Sending my love to your mom, etc., goodbye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘February 6th, 1852.

‘February 6th, 1852.

‘Ellen Nussey, it seems, told you I spent a fortnight in London last December; they wished me very much to stay a month, alleging that I should in that time be able to secure a complete circle of acquaintance, but I found a fortnight of such excitement quite enough.  The whole day was usually spent in sight-seeing, and often the evening was spent in society; it was more than I could bear for a length of time.  On one occasion I met a party of my critics—seven of them; some of them had been very bitter foes in print, but they were prodigiously civil face to face.  These gentlemen seemed infinitely p. 270grander, more pompous, dashing, showy, than the few authors I saw.  Mr. Thackeray, for instance, is a man of quiet, simple demeanour; he is however looked upon with some awe and even distrust.  His conversation is very peculiar, too perverse to be pleasant.  It was proposed to me to see Charles Dickens, Lady Morgan, Mesdames Trollope, Gore, and some others, but I was aware these introductions would bring a degree of notoriety I was not disposed to encounter; I declined, therefore, with thanks.

‘Ellen Nussey apparently told you I spent two weeks in London last December; they really wanted me to stay a month, claiming I would be able to meet a whole lot of new people in that time, but I found two weeks of that kind of excitement to be more than enough. I usually spent the whole day sightseeing, and often the evenings were filled with social events; it was more than I could handle for an extended period. One time, I ran into a group of my critics—seven of them; some had been very harsh in their writing, but they were extremely polite in person. These guys seemed far more impressive, pompous, flashy, and showy than the few authors I met. Mr. Thackeray, for example, has a calm, simple demeanor; however, he's regarded with a bit of fear and even skepticism. His way of talking is quite unique, too twisted to be enjoyable. I was invited to meet Charles Dickens, Lady Morgan, the Trollopes, Gore, and a few others, but I knew these introductions would bring a level of attention I wasn't ready for; so I politely declined.’

‘Nothing charmed me more during my stay in town than the pictures I saw.  One or two private collections of Turner’s best water-colour drawings were indeed a treat; his later oil-paintings are strange things—things that baffle description.

‘Nothing thrilled me more during my time in town than the art I saw. A couple of private collections of Turner’s top watercolor paintings were truly a delight; his later oil paintings are odd works—pieces that defy description.

‘I twice saw Macready act—once in Macbeth and once in Othello.  I astonished a dinner-party by honestly saying I did not like him.  It is the fashion to rave about his splendid acting.  Anything more false and artificial, less genuinely impressive than his whole style I could scarcely have imagined.  The fact is, the stage-system altogether is hollow nonsense.  They act farces well enough: the actors comprehend their parts and do them justice.  They comprehend nothing about tragedy or Shakespeare, and it is a failure.  I said so; and by so saying produced a blank silence—a mute consternation.  I was, indeed, obliged to dissent on many occasions, and to offend by dissenting.  It seems now very much the custom to admire a certain wordy, intricate, obscure style of poetry, such as Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes.  Some pieces were referred to about which Currer Bell was expected to be very rapturous, and failing in this, he disappointed.

‘I saw Macready perform twice—once in Macbeth and once in Othello. I surprised a dinner party by honestly admitting that I didn’t like him. It seems to be trendy to rave about his fantastic acting. But anything more fake and artificial, less truly impressive than his entire style, I can hardly imagine. The truth is, the whole theater system is shallow nonsense. They can perform comedies well enough: the actors understand their roles and do them justice. They understand nothing about tragedy or Shakespeare, and that’s a failure. I said so, and it left a blank silence—an awkward shock. I had to disagree on many occasions, and it often caused offense. It seems that nowadays, it’s very common to admire a certain wordy, complicated, obscure style of poetry, like what Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes. Some pieces were mentioned that Currer Bell was expected to respond to with great enthusiasm, and when that didn’t happen, it was disappointing.’

‘London people strike a provincial as being very much taken up with little matters about which no one out of particular town-circles cares much; they talk, too, of persons—literary men and women—whose names are scarcely heard in the country, and in whom you cannot get up an interest.  I think I should scarcely like to live in London, and were I obliged to live there, I should certainly go little into company, especially I should eschew the literary coteries.

‘People in London come across as quite provincial, focusing heavily on small issues that no one outside their local circles really cares about; they also discuss individuals—authors and poets—whose names barely resonate outside the city, and whose stories you can’t muster any interest in. I don’t think I would enjoy living in London, and if I had to live there, I would definitely avoid socializing, particularly steering clear of the literary circles.

p. 271‘You told me, my dear Miss Wooler, to write a long letter.  I have obeyed you.—Believe me now, yours affectionately and respectfully,

p. 271‘You asked me, dear Miss Wooler, to write a long letter. I've followed your request. —Trust that I remain yours fondly and with respect,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, March 12th, 1852.

‘Haworth, March 12th, 1852.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your kind note holds out a strong temptation, but one that must be resisted.  From home I must not go unless health or some cause equally imperative render a change necessary.  For nearly four months now (i.e. since I became ill) I have not put pen to paper.  My work has been lying untouched, and my faculties have been rusting for want of exercise.  Further relaxation is out of the question, and I will not permit myself to think of it.  My publisher groans over my long delays; I am sometimes provoked to check the expression of his impatience with short and crusty answers.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your thoughtful note is very tempting, but it’s something that must be resisted. I can't leave home unless my health or some equally urgent situation makes it necessary. For nearly four months now (i.e. since I got sick), I haven’t written a thing. My work has been sitting untouched, and my skills have been dulling for lack of use. I can't afford to relax any further, and I won't allow myself to consider it. My publisher is frustrated with my long delays; sometimes I feel the urge to respond to his impatience with short and snappy replies.

‘Yet the pleasure I now deny myself I would fain regard as only deferred.  I heard something about your proposing to visit Scarbro’ in the course of the summer, and could I by the close of July or August bring my task to a certain point, how glad should I be to join you there for awhile!

‘Yet the pleasure I'm currently denying myself, I would like to think of as just postponed. I heard something about your plan to visit Scarborough this summer, and if I could get my work to a certain point by the end of July or August, I would be so happy to join you there for a while!

‘Ellen will probably go to the south about May to make a stay of two or three months; she has formed a plan for my accompanying her and taking lodgings on the Sussex Coast; but the scheme seems to me impracticable for many reasons, and, moreover, my medical man doubts the advisability of my going southward in summer, he says it might prove very enervating, whereas Scarbro’ or Burlington would brace and strengthen.  However, I dare not lay plans at this distance of time.  For me so much must depend, first on papa’s health (which throughout the winter has been, I am thankful to say, really excellent), and second, on the progress of work, a matter not wholly contingent on wish or will, but lying in a great measure beyond the reach of effort and out of the pale of calculation.

‘Ellen will probably head south around May for a stay of two or three months. She has a plan for me to join her and rent a place on the Sussex Coast, but I find the idea impractical for several reasons. Additionally, my doctor is skeptical about me going south in the summer; he claims it might be quite draining, while Scarbro’ or Burlington would be invigorating and uplifting. However, I can't make any plans at this point. So much depends first on my dad’s health (which, thank goodness, has been really good throughout the winter) and second on the progress of my work, something that isn’t entirely under my control and is largely unpredictable.

‘I will not write more at present, as I wish to save this post.  All in the house would join in kind remembrances to you if they knew I was writing.  Tabby and Martha both frequently p. 272inquire after Miss Wooler, and desire their respects when an opportunity offers of presenting the same.—Believe me, yours always affectionately and respectfully,

‘I won't write more right now because I want to save this post. Everyone in the house would send their kind regards to you if they knew I was writing. Tabby and Martha both often ask about Miss Wooler and send their respects whenever there's a chance to do so.—Believe me, yours always affectionately and respectfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, September 2nd, 1852.

‘Haworth, September 2nd, 1852.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I have delayed answering your very kind letter till I could speak decidedly respecting papa’s health.  For some weeks after the attack there were frequent variations, and once a threatening of a relapse, but I trust his convalescence may now be regarded as confirmed.  The acute inflammation of the eye, which distressed papa so much as threatening loss of sight, but which I suppose was merely symptomatic of the rush of blood to the brain, is now quite subsided; the partial paralysis has also disappeared; the appetite is better; weakness with occasional slight giddiness seem now the only lingering traces of disease.  I am assured that with papa’s excellent constitution, there is every prospect of his still being spared to me for many years.

My dear Miss Wooler,—I’ve delayed responding to your very kind letter until I could give clear news about Dad’s health. For a few weeks after his health scare, there were frequent ups and downs, and there was even a worrying moment when it seemed he might relapse, but I’m hopeful that his recovery can now be seen as solid. The severe inflammation in his eye, which caused him so much distress and raised concerns about losing his sight, was most likely just a symptom of increased blood flow to the brain, and it has now completely gone down; the partial paralysis has also disappeared. His appetite is better; now, weakness along with occasional slight dizziness seem to be the only remaining signs of illness. I’ve been reassured that with Dad’s strong constitution, there’s every chance he’ll be around for many more years.

‘For two things I have reason to be most thankful, viz., that the mental faculties have remained quite untouched, and also that my own health and strength have been found sufficient for the occasion.  Solitary as I certainly was at Filey, I yet derived great benefit from the change.

‘There are two things I’m really grateful for: first, that my mental abilities have stayed completely intact, and second, that my health and strength have been enough for what I needed. Even though I was quite alone in Filey, I still gained a lot from the change.’

‘It would be pleasant at the sea-side this fine warm weather, and I should dearly like to be there with you; to such a treat, however, I do not now look forward at all.  You will fully understand the impossibility of my enjoying peace of mind during absence from papa under present circumstances; his strength must be very much more fully restored before I can think of leaving home.

‘It would be lovely at the beach in this nice warm weather, and I would really like to be there with you; however, I’m not looking forward to such a treat at all right now. You fully understand that I can't find peace of mind while I'm away from Dad given the current situation; he needs to regain his strength much more before I can think of leaving home.

‘My dear Miss Wooler, in case you should go to Scarbro’ this season, may I request you to pay one visit to the churchyard and see if the inscription on the stone has been altered as I directed.  We have heard nothing since on the subject, and I fear the alteration may have been neglected.

‘My dear Miss Wooler, if you happen to go to Scarborough this season, could you please visit the churchyard and check if the inscription on the stone has been changed as I requested? We haven't heard anything about it since, and I worry that the alteration might have been overlooked.

‘Ellen has made a long stay in the south, but I believe she p. 273will soon return now, and I am looking forward to the pleasure of having her company in the autumn.

‘Ellen has spent a long time in the south, but I believe she p. 273will be back soon, and I'm excited about spending time with her in the autumn.

‘With kind regards to all old friends, and sincere love to yourself,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours affectionately and respectfully,

‘Sending warm regards to all my old friends and heartfelt love to you,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours affectionately and respectfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, September 21st, 1852.

‘Haworth, September 21st, 1852.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I was truly sorry to hear that when Ellen called at the Parsonage you were suffering from influenza.  I know that an attack of this debilitating complaint is no trifle in your case, as its effects linger with you long.  It has been very prevalent in this neighbourhood.  I did not escape, but the sickness and fever only lasted a few days and the cough was not severe.  Papa, I am thankful to say, continues pretty well; Ellen thinks him little, if at all altered.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I was really sorry to hear that when Ellen visited the Parsonage, you were dealing with the flu. I know that an episode of this exhausting illness is no small matter for you, as its effects stick around for a while. It’s been quite common in this area. I didn’t avoid it, but the illness and fever only lasted a few days, and my cough wasn’t too bad. Dad, I’m happy to say, is doing pretty well; Ellen believes he’s changed little, if at all.

‘And now for your kind present.  The book will be precious to me—chiefly, perhaps, for the sake of the giver, but also for its own sake, for it is a good book; and I wish I may be enabled to read it with some approach to the spirit you would desire.  Its perusal came recommended in such a manner as to obviate danger of neglect; its place shall always be on my dressing-table.

'And now for your thoughtful gift. The book will be valuable to me—mainly because of the person who gave it, but also because it's a good book; and I hope I can read it in the spirit you intended. I received it recommended in a way that ensures I won’t overlook it; it will always have a spot on my dressing table.'

‘As to the other part of the present, it arrived under these circumstances:

‘As for the other part of the gift, it came about in these circumstances:

‘For a month past an urgent necessity to buy and make some things for winter-wear had been importuning my conscience; the buying might be soon effected, but the making was a more serious consideration.  At this juncture Ellen arrives with a good-sized parcel, which, when opened, discloses the things I required, perfectly made and of capital useful fabric; adorned too—which seemly decoration it is but too probable I might myself have foregone as an augmentation of trouble not to be lightly incurred.  I felt strong doubts as to my right to profit by this sort of fairy gift, so unlooked for and so curiously opportune; on reading the note accompanying the garments, I am told that to accept will be to confer a favour(!)  p. 274The doctrine is too palatable to be rejected; I even waive all nice scrutiny of its soundness—in short, I submit with as good a grace as may be.

‘For the past month, I’ve felt a pressing need to buy and make some winter clothes; buying them could happen soon, but making them was a bigger issue. Just then, Ellen shows up with a decent-sized package, which, when opened, reveals everything I needed, perfectly made and from great fabric; it’s even decorated—which I probably would have skipped to avoid any extra hassle. I had serious doubts about whether I should accept such a wonderful surprise gift, so unexpected and perfectly timed; reading the note that came with the clothes, I was told that accepting it would actually be doing her a favor(!) p. 274The idea is too tempting to turn down; I even ignore any concerns about its validity—in short, I accept as gracefully as I can.

‘Ellen has only been my companion one little week.  I would not have her any longer, for I am disgusted with myself and my delays, and consider it was a weak yielding to temptation in me to send for her at all; but, in truth, my spirits were getting low—prostrate sometimes, and she has done me inexpressible good.  I wonder when I shall see you at Haworth again.  Both my father and the servants have again and again insinuated a distinct wish that you should be requested to come in the course of the summer and autumn, but I always turned a deaf ear: “Not yet,” was my thought, “I want first to be free—work first, then pleasure.”

‘Ellen has only been my companion for a little over a week. I wouldn’t want her any longer, as I’m frustrated with myself and my delays, and I see it as a weak surrender to temptation to have called for her at all; but honestly, my spirits were getting low—sometimes completely down, and she has helped me more than I can express. I wonder when I’ll see you at Haworth again. Both my father and the staff have hinted several times that they’d like you to come during the summer and autumn, but I’ve always ignored it: “Not yet,” I thought, “I want to be free first—work comes before pleasure.”

‘I venture to send by Ellen a book which may amuse an hour: a Scotch tale by a minister’s wife.  It seems to me well told, and may serve to remind you of characters and manners you have seen in Scotland.  When you have time to write a line, I shall feel anxious to hear how you are.  With kind regards to all old friends, and truest affection to yourself; in which Ellen joins me,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours gratefully and respectfully,

‘I’m sending you a book through Ellen that might entertain you for an hour: a Scottish story by a minister’s wife. I think it’s well written and may remind you of people and customs you’ve encountered in Scotland. When you have a moment to drop me a line, I’d love to hear how you’re doing. Please send my warm regards to all our old friends, and my deepest affection to you; Ellen agrees— I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours gratefully and respectfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, October 8th, 1852.

‘Haworth, October 8th, 1852.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I wished much to write to you immediately on my return home, but I found several little matters demanding attention, and have been kept busy till now.

My dear Miss Wooler,—I really wanted to write to you right after I got back home, but I had a few small things that needed my attention and I've been busy until now.

‘I reached home about five o’clock in the afternoon, and the anxiety which is inseparable from a return after absence was pleasantly relieved by finding papa well and cheerful.  He inquired after you with interest.  I gave him your kind regards, and he specially charged me whenever I wrote to present his in return, and to say also that he hoped to see you at Haworth at the earliest date which shall be convenient to you.

'I got home around five in the afternoon, and the anxiety that always comes with returning after being away was pleasantly eased when I found Dad doing well and in good spirits. He asked about you with genuine interest. I sent him your kind regards, and he specifically asked me to convey his in return and also to mention that he hopes to see you at Haworth as soon as it's convenient for you.'

‘The week I spent at Hornsea was a happy and pleasant p. 275week.  Thank you, my dear Miss Wooler, for the true kindness which gave it its chief charm.  I shall think of you often, especially when I walk out, and during the long evenings.  I believe the weather has at length taken a turn: to-day is beautifully fine.  I wish I were at Hornsea and just now preparing to go out with you to walk on the sands or along the lake.

The week I spent at Hornsea was a happy and pleasant p. 275week. Thank you, my dear Miss Wooler, for your genuine kindness that made it so special. I’ll think of you often, especially when I'm out for a walk and during the long evenings. I think the weather has finally changed for the better: today is incredibly nice. I wish I were at Hornsea right now, getting ready to go out with you for a walk on the beach or by the lake.

I would not have you to fatigue yourself with writing to me when you are not inclined, but yet I should be glad to hear from you some day ere long.  When you do write, tell me how you liked The Experience of Life, and whether you have read Esmond, and what you think of it.—Believe me always yours, with true affection and respect,

I don't want you to exhaust yourself writing to me when you're not in the mood, but I would still love to hear from you sometime soon. When you do write, let me know how you liked The Experience of Life, if you've read Esmond, and what you think about it.—Always yours, with genuine affection and respect,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Brookroyd, December 7th, 1852.

‘Brookroyd, December 7th, 1852.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Since you were so kind as to take some interest in my small tribulation of Saturday, I write a line to tell you that on Sunday morning a letter came which put me out of pain and obviated the necessity of an impromptu journey to London.

My dear Miss Wooler,—Since you were so kind as to take an interest in my little trouble on Saturday, I'm writing to let you know that on Sunday morning, a letter arrived that relieved my worries and made an impromptu trip to London unnecessary.

‘The money transaction, of course, remains the same, and perhaps is not quite equitable; but when an author finds that his work is cordially approved, he can pardon the rest—indeed, my chief regret now lies in the conviction that papa will be disappointed: he expected me to earn £500, nor did I myself anticipate that a lower sum would be offered; however, £250 is not to be despised. [275]

‘The money transaction is still the same and might not be entirely fair; but when an author sees that people really like their work, they can overlook the rest—honestly, my biggest regret now is that I believe Dad will be let down: he thought I would make £500, and I didn’t think a lower amount would be offered either; however, £250 isn’t bad. [275]

‘Your sudden departure from Brookroyd left a legacy of consternation to the bereaved breakfast-table.  Ellen was not easily to be soothed, though I diligently represented to her that you had quitted Haworth with the same inexorable haste.  I am commissioned to tell you, first, that she has decided not to go to Yarmouth till after Christmas, her mother’s health having within the last few days betrayed some symptoms not p. 276unlike those which preceded her former illness; and though it is to be hoped that those may pass without any untoward result, yet they naturally increase Ellen’s reluctance to leave home for the present.

‘Your sudden departure from Brookroyd left everyone at the breakfast table in shock. Ellen wasn’t easy to calm down, even though I tried to explain that you had left Haworth just as quickly. I’ve been asked to let you know that she has decided not to go to Yarmouth until after Christmas, as her mother’s health has shown some symptoms in the last few days that resemble those that came before her previous illness. Although we hope these symptoms will pass without any issues, they understandably make Ellen more hesitant to leave home for now.

‘Secondly, I am to say, that when the present you left came to be examined, the costliness and beauty of it inspired some concern.  Ellen thinks you are too kind, as I also think every morning, for I am now benefiting by your kind gift.

‘Secondly, I want to say that when the gift you left was looked at, its expense and beauty caused some worry. Ellen thinks you are too generous, and I agree every morning, as I am now enjoying the benefits of your thoughtful gift.

‘With sincere regards to all at the Parsonage,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours respectfully and affectionately,

‘With warm regards to everyone at the Parsonage,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours sincerely and affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘P.S.—I shall direct that Esmond (Mr. Thackeray’s work) shall be sent on to you as soon as the Hunsworth party have read it.  It has already reached a second edition.’

‘P.S.—I’ll make sure that Esmond (Mr. Thackeray’s book) is sent to you as soon as the Hunsworth group has finished reading it. It’s already in its second edition.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, January 20th, 1853.

‘Haworth, January 20th, 1853.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your last kind note would not have remained so long unanswered if I had been in better health.  While Ellen was with me, I seemed to revive wonderfully, but began to grow worse again the day she left; and this falling off proved symptomatic of a relapse.  My doctor called the next day; he said the headache from which I was suffering arose from inertness in the liver.

My dear Miss Wooler,—Your last kind note wouldn't have gone unanswered for so long if I had been feeling better. While Ellen was with me, I seemed to get much better, but I started to feel worse again the day she left; and this decline turned out to be a sign of a relapse. My doctor visited the next day; he said the headache I was experiencing was due to laziness in the liver.

‘Thank God, I now feel better; and very grateful am I for the improvement—grateful no less for my dear father’s sake than for my own.

‘Thank God, I feel better now; and I’m very grateful for the improvement—just as grateful for my dear father’s sake as for my own.

‘Most fully can I sympathise with you in the anxiety you express about your friend.  The thought of his leaving England and going out alone to a strange country, with all his natural sensitiveness and retiring diffidence, is indeed painful; still, my dear Miss Wooler, should he actually go to America, I can but then suggest to you the same source of comfort and support you have suggested to me, and of which indeed I know you never lose sight—namely, reliance on Providence.  “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” and He will doubtless p. 277care for a good, though afflicted man, amidst whatever difficulties he may be thrown.  When you write again, I should be glad to know whether your anxiety on this subject is relieved.  I was truly glad to learn through Ellen that Ilkley still continued to agree with your health.  Earnestly trusting that the New Year may prove to you a happy and tranquil time,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, sincerely and affectionately yours,

‘I can really relate to the worry you feel about your friend. The idea of him leaving England and heading to a foreign country all alone, with his natural sensitivity and shyness, is truly upsetting; however, my dear Miss Wooler, if he does go to America, I can only suggest to you the same comfort and support you’ve provided me, and which I know you always keep in mind—trust in Providence. “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” and He will surely take care of a good, though troubled man, no matter what challenges he faces. When you write again, I’d love to hear if your worries on this matter have eased. I was really glad to hear from Ellen that Ilkley is still good for your health. I sincerely hope that the New Year brings you happiness and peace,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, truly and affectionately yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘January 27th, 1853.

‘January 27th, 1853.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I received your letter here in London where I have been staying about three weeks, and shall probably remain a few days longer.  Villette is to be published to-morrow.  Its appearance has been purposely delayed hitherto, to avoid discourteous clashing with Mrs. Gaskell’s new work.  Your name was one of the first on the list of presentees, and directed to the Parsonage, where I shall also send this letter, as you mention that you are to leave Halifax at the close of this week.  I will bear in mind what you say about Mrs. Morgan; and should I ever have an opportunity of serving her, will not omit to do so.  I only wish my chance of being useful were greater.  Schools seem to be considered almost obsolete in London.  Ladies’ colleges, with professors for every branch of instruction, are superseding the old-fashioned seminary.  How the system will work I can’t tell.  I think the college classes might be very useful for finishing the education of ladies intended to go out as governesses, but what progress little girls will make in them seems to me another question.

Dear Miss Wooler,—I got your letter here in London, where I’ve been staying for about three weeks, and I’ll probably be here a few days longer. Villette is set to be published tomorrow. Its release has been intentionally delayed to avoid overlapping with Mrs. Gaskell’s new book. Your name was one of the first on the list of recipients, and I’m sending this letter to the Parsonage since you mentioned that you’ll be leaving Halifax at the end of this week. I’ll keep in mind what you said about Mrs. Morgan; if I ever get the chance to help her, I’ll make sure to do so. I only wish I had more opportunities to be useful. Schools seem to be almost outdated in London. Ladies' colleges, with professors for every subject, are taking over the old-fashioned seminaries. I can’t say how well this system will work. I think the college classes could be very beneficial for finishing the education of ladies who plan to become governesses, but I wonder what kind of progress young girls will make in them.

‘My dear Miss Wooler, I read attentively all you say about Miss Martineau; the sincerity and constancy of your solicitude touches me very much.  I should grieve to neglect or oppose your advice, and yet I do not feel that it would be right to give Miss Martineau up entirely.  There is in her nature much that is very noble.  Hundreds have forsaken her, more, I fear, in the apprehension that their fair names may suffer if seen in connection with hers, than from any pure convictions, such p. 278as you suggest, of harm consequent on her fatal tenets.  With these fair-weather friends I cannot bear to rank.  And for her sin, is it not one of those which God and not man must judge?

'My dear Miss Wooler, I've read carefully everything you say about Miss Martineau; your genuine concern and loyalty really touches me. I would be sad to ignore or go against your advice, but I don't think it's right to completely give up on Miss Martineau. There is a lot that is truly admirable in her character. Hundreds have abandoned her, and I'm afraid it's often more about their fear of what others will think if they associate with her than any genuine concerns, like you mentioned, about harm from her controversial ideas. I can't bring myself to be counted among those fair-weather friends. And regarding her wrongdoing, isn't it something that only God, not man, should judge?'

‘To speak the truth, my dear Miss Wooler, I believe if you were in my place, and knew Miss Martineau as I do—if you had shared with me the proofs of her rough but genuine kindliness, and had seen how she secretly suffers from abandonment, you would be the last to give her up; you would separate the sinner from the sin, and feel as if the right lay rather in quietly adhering to her in her strait, while that adherence is unfashionable and unpopular, than in turning on her your back when the world sets the example.  I believe she is one of those whom opposition and desertion make obstinate in error, while patience and tolerance touch her deeply and keenly, and incline her to ask of her own heart whether the course she has been pursuing may not possibly be a faulty course.  However, I have time to think of this subject, and I shall think of it seriously.

‘To be honest, my dear Miss Wooler, I think if you were in my position and knew Miss Martineau like I do—if you had witnessed her rough but genuine kindness and seen how much she secretly suffers from being abandoned—you would be the last to give her up; you would separate the person from the wrongdoing and feel that it’s more right to quietly support her in her tough times, even when it's unpopular, than to turn your back on her just because the world is doing so. I believe she is one of those people who become stubborn in their mistakes when faced with opposition and abandonment, while patience and understanding really affect her and lead her to question whether the path she’s been taking might be flawed. Anyway, I have time to think about this, and I will consider it seriously.

‘As to what I have seen in London during my present visit, I hope one day to tell you all about it by our fireside at home.  When you write again will you name a time when it would suit you to come and see me; everybody in the house would be glad of your presence; your last visit is pleasantly remembered by all.

‘Regarding what I've seen in London during my current visit, I hope to share it all with you one day by our fireside at home. When you write again, could you let me know a time that would work for you to come see me? Everyone in the house would be happy to have you; we all fondly remember your last visit.’

‘With kindest regards,—I am always, affectionately and respectfully yours,

‘With warm regards,—I am always, fondly and respectfully yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘My dear Miss Ellen,—The third edition of Charlotte’s Life has at length ventured out.  Our curate tells me he is assured it is quite inferior to the former ones.  So you see Mrs. Gaskell displayed worldly wisdom in going out of her way to p. 279furnish gossip for the discerning public.  Did I mention to you that Mrs. Gibson knows two or three young ladies in Hull who finished their education at Mme. Héger’s pension?  Mrs. G. said they read Villette with keen interest—of course they would.  I had a nice walk with a Suffolk lady, who was evidently delighted to meet with one who had personally known our dear C. B., and would not soon have wearied of a conversation in which she was the topic.—Love to yourself and sisters, from—Your affectionate,

My dear Miss Ellen,—The third edition of Charlotte's Life has finally come out. Our curate mentioned that he's heard it's much worse than the earlier editions. So, you see, Mrs. Gaskell showed some practical sense by gathering gossip for the discerning public. Did I tell you that Mrs. Gibson knows a couple of young ladies in Hull who finished their education at Mme. Héger’s boarding school? Mrs. G. said they read Villette with great interest—of course they would. I had a lovely walk with a lady from Suffolk, who was obviously excited to meet someone who had personally known our dear C. B., and she could have talked endlessly about herself. —Love to you and your sisters, from—Your affectionate,

‘M. Wooler.’

‘M. Wooler.’

p. 280CHAPTER XI: THE CURATES AT HAWORTH

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 17th, 1840.

‘March 17th, 1840.

‘My dear Mrs. Eleanor,—I wish to scold you with a forty-horse power for having told Mary Taylor that I had requested you not to tell her everything, which piece of information has thrown her into tremendous ill-humour, besides setting the teeth of her curiosity on edge.  Tell her forthwith every individual occurrence, including valentines, “Fair E---, Fair E---,” etc.; “Away fond love,” etc.; “Soul divine,” and all; likewise the painting of Miss Celia Amelia Weightman’s portrait, and that young lady’s frequent and agreeable visits.  By-the-bye, I inquired into the opinion of that intelligent and interesting young person respecting you.  It was a favourable one.  “She” thought you a fine-looking girl, and a very good girl into the bargain.  Have you received the newspaper which has been despatched, containing a notice of “her” lecture at Keighley?  Mr. Morgan came and stayed three days.  By Miss Weightman’s aid, we got on pretty well.  It was amazing to see with what patience and good-temper the innocent creature endured that fat Welshman’s prosing, though she confessed afterwards that she was almost done up by his long stories.  We feel very dull without you.  I wish those three weeks were to come over again.  Aunt has been at times precious cross since you went—however, she is rather better now.  I had a bad cold on Sunday and stayed at home most of the day.  Anne’s cold is better, but I don’t consider her strong yet.  What did your sister Anne say about my omitting to send a drawing for the Jew basket?  I hope she was too much occupied with the thoughts of going to Earnley to think of it.  I am obliged to cut short my letter.  Everybody in the house unites in sending their love to you.  Miss Celia Amelia Weightman also desires to be remembered.  Write soon again and—Believe me, yours unalterably,

My dear Mrs. Eleanor,—I really need to scold you for telling Mary Taylor that I asked you not to share everything with her. That’s just made her upset and even more curious. Share every single detail right away, including the valentines like “Fair E---, Fair E---,” and “Away fond love,” and “Soul divine,” along with everything else; also mention the painting of Miss Celia Amelia Weightman’s portrait and how often that lovely young lady visits us. By the way, I asked that clever and interesting young woman what she thinks of you, and she had a positive opinion. She said you’re a good-looking girl and very nice too. Have you received the newspaper that went out with a notice about “her” lecture in Keighley? Mr. Morgan came and stayed for three days. Thanks to Miss Weightman, we managed pretty well. It was surprising to see how patiently and kindly the innocent girl dealt with that hefty Welshman’s long-winded stories, although she admitted later that she was almost worn out by all his talking. We’re feeling really bored without you. I wish those three weeks could happen again. Aunt has been pretty irritable since you left—though she’s a bit better now. I had a bad cold on Sunday and mostly stayed home. Anne’s cold is improving, but I don’t think she’s fully strong yet. What did your sister Anne say about me forgetting to send a drawing for the Jew basket? I hope she was too caught up thinking about going to Earnley to really worry about it. I have to cut my letter short. Everyone in the house sends their love to you. Miss Celia Amelia Weightman also wants to be remembered. Write back soon and—Believe me, yours always,

‘Charivari.’

‘Charivari.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 9th, 1840.

‘April 9th, 1840.

‘My dear Mrs. Menelaus,—I think I am exceedingly good to write to you so soon, indeed I am quite afraid you will begin to consider me intrusive with my frequent letters.  I ought by right to let an interval of a quarter of a year elapse between each communication, and I will, in time; never fear me.  I shall improve in procrastination as I get older.

Dear Mrs. Menelaus,—I think it’s really nice of me to write to you so soon, and honestly, I’m a bit worried you might start to see me as annoying with all my letters. I really should wait about three months between each message, and I will, eventually; don’t worry about that. I’ll definitely get better at procrastinating as I get older.

‘My hand is trembling like that of an old man, so I don’t expect you will be able to read my writing; never mind, put the letter by and I’ll read it to you the next time I see you.

‘My hand is shaking like an old man's, so I don’t expect you’ll be able to read my writing; no worries, just set the letter aside and I’ll read it to you the next time I see you.

‘I have been painting a portrait of Agnes Walton for our friend Miss Celia Amelia.  You would laugh to see how his eyes sparkle with delight when he looks at it, like a pretty child pleased with a new plaything.  Good-bye to you.  Let me have no more of your humbug about Cupid, etc.  You know as well as I do it is all groundless trash.

‘I’ve been painting a portrait of Agnes Walton for our friend Miss Celia Amelia. You would laugh to see how his eyes light up with joy when he looks at it, like a cute kid excited about a new toy. Goodbye to you. I don’t want to hear any more of your nonsense about Cupid and all that. You know as well as I do that it’s all baseless nonsense.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 20th, 1840.

‘August 20th, 1840.

‘Dear Mrs. Ellen,—I was very well pleased with your capital long letter.  A better farce than the whole affair of that letter-opening (ducks and Mr. Weightman included) was never imagined. [282]  By-the-bye, speaking of Mr. W., I told you he was gone to pass his examination at Ripon six weeks ago.  He is not come back yet, and what has become of him we don’t know.  Branwell has received one letter since he went, speaking rapturously of Agnes Walton, describing certain balls at which he had figured, and announcing that he had been twice over head and ears desperately in love.  It is my devout belief that his reverence left Haworth with the fixed intention of never returning.  If he does return, it will be because he has not been able to get a “living.”  Haworth is not the place p. 283for him.  He requires novelty, a change of faces, difficulties to be overcome.  He pleases so easily that he soon gets weary of pleasing at all.  He ought not to have been a parson; certainly he ought not.  Our august relations, as you choose to call them, are gone back to London.  They never stayed with us, they only spent one day at our house.  Have you seen anything of the Miss Woolers 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.

‘Dear Mrs. Ellen,—I was really happy with your fantastic long letter. A better comedy than the whole scene of opening that letter (ducks and Mr. Weightman included) could never be imagined. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ By the way, speaking of Mr. W., I mentioned he left to take his exam at Ripon six weeks ago. He hasn’t come back yet, and we have no idea what happened to him. Branwell has received one letter since he left, where he excitedly raves about Agnes Walton, describes certain parties he attended, and mentions that he has fallen madly in love twice. I really believe he left Haworth with no plans to return. If he does come back, it will only be because he couldn't secure a “living.” Haworth is not the right place for him. He needs new experiences, different faces, challenges to tackle. He gets bored easily with pleasing, so he soon tires of it. He shouldn’t have been a clergyman; definitely not. Our imposing relatives, as you call them, have gone back to London. They barely stayed with us; they only spent one day at our house. Have you seen the Miss Woolers lately? I really wish they, or someone else, would help me find a job. I've responded to countless ads, but my applications have been unsuccessful.

‘Caliban.’

‘Caliban.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘September 29th, 1840.

‘September 29th, 1840.

‘I know Mrs. Ellen is burning with eagerness to hear something about William Weightman.  I think I’ll plague her by not telling her a word.  To speak heaven’s truth, I have precious little to say, inasmuch as I seldom see him, except on a Sunday, when he looks as handsome, cheery, and good-tempered as usual.  I have indeed had the advantage of one long conversation since his return from Westmorland, when he poured out his whole warm fickle soul in fondness and admiration of Agnes Walton.  Whether he is in love with her or not I can’t say; I can only observe that it sounds very like it.  He sent us a prodigious quantity of game while he was away—a brace of wild ducks, a brace of black grouse, a brace of partridges, ditto of snipes, ditto of curlews, and a large salmon.  If you were to ask Mr. Weightman’s opinion of my character just now, he would say that at first he thought me a cheerful chatty kind of body, but that on farther acquaintance he found me of a capricious changeful temper, never to be reckoned on.  He does not know that I have regulated my manner by his—that I was cheerful and chatty so long as he was respectful, and that when he grew almost contemptuously familiar I found it necessary to adopt a p. 284degree of reserve which was not natural, and therefore was very painful to me.  I find this reserve very convenient, and consequently I intend to keep it up.’

‘I know Mrs. Ellen is eager to hear about William Weightman, but I think I’ll tease her by not saying anything. Honestly, I don't have much to report since I rarely see him outside of Sundays, when he always looks handsome, cheerful, and friendly. I did have one long chat with him after he got back from Westmorland, where he shared his warm, changeable feelings towards Agnes Walton. Whether he’s actually in love with her or not, I can’t say; it definitely sounds like it. While he was away, he sent us a generous amount of game—a pair of wild ducks, a pair of black grouse, a pair of partridges, a pair of snipes, a pair of curlews, and a large salmon. If you asked Mr. Weightman what he thinks of me now, he would probably say that at first, he thought I was a cheerful and talkative person, but after getting to know me better, he found me to have a moody and unpredictable temperament that he couldn't rely on. He doesn’t realize that I’ve adjusted my behavior to match his—that I was cheerful and chatty as long as he was respectful, and that when he became almost disdainfully familiar, I felt I needed to be a bit reserved, which isn’t natural for me and was quite difficult. I find this reserve convenient, so I plan to keep it.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 12th, 1840.

‘November 12th, 1840.

‘My dear Nell,—You will excuse this scrawled sheet of paper, inasmuch as I happen to be out of that article, this being the only available sheet I can find in my desk.  I have effaced one of the delectable portraitures, but have spared the others—lead pencil sketches of horse’s head, and man’s head—being moved to that act of clemency by the recollection that they are not the work of my hand, but of the sacred fingers of his reverence William Weightman.  You will discern that the eye is a little too elevated in the horse’s head, otherwise I can assure you it is no such bad attempt.  It shows taste and something of an artist’s eye.  The fellow had no copy for it.  He sketched it, and one or two other little things, when he happened to be here one evening, but you should have seen the vanity with which he afterwards regarded his productions.  One of them represented the flying figure of Fame inscribing his own name on the clouds.

My dear Nell,—Please forgive this messy piece of paper since I'm out of proper stationery and this was the only sheet I could find in my desk. I’ve crossed out one of the charming sketches, but left the others—a pencil drawing of a horse's head and another of a man's head—because I remember they're not my work but the creations of the talented William Weightman. You might notice that the horse's eye is positioned a bit too high, but honestly, it’s not a bad attempt. It shows some taste and a bit of an artistic eye. He had no reference for it. He sketched it and a few other small things one evening while he was here, and you should have seen how proud he was of his creations. One of them portrayed Fame soaring and writing his name in the clouds.

‘Mrs. Brook and I have interchanged letters.  She expressed herself pleased with the style of my application—with its candour, etc.  (I took care to tell her that if she wanted a showy, elegant, fashionable personage, I was not the man for her), but she wants music and singing.  I can’t give her music and singing, so of course the negotiation is null and void.  Being once up, however, I don’t mean to sit down till I have got what I want; but there is no sense in talking about unfinished projects, so we’ll drop the subject.  Consider this last sentence a hint from me to be applied practically.  It seems Miss Wooler’s school is in a consumptive state of health.  I have been endeavouring to obtain a reinforcement of pupils for her, but I cannot succeed, because Mrs. Heap is opening a new school in Bradford.

‘Mrs. Brook and I have exchanged letters. She mentioned that she liked my application—my honesty, etc. (I made sure to let her know that if she wanted someone flashy and stylish, I wasn't the right person), but she wants music and singing. I can’t provide her with that, so the deal is off. However, now that I’ve started this process, I won’t back down until I get what I want; but there’s no point in discussing unfinished plans, so let’s change the topic. Consider this last sentence a practical hint from me. It seems Miss Wooler’s school isn’t doing well. I’ve been trying to gather more students for her, but it’s proving difficult because Mrs. Heap is opening a new school in Bradford.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 285TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 285TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 10th, 1841.

‘January 10th, 1841.

‘My dear Ellen,—I promised to write to you, and therefore I must keep my promise, though I have neither much to say nor much time to say it in.

‘My dear Ellen,—I promised to write to you, so I have to keep my promise, even though I don’t have much to say or much time to say it.

‘Mary Taylor’s visit has been a very pleasant one to us, and I believe to herself also.  She and Mr. Weightman have had several games at chess, which generally terminated in a species of mock hostility.  Mr. Weightman is better in health; but don’t set your heart on him, I’m afraid he is very fickle—not to you in particular, but to half a dozen other ladies.  He has just cut his inamorata at Swansea, and sent her back all her letters.  His present object of devotion is Caroline Dury, to whom he has just despatched a most passionate copy of verses.  Poor lad, his sanguine temperament bothers him grievously.

‘Mary Taylor’s visit has been really enjoyable for us, and I think for her too. She and Mr. Weightman have played several games of chess, which usually ended in a playful rivalry. Mr. Weightman is feeling better; but don’t get too hopeful about him, I'm afraid he’s quite fickle—not just with you, but with about six other ladies. He just ended things with his crush in Swansea and returned all her letters. His current interest is Caroline Dury, to whom he recently sent a very passionate poem. Poor guy, his overly optimistic nature really troubles him.’

‘That Swansea affair seems to me somewhat heartless as far as I can understand it, though I have not heard a very clear explanation.  He sighs as much as ever.  I have not mentioned your name to him yet, nor do I mean to do so until I have a fair opportunity of gathering his real mind.  Perhaps I may never mention it at all, but on the contrary carefully avoid all allusion to you.  It will just depend upon the further opinion I may form of his character.  I am not pleased to find that he was carrying on a regular correspondence with this lady at Swansea all the time he was paying such pointed attention to you; and now the abrupt way in which he has cut her off, and the evident wandering instability of his mind is no favourable symptom at all.  I shall not have many opportunities of observing him for a month to come.  As for the next fortnight, he will be sedulously engaged in preparing for his ordination, and the fortnight after he will spend at Appleby and Crackenthorp with Mr. and Miss Walton.  Don’t think about him; I am not afraid you will break your heart, but don’t think about him.

‘That Swansea situation seems pretty heartless to me, from what I can gather, although I haven't heard a very clear explanation. He still sighs the same way. I haven't mentioned your name to him yet, and I won’t until I get a better sense of his true feelings. I might avoid bringing it up at all and instead carefully steer clear of talking about you. It will all depend on how I feel about his character moving forward. I’m not pleased to find out he was regularly corresponding with that woman in Swansea while he was giving you so much attention; and now the sudden way he's cut ties with her, combined with the obvious instability in his thoughts, doesn't look promising at all. I won’t have many chances to observe him for the next month. For the next two weeks, he'll be busy preparing for his ordination, and the following two weeks he'll be at Appleby and Crackenthorp with Mr. and Miss Walton. Don’t dwell on him; I’m not worried you’ll get heartbroken, but just try not to think about him.’

‘Give my love to Mercy and your mother, and,—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Give my love to Mercy and your mom, and,—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Ça’ira.’

‘Ça’ira.’

p. 286TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 286TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Rawdon, March 3rd, 1841.

‘Rawdon, March 3rd, 1841.

‘My dear Ellen,—I dare say you have received a valentine this year from our bonny-faced friend the curate of Haworth.  I got a precious specimen a few days before I left home, but I knew better how to treat it than I did those we received a year ago.  I am up to the dodges and artifices of his lordship’s character.  He knows I know him, and you cannot conceive how quiet and respectful he has long been.  Mind I am not writing against him—I never will do that.  I like him very much.  I honour and admire his generous, open disposition, and sweet temper—but for all the tricks, wiles, and insincerities of love, the gentleman has not his match for twenty miles round.  He would fain persuade every woman under thirty whom he sees that he is desperately in love with her.  I have a great deal more to say, but I have not a moment’s time to write it in.  My dear Ellen, do write to me soon, don’t forget.—Good-bye.’

My dear Ellen,—I bet you received a valentine this year from our cheerful friend, the curate of Haworth. I got a lovely one a few days before I left home, but I knew better how to handle it than I did with the ones we received last year. I’m familiar with the tricks and antics of his lordship’s personality. He knows that I see through him, and you can’t imagine how calm and respectful he has been lately. Just to clarify, I’m not writing against him—I would never do that. I like him a lot. I respect and admire his generous and open nature, and his sweet temperament—but when it comes to the tricks, deceit, and insincerity of love, nobody can match this guy for twenty miles. He really wants to convince every woman under thirty that he’s madly in love with her. I have much more to say, but I don’t have a moment to write it all down. My dear Ellen, please write to me soon, don’t forget.—Good-bye.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 21st, 1841.

‘March 21st, 1841.

‘My dearest Ellen,—I do not know how to wear your pretty little handcuffs.  When you come you shall explain the mystery.  I send you the precious valentine.  Make much of it.  Remember the writer’s blue eyes, auburn hair, and rosy cheeks.  You may consider the concern addressed to yourself, for I have no doubt he intended it to suit anybody.

My dearest Ellen,—I don't know how to wear your cute little handcuffs. When you come, you should explain the mystery. I'm sending you the precious valentine. Treasure it. Remember the writer's blue eyes, auburn hair, and rosy cheeks. You can think of the message as meant for you, since I'm sure he intended it to fit anyone.

‘Fare-thee-well.

‘Farewell.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

‘Write long letters to me, and tell me everything you can think of, and about everybody.  “His young reverence,” as you tenderly call him, is looking delicate and pale; poor thing, don’t you pity him?  I do from my heart!  When he is well, and fat, and jovial, I never think of him, but when anything ails him I am always sorry.  He sits opposite to Anne at church, p. 287sighing softly, and looking out of the corners of his eyes to win her attention, and Anne is so quiet, her look so downcast, they are a picture.’

“Write me long letters and share everything on your mind, including everyone. ‘His young reverence,’ as you fondly call him, seems delicate and pale; poor guy, don’t you feel sorry for him? I really do! When he’s healthy, plump, and cheerful, I rarely think about him, but whenever he’s not well, I always feel bad. He sits across from Anne at church, p. 287 sighing softly, trying to get her attention with glances from the corners of his eyes, while Anne is so quiet, looking so sad; they make quite a picture.”

‘July 19th, 1841.

“July 19th, 1841.

‘Our revered friend, W. W., is quite as bonny, pleasant, lighthearted, good-tempered, generous, careless, fickle, and unclerical as ever.  He keeps up his correspondence with Agnes Walton.  During the last spring he went to Appleby, and stayed upwards of a month.’

“Our dear friend, W. W., is just as charming, cheerful, carefree, good-natured, generous, irresponsible, unpredictable, and down-to-earth as ever. He still writes to Agnes Walton. Last spring, he went to Appleby and stayed for over a month.”

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 26th, 1844.

‘January 26th, 1844.

‘Dear Nell,—We were all very glad to get your letter this morning.  We, I say, as both papa and Emily were anxious to hear of the safe arrival of yourself and the little varmint. [288]

Dear Nell,—We were all really happy to get your letter this morning. We, meaning Dad and Emily, were eager to hear about your safe arrival and the little varmint. [288]

‘As you conjecture, Emily and I set to shirt-making the very day after you left, and we have stuck to it pretty closely ever since.  We miss your society at least as much as you miss ours, depend upon it.  Would that you were within calling distance, that you could as you say burst in upon us in an afternoon, and, being despoiled of your bonnet and shawl, be fixed in the rocking-chair for the evening once or twice every week.  I certainly cherished a dream during your stay that such might one day be the case, but the dream is somewhat dissipating.  I allude of course to Mr. Smith, to whom you do not allude in your letter, and I think you foolish for the omission.  I say the dream is dissipating, because Mr. Smith has not mentioned your name since you left, except once when papa said you were a nice girl, he said, “Yes, she is a nice girl—rather quiet.  I suppose she has money,” and that is all.  I think the words p. 289speak volumes; they do not prejudice one in favour of Mr. Smith.  I can well believe what papa has often affirmed, and continues to affirm, i.e., that Mr. Smith is a very fickle man, that if he marries he will soon get tired of his wife, and consider her as a burden, also that money will be a principal consideration with him in marrying.

‘As you guessed, Emily and I started making shirts the very day after you left, and we've been at it steadily ever since. We miss hanging out with you just as much as you miss us, believe me. I wish you were close enough to drop by anytime, so you could come in the afternoon, take off your bonnet and shawl, and relax in the rocking chair for the evening once or twice a week. I dreamed while you were here that this could happen someday, but that dream is fading a bit. I'm talking about Mr. Smith, whom you didn’t mention in your letter, and I think it's silly of you to leave that out. I say the dream is fading because Mr. Smith hasn’t brought you up since you left, except once when Dad said you were a nice girl, and he replied, “Yeah, she is nice—pretty quiet. I guess she has money,” and that’s all. I think those words p. 289say a lot; they don’t make Mr. Smith seem very appealing. I can definitely believe what Dad often says, that Mr. Smith is quite fickle, and that if he marries, he'll soon tire of his wife and see her as a burden, and that money will be a key factor for him in getting married.

‘Papa has two or three times expressed a fear that since Mr. Smith paid you so much attention he will perhaps have made an impression on your mind which will interfere with your comfort.  I tell him I think not, as I believe you to be mistress of yourself in those matters.  Still, he keeps saying that I am to write to you and dissuade you from thinking of him.  I never saw papa make himself so uneasy about a thing of the kind before; he is usually very sarcastic on such subjects.

‘Dad has mentioned two or three times that he's worried that since Mr. Smith has been paying you so much attention, he might have made an impression on you that could affect your comfort. I tell him I don't think that's true; I believe you are in control of yourself regarding these things. Still, he insists that I should write to you and talk you out of thinking about him. I've never seen Dad so anxious about something like this before; he usually has a pretty sarcastic attitude towards these topics.’

‘Mr. Smith be hanged!  I never thought very well of him, and I am much disposed to think very ill of him at this blessed minute.  I have discussed the subject fully, for where is the use of being mysterious and constrained?—it is not worth while.

‘Mr. Smith can go to hell! I never thought much of him, and I’m really starting to think even less of him right now. I’ve talked about this openly because what's the point of being mysterious and reserved?—it’s not worth it.

‘Be sure you write to me and immediately, and tell me whether you have given up eating and drinking altogether.  I am not surprised at people thinking you looked pale and thin.  I shall expect another letter on Thursday—don’t disappoint me.

‘Make sure you write to me right away, and let me know if you've stopped eating and drinking completely. I’m not surprised people think you look pale and thin. I expect another letter on Thursday—don’t let me down.

‘My best regards to your mother and sisters.—Yours, somewhat irritated,

‘My best regards to your mom and sisters.—Yours, a bit annoyed,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Dear Nell,—I did not “swear at the postman” when I saw another letter from you.  And I hope you will not “swear” at me when I tell you that I cannot think of leaving home at present, even to have the pleasure of joining you at Harrogate, but I am obliged to you for thinking of me.  I have nothing new about Rev. Lothario Smith.  I think I like him a little bit less every day.  Mr. Weightman was worth 200 Mr. Smiths tied in a bunch.  Good-bye.  I fear by what you say, “Flossy jun.” behaves discreditably, and gets his mistress into scrapes.

Dear Nell,—I didn't “swear at the postman” when I saw another letter from you. And I hope you won't “swear” at me when I tell you that I can't think of leaving home right now, even to enjoy joining you at Harrogate, but I appreciate you thinking of me. I have nothing new about Rev. Lothario Smith. I think I like him a little less every day. Mr. Weightman was worth 200 Mr. Smiths all tied together. Goodbye. I’m afraid from what you said, “Flossy jun.” is behaving badly and getting his mistress into trouble.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 290TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 290TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 16th, 1844.

‘March 16th, 1844.

‘Dear Ellen,—I received your kind note last Saturday, and should have answered it immediately, but in the meantime I had a letter from Mary Taylor, and had to reply to her, and to write sundry letters to Brussels to send by opportunity.  My sight will not allow me to write several letters per day, so I was obliged to do it gradually.

Dear Ellen,—I got your thoughtful note last Saturday and should have replied right away, but in the meantime, I received a letter from Mary Taylor that I needed to respond to, along with a few letters to send to Brussels. My eyesight won’t let me write multiple letters in a day, so I had to take my time.

‘I send you two more circulars because you ask for them, not because I hope their distribution will produce any result.  I hope that if a time should come when Emily, Anne, or I shall be able to serve you, we shall not forget that you have done your best to serve us.

‘I’m sending you two more circulars because you asked for them, not because I expect they will have any impact. I hope that if a time comes when Emily, Anne, or I can help you, we won’t forget that you’ve done your best to help us.’

‘Mr. Smith is gone hence.  He is in Ireland at present, and will stay there six weeks.  He has left neither a bad nor a good character behind him.  Nobody regrets him, because nobody could attach themselves to one who could attach himself to nobody.  I thought once he had a regard for you, but I do not think so now.  He has never asked after you since you left, nor even mentioned you in my hearing, except to say once when I purposely alluded to you, that you were “not very locomotive.”  The meaning of the observation I leave you to divine.

‘Mr. Smith is gone now. He’s in Ireland at the moment and will be there for six weeks. He hasn’t left behind a bad or good reputation. Nobody misses him because nobody could really connect with someone who didn't connect with anyone. I once thought he cared for you, but I don’t believe that anymore. He hasn’t asked about you since you left, nor has he mentioned you in my presence, except to say once when I brought you up, that you were “not very mobile.” I’ll let you figure out what that comment meant.’

‘Yet the man is not without points that will be most useful to himself in getting through life.  His good qualities, however, are all of the selfish order, but they will make him respected where better and more generous natures would be despised, or at least neglected.

‘Yet the man has traits that will definitely help him navigate life. His good qualities, though, are all selfish in nature, but they'll earn him respect where kinder and more generous individuals would be looked down upon or at least ignored.

‘Mr. Grant fills his shoes at present decently enough—but one cares naught about these sort of individuals, so drop them.

‘Mr. Grant is doing a decent job in his role right now—but people don't really care about these kinds of individuals, so let's move on.

‘Mary Taylor is going to leave our hemisphere.  To me it is something as if a great planet fell out of the sky.  Yet, unless she marries in New Zealand, she will not stay there long.

‘Mary Taylor is going to leave our hemisphere. To me, it feels like a huge planet just fell out of the sky. Yet, unless she gets married in New Zealand, she won't be there for long.

‘Write to me again soon and I promise to write you a regular long letter next time.

‘Write to me again soon, and I promise I'll send you a long letter next time.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘October 15th, 1844.

‘October 15th, 1844.

‘Dear Nell,—I send you two additional circulars, and will send you two more, if you desire it, when I write again.  I have no news to give you.  Mr. Smith leaves in the course of a fortnight.  He will spend a few weeks in Ireland previously to settling at Keighley.  He continues just the same: often anxious and bad-tempered, sometimes rather tolerable—just supportable.  How did your party go off?  How are you?  Write soon, and at length, for your letters are a great comfort to me.  We are all pretty well.  Remember me kindly to each member of the household at Brookroyd.—Yours,

Dear Nell,—I'm sending you two more circulars, and I can send you two more if you'd like when I write again. I don't have any news to share. Mr. Smith is leaving in about two weeks. He’ll be spending a few weeks in Ireland before settling in Keighley. He’s still the same: often anxious and grumpy, but sometimes a bit more tolerable—just about manageable. How did your gathering go? How are you? Write back soon and in detail because your letters really comfort me. We’re all doing pretty well. Please send my regards to everyone at Brookroyd.—Yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

p. 293CHAPTER XII: CHARLOTTE BRONTË’S LOVERS

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

‘Haworth, March 5th, 1839.

‘Haworth, March 5th, 1839.

‘My dear Sir,—Before answering your letter I might have spent a long time in consideration of its subject; but as from the first moment of its reception and perusal I determined on what course to pursue, it seemed to me that delay was wholly unnecessary.  You are aware that I have many reasons to feel p. 295grateful to your family, that I have peculiar reasons for affection towards one at least of your sisters, and also that I highly esteem yourself—do not therefore accuse me of wrong motives when I say that my answer to your proposal must be a decided negative.  In forming this decision, I trust I have listened to the dictates of conscience more than to those of inclination.  I have no personal repugnance to the idea of a union with you, but I feel convinced that mine is not the sort of disposition calculated to form the happiness of a man like you.  It has always been my habit to study the characters of those amongst whom I chance to be thrown, and I think I know yours and can imagine what description of woman would suit you for a wife.  The character should not be too marked, ardent, and original, her temper should be mild, her piety undoubted, her spirits even and cheerful, and her personal attractions sufficient to please your eyes and gratify your just pride.  As for me, you do not know me; I am not the serious, grave, cool-headed individual you suppose; you would think me romantic and eccentric; you would say I was satirical and severe.  However, I scorn deceit, and I will never, for the sake of attaining the distinction of matrimony and escaping the stigma of an old maid, take a worthy man whom I am conscious I cannot render happy.  Before I conclude, let me thank you warmly for your other proposal regarding the school near Donnington.  It is kind in you to take so much interest about me; but the fact is, I could not at present enter upon such a project because I have not the capital necessary to insure success.  It is a pleasure to me to hear that you are so comfortably settled and that your health is so much improved.  I trust God will continue His kindness towards you.  Let me say also that I admire the good-sense and absence of flattery and cant which your letter displayed.  Farewell.  I shall always be glad to hear from you as a friend.—Believe me, yours truly,

Dear Sir,—Before I respond to your letter, I could have taken a long time to think about its subject; however, as soon as I received and read it, I knew how I wanted to proceed, so there was no need to delay. You know I have many reasons to be grateful to your family, that I have a special fondness for at least one of your sisters, and that I respect you greatly—so please don’t think I have ill intentions when I say that my answer to your proposal must be a definite no. In making this choice, I hope I’ve listened more to my conscience than my feelings. I don't personally object to the idea of being with you, but I honestly believe my personality isn't suited to make a man like you happy. I've always tried to understand the personalities of those around me, and I think I know yours well enough to envision the kind of woman who would be a good match for you as a wife. She shouldn't be too intense, passionate, or unique; her temperament should be calm, her faith unwavering, her spirits steady and cheerful, and her looks pleasant enough to satisfy your eyes and pride. As for me, you don’t really know me; I’m not the serious, composed person you think I am; you would see me as romantic and quirky; you might even think of me as witty and harsh. However, I detest dishonesty, and I will never, just for the sake of marrying or avoiding the label of an old maid, choose a worthy man knowing I can't make him happy. Before I conclude, I want to sincerely thank you for your other suggestion about the school near Donnington. It’s very kind of you to care so much about me; however, I can’t pursue such a project right now because I lack the necessary funds for success. I’m glad to hear that you are settled in well and that your health has improved. I hope God continues to look kindly upon you. I also want to say that I admire the common sense and straightforwardness without flattery or pretense in your letter. Farewell. I will always be happy to hear from you as a friend.—Sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, March 12th, 1839.

‘Haworth, March 12th, 1839.

‘My dearest Ellen,—When your letter was put into my p. 296hands, I said, “She is coming at last, I hope,” but when I opened it and found what the contents were, I was vexed to the heart.  You need not ask me to go to Brookroyd any more.  Once for all, and at the hazard of being called the most stupid little wretch that ever existed, I won’t go till you have been to Haworth.  I don’t blame you, I believe you would come if you might; perhaps I ought not to blame others, but I am grieved.

My dearest Ellen,—When I received your letter, I thought, “I hope she’s finally coming,” but when I opened it and read what it said, I felt really upset. You don’t need to ask me to go to Brookroyd anymore. Once and for all, and even if it makes me seem like a complete fool, I won’t go until you’ve been to Haworth. I don’t blame you; I believe you would come if you could. Maybe I shouldn't blame anyone else, but it still hurts.

‘Anne goes to Blake Hall on the 8th of April, unless some further unseen cause of delay should occur.  I’ve heard nothing more from Mrs. Thos. Brook as yet.  Papa wishes me to remain at home a little longer, but I begin to be anxious to set to work again; and yet it will be hard work after the indulgence of so many weeks, to return to that dreary “gin-horse” round.

‘Anne goes to Blake Hall on April 8th, unless something unexpected happens. I haven’t heard anything else from Mrs. Thos. Brook yet. Dad wants me to stay home a little longer, but I’m starting to feel anxious to get back to work again; yet it will be hard work after so many weeks of taking it easy, to return to that boring routine.

‘You ask me, my dear Ellen, whether I have received a letter from Henry.  I have, about a week since.  The contents, I confess, did a little surprise me, but I kept them to myself, and unless you had questioned me on the subject, I would never have adverted to it.  Henry says he is comfortably settled at Donnington, that his health is much improved, and that it is his intention to take pupils after Easter.  He then intimates that in due time he should want a wife to take care of his pupils, and frankly asks me to be that wife.  Altogether the letter is written without cant or flattery, and in a common-sense style, which does credit to his judgment.

‘You asked me, my dear Ellen, if I received a letter from Henry. I did, about a week ago. The contents surprised me a bit, but I kept it to myself, and unless you had asked me about it, I wouldn’t have mentioned it. Henry says he’s comfortably settled at Donnington, that his health has improved a lot, and that he plans to take on students after Easter. He also hints that he’ll eventually need a wife to help take care of his students, and he openly asks me to be that wife. Overall, the letter is written without any pretense or flattery, and in a straightforward style that reflects well on his judgment.

‘Now, my dear Ellen, there were in this proposal some things which might have proved a strong temptation.  I thought if I were to marry Henry Nussey, his sister could live with me, and how happy I should be.  But again I asked myself two questions: Do I love him as much as a woman ought to love the man she marries?  Am I the person best qualified to make him happy?  Alas! Ellen, my conscience answered no to both these questions.  I felt that though I esteemed, though I had a 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 p. 297him; and, if ever I marry, it must be in that light of adoration that I will regard my husband.  Ten to one I shall never have the chance again; but n’importe.  Moreover, I was aware that Henry 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 grave face before my husband.  I would laugh, and satirise, and say whatever came into my head first.  And if he were a clever man, and loved me, the whole world weighed in the balance against his smallest wish should be light as air.  Could I, knowing my mind to be such as that, conscientiously say that I would take a grave, quiet, young man like Henry?  No, it would have been deceiving him, and deception of that sort is beneath me.  So I wrote a long letter back, in which I expressed my refusal as gently as I could, and also candidly avowed my reasons for that refusal.  I described to him, too, the sort of character that would suit him for a wife.—Good-bye, my dear Ellen.

‘Now, my dear Ellen, there were some aspects of this proposal that could have been very tempting. I thought if I married Henry Nussey, his sister could live with me, and how happy I would be. But then I asked myself two questions: Do I love him as much as a woman should love the man she marries? Am I the person best suited to make him happy? Alas! Ellen, my conscience answered no to both questions. I felt that although I respected him and had a friendly inclination toward him because he is a kind and well-meaning man, I did not, and could not have, that deep attachment which would make me willing to die for him; and if I ever marry, it must be with that kind of adoration for my husband. Chances are I’ll never have that opportunity again, but n’importe. Furthermore, I was aware that Henry knew so little about me that he could hardly realize who he was writing to. It would shock him to see me in my true home persona; he would think I was a wild, romantic enthusiast indeed. I couldn’t spend all day making a serious face in front of my husband. I would laugh, and criticize, and say whatever came to mind. And if he were a smart man and loved me, then everything in the world balanced against his smallest wish would seem light as air. Could I, knowing my mind was such as it is, honestly say I would choose a serious, quiet young man like Henry? No, that would have been deceiving him, and that kind of deception is beneath me. So I wrote a long letter back, in which I expressed my refusal as gently as I could and also frankly shared my reasons for that refusal. I also described to him the kind of character that would be a good fit for him as a wife.—Goodbye, my dear Ellen.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

‘Haworth, October 28th, 1839.

‘Haworth, October 28th, 1839.

‘Dear Sir,—I have delayed answering your last communication in the hopes of receiving a letter from Ellen, that I might be able to transmit to you the latest news from Brookroyd; p. 298however, as she does not write, I think I ought to put off my reply no longer lest you should begin to think me negligent.  As you rightly conjecture, I had heard a little hint of what you allude to before, and the account gave me pleasure, coupled as it was with the assurance that the object of your regard is a worthy and estimable woman.  The step no doubt will by many of your friends be considered scarcely as a prudent one, since fortune is not amongst the number of the young lady’s advantages.  For my own part, I must confess that I esteem you the more for not hunting after wealth if there be strength of mind, firmness of principle, and sweetness of temper to compensate for the absence of that usually all-powerful attraction.  The wife who brings riches to her husband sometimes also brings an idea of her own importance and a tenacity about what she conceives to be her rights, little calculated to produce happiness in the married state.  Most probably she will wish to control when nature and affection bind her to submit—in this case there cannot, I should think, be much comfort.

Dear Sir,—I’ve been delaying my response to your last letter in hopes of hearing from Ellen so I could update you on the latest from Brookroyd; p. 298but since I haven't received a letter from her, I think I should write back to avoid giving you the impression that I’m ignoring you. As you correctly guessed, I had heard a hint of what you mentioned before, and it brought me joy, especially knowing that the person you care about is a worthy and admirable woman. While many of your friends might view this decision as unwise, since wealth isn’t one of the young lady’s advantages, I personally admire you more for not pursuing money if you can find strength of mind, strong principles, and a kind heart to compensate for that often irresistible allure. A wife who brings wealth may also come with a sense of her own importance and stubbornness regarding what she believes are her rights, which doesn't lead to happiness in marriage. Most likely, she will want to take control when nature and love should encourage her to yield—in such cases, I doubt there can be much comfort.

‘On the other hand, it must be considered that when two persons marry without money, there ought to be moral courage and physical exertion to atone for the deficiency—there should be spirit to scorn dependence, patience to endure privation, and energy to labour for a livelihood.  If there be these qualities, I think, with the blessing of God, those who join heart and hand have a right to expect success and a moderate share of happiness, even though they may have departed a step or two from the stern maxims of worldly prudence.  The bread earned by honourable toil is sweeter than the bread of idleness; and mutual love and domestic calm are treasures far preferable to the possessions rust can corrupt and moths consume away.

‘On the other hand, it's important to recognize that when two people marry without money, they need moral courage and physical effort to compensate for the lack—there must be a willingness to reject dependence, patience to endure hardships, and the energy to work for a living. If those qualities are present, I believe, with God's blessing, those who unite their hearts and hands can rightfully expect success and a fair share of happiness, even if they stray a bit from conventional worldly wisdom. The bread earned through honest work is more satisfying than the bread of idleness; and mutual love and domestic peace are treasures far more valuable than possessions that can be ruined by rust and destroyed by moths.

‘I enjoyed my late excursion with Ellen with the greater zest because such pleasures have not often chanced to fall in my way.  I will not tell you what I thought of the sea, because I should fall into my besetting sin of enthusiasm.  I may, however, say that its glories, changes, its ebbs and flow, the sound of its restless waves, formed a subject for contemplation that never wearied either the eye, the ear, or the mind.  Our visit p. 299at Easton was extremely pleasant; I shall always feel grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Hudson for their kindness.  We saw Agnes Burton, during our stay, and called on two of your former parishioners—Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Dalton.  I was pleased to hear your name mentioned by them in terms of encomium and sincere regard.  Ellen will have detailed to you all the minutia of our excursion; a recapitulation from me would therefore be tedious.  I am happy to say that her health appeared to be greatly improved by the change of air and regular exercise.  I am still at home, as I have not yet heard of any situation which meets with the approbation of my friends.  I begin, however, to grow exceedingly impatient of a prolonged period of inaction.  I feel I ought to be doing something for myself, for my health is now so perfectly re-established by this long rest that it affords me no further pretext for indolence.  With every wish for your future welfare, and with the hope that whenever your proposed union takes place it may contribute in the highest sense to your good and happiness,—Believe me, your sincere friend,

‘I really enjoyed my recent trip with Ellen even more because such experiences don't come my way often. I won’t go into detail about my thoughts on the sea, as I tend to get overly enthusiastic. However, I can say that its beauty, its changes, the ebb and flow, and the sound of its restless waves provided a continuous source of contemplation that never tired the eye, the ear, or the mind. Our visit p. 299to Easton was very enjoyable; I will always be grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Hudson for their kindness. While we were there, we saw Agnes Burton and visited two of your former parishioners—Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Dalton. I was happy to hear them mention your name with praise and genuine affection. Ellen will have filled you in on all the details of our trip; my summary would only be tedious. I’m glad to report her health seems to have improved significantly with the change of scenery and regular exercise. I'm still at home since I haven't heard of any job my friends approve of. However, I'm starting to feel very impatient with this long period of inactivity. I believe I should be doing something for myself, as my health has fully returned thanks to this extended break, which gives me no excuse for laziness. Wishing you all the best for your future, and hoping that whenever your planned union occurs, it brings you the greatest happiness and blessings—Believe me, your sincere friend,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘P.S.—Remember me to your sister Mercy, who, I understand, is for the present your companion and housekeeper.’

P.S.—Please say hello to your sister Mercy for me. I hear she's currently your companion and managing the household.

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

‘Haworth, May 26th, 1840.

‘Haworth, May 26th, 1840.

‘Dear Sir,—In looking over my papers this morning I found a letter from you of the date of last February with the mark upon it unanswered.  Your sister Ellen often accuses me of want of punctuality in answering letters, and I think her accusation is here justified.  However, I give you credit for as much considerateness as will induce you to excuse a greater fault than this, especially as I shall hasten directly to repair it.

Dear Sir,—While going through my papers this morning, I found an unanswered letter from you from last February. Your sister Ellen often says I’m late in replying to letters, and I think she’s right in this situation. However, I believe you’re understanding enough to forgive a bigger fault than this, especially since I’ll make sure to fix it right away.

‘The fact is, when the letter came Ellen was staying with p. 300me, and I was so fully occupied in talking to her that I had no time to think of writing to others.  This is no great compliment, but it is no insult either.  You know Ellen’s worth, you know how seldom I see her, you partly know my regard for her; and from these premises you may easily draw the inference that her company, when once obtained, is too valuable to be wasted for a moment.  One woman can appreciate the value of another better than a man can do.  Men very often only see the outside gloss which dazzles in prosperity, women have opportunities for closer observation, and they learn to value those qualities which are useful in adversity.

‘The truth is, when your letter arrived, Ellen was visiting me, and I was so caught up in talking to her that I didn’t have any time to think about writing to others. This isn’t a huge compliment, but it’s not an insult either. You know Ellen’s value, you know how rarely I see her, and you have some idea of my feelings for her; from this, you can easily conclude that once she is with me, her company is too valuable to waste for even a moment. Women tend to appreciate each other’s worth better than men do. Men often only see the superficial shine that stands out in good times, while women have the opportunity for closer observation and learn to value the qualities that matter during tough times.’

‘There is much, too, in that mild even temper and that placid equanimity which keep the domestic hearth always bright and peaceful—this is better than the ardent nature that changes twenty times in a day.  I have studied Ellen and I think she would make a good wife—that is, if she had a good husband.  If she married a fool or a tyrant there is spirit enough in her composition to withstand the dictates of either insolence or weakness, though even then I doubt not her sense would teach her to make the best of a bad bargain.

‘There’s so much to admire in that calm demeanor and steady composure that keep a home warm and peaceful—this is better than the fiery temperament that fluctuates throughout the day. I’ve observed Ellen, and I believe she would make a wonderful wife—if she had a good husband. If she ended up with a fool or a tyrant, she has enough strength in her character to stand up to both arrogance and weakness, although I have no doubt her wisdom would help her make the best of a difficult situation.’

‘You will see my letters are all didactic.  They contain no news, because I know of none which I think it would interest you to hear repeated.  I am still at home, in very good health and spirits, and uneasy only because I cannot yet hear of a situation.

‘You’ll see that my letters are all educational. They don’t contain any news because I don’t know of any that I think would interest you. I'm still at home, feeling very healthy and in good spirits, and I’m only anxious because I still haven't found a job.’

‘I shall always be glad to have a letter from you, and I promise when you write again to be less dilatory in answering.  I trust your prospects of happiness still continue fair; and from what you say of your future partner I doubt not she will be one who will help you to get cheerfully through the difficulties of this world and to obtain a permanent rest in the next; at least I hope such may be the case.  You do right to conduct the matter with due deliberation, for on the step you are about to take depends the happiness of your whole lifetime.

‘I will always be happy to receive a letter from you, and I promise to respond more quickly the next time you write. I hope your chances for happiness remain good; based on what you mentioned about your future partner, I have no doubt that she will help you navigate the challenges of this world and find lasting peace in the next; at least, I hope that’s true. You’re right to approach this decision thoughtfully, as the choice you’re about to make will affect your happiness for the rest of your life.’

‘You must not again ask me to write in a regular literary way to you on some particular topic.  I cannot do it at all.  Do you think I am a blue-stocking?  I feel half inclined to laugh at you for the idea, but perhaps you would be angry.  What was p. 301the topic to be?  Chemistry? or astronomy? or mechanics? or conchology? or entomology? or what other ology?  I know nothing at all about any of these.  I am not scientific; I am not a linguist.  You think me far more learned than I am.  If I told you all my ignorance, I am afraid you would be shocked; however, as I wish still to retain a little corner in your good opinion, I will hold my tongue.—Believe me, yours respectfully,

'Please don’t ask me again to write to you in a formal literary style about a specific topic. I just can’t do it. Do you really think I’m some kind of intellectual? The idea makes me want to laugh, but you might take it the wrong way. What was the topic supposed to be? Chemistry? Astronomy? Mechanics? Shell collecting? Insects? Or some other “ology”? I don’t know anything about any of those. I’m not scientific; I’m not a language expert. You think I’m much smarter than I actually am. If I told you everything I don’t know, you’d probably be shocked. Still, I want to maintain a little bit of your good opinion, so I’ll keep quiet. —Believe me, yours respectfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY

‘January 11th, 1841.

‘January 11th, 1841.

‘Dear Sir,—It is time I should reply to your last, as I shall fail in fulfilling my promise of not being so dilatory as on a former occasion.

‘Dear Sir,—It's time I responded to your last message, as I would fail to keep my promise of not being as slow as I was before.

‘I shall be glad to receive the poetry which you offer to send me.  You ask me to return the gift in kind.  How do you know that I have it in my power to comply with that request?  Once indeed I was very poetical, when I was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen years old, but I am now twenty-four, approaching twenty-five, and the intermediate years are those which begin to rob life of some of its superfluous colouring.  At this age it is time that the imagination should be pruned and trimmed, that the judgment should be cultivated, and a few, at least, of the countless illusions of early youth should be cleared away.  I have not written poetry for a long while.

‘I would be glad to receive the poetry you’re offering to send me. You ask me to return the favor. How do you know I have the ability to fulfill that request? Once, I was quite poetic when I was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen, but now I’m twenty-four, nearing twenty-five, and those years in between tend to strip life of some of its unnecessary embellishments. At this age, it’s time for the imagination to be pruned and refined, for judgment to be developed, and for at least some of the many illusions of early youth to be cleared away. I haven’t written poetry in a long time.

‘You will excuse the dulness, morality, and monotony of this epistle, and—Believe me, with all good wishes for your welfare here and hereafter, your sincere friend,

‘You will forgive the dullness, moral tone, and sameness of this letter, and—Believe me, with all my best wishes for your well-being now and in the future, your genuine friend,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘July 29th, 1844.

‘July 29th, 1844.

‘Dear Nell,—I am very glad to hear of Henry’s good fortune.  p. 302It proves to me what an excellent thing perseverance is for getting on in the world.  Calm self-confidence (not impudence, for that is vulgar and repulsive) is an admirable quality; but how are those not naturally gifted with it to attain it?  We all here get on much as usual.  Papa wishes he could hear of a curate, that Mr. Smith may be at liberty to go.  Good-bye, dear Ellen.  I wish to you and yours happiness, health, and prosperity.

Dear Nell,—I’m really happy to hear about Henry’s good fortune. p. 302It shows me how crucial perseverance is for making progress in life. Having calm self-confidence (not arrogance, since that’s unrefined and off-putting) is a great trait; but how can those who aren't naturally confident develop it? We're all doing fine here as usual. Papa is hoping to find a curate soon so Mr. Smith can leave. Take care, dear Ellen. I wish you and your family happiness, health, and success.

‘Write again before you go to Burlington.  My best love to Mary.

‘Write again before you head to Burlington. My love to Mary.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 4th, 1839.

‘August 4th, 1839.

‘My dearest Ellen,—I have an odd circumstance to relate to you—prepare for a hearty laugh!  The other day Mr. Hodgson, papa’s former curate, now a vicar, came over to spend the day with us, bringing with him his own curate.  The latter gentleman, by name Mr. Price, 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, Ellen, I talk with ease, and am never shy, never weighed down and oppressed by that miserable mauvaise honte which torments and constrains me elsewhere.  So I conversed with this Irishman and laughed at his jests, and though I saw faults in his character, excused them because of the amusement his originality afforded.  I cooled a little, indeed, and drew in towards the latter part of the evening, because he began to season 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 p. 303direction of which puzzled me, it being in a hand I was not accustomed to see.  Evidently, it was neither from you nor Mary Taylor, my only correspondents.  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!  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.  When we meet I’ll show you the letter.  I hope you are laughing heartily.  This is not like one of my adventures, is it?  It more nearly resembles Martha Taylor’s.  I am certainly doomed to be an old maid.  Never mind, I made up my mind to that fate ever since I was twelve years old.  Write soon.

‘My dearest Ellen,—I have a funny story to tell you—get ready to laugh! The other day, Mr. Hodgson, Dad’s former curate who is now a vicar, came over to spend the day with us, bringing his own curate along. This guy, Mr. Price, is a young Irish clergyman, just graduated from Dublin University. It was our first time meeting him, but like most Irish people, he quickly made himself at home. His personality really shone through in his conversation: witty, lively, passionate, and smart, but lacking the dignity and restraint of an Englishman. At home, you know, Ellen, I chat easily and I'm never shy or held back by that awful mauvaise honte that troubles me elsewhere. So I talked with this Irishman and laughed at his jokes, and even though I noticed some flaws in his character, I overlooked them because his originality was so entertaining. I started to hold back a bit later in the evening, though, because he began to mix in some of that Irish flattery, which I didn’t really care for. Anyway, they left, and that was that. A few days later, I received a letter, the p. 303address of which puzzled me, as it was written in a style I wasn’t used to seeing. Clearly, it wasn’t from you or Mary Taylor, my only correspondents. After opening and reading it, I found it was a declaration of love and a marriage proposal, written in the passionate style of that clever young Irishman! Well! I thought, I’ve heard of love at first sight, but this takes the cake. I’ll let you guess what my answer was, confident that you won't think otherwise. When we meet, I’ll show you the letter. I hope you’re laughing a lot. This isn’t like my usual adventures, is it? It’s more like something Martha Taylor would go through. I’m definitely fated to be an old maid. But that’s okay; I've accepted that fate since I was twelve. Write back soon.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 24th, 1840.

‘January 24th, 1840.

‘My dear Ellen,—Mr. Price is dead.  He had fallen into a state of delicate health for some time, and the rupture of a blood-vessel carried him off.  He was a strong, athletic-looking man when I saw him, and that is scarcely six months ago.  Though I knew so little of him, and of course could not be deeply or permanently interested in what concerned him, I confess, when I suddenly heard he was dead, I felt both shocked and saddened: it was no shame to feel so, was it?  I scold you, Ellen, for writing illegibly and badly, but I think you may repay the compliment with cent per cent interest.  I am not in the humour for writing a long letter, so good-bye.  God bless you.

‘My dear Ellen,—Mr. Price has passed away. He had been in delicate health for a while, and the rupture of a blood vessel took him from us. He looked like a strong, athletic man when I saw him about six months ago. Even though I didn't know him well enough to be deeply invested in his life, I was shocked and saddened to hear about his death: there’s no shame in feeling that way, right? I often criticize you, Ellen, for your messy writing, but you could easily return the favor in spades. I'm not in the mood to write a long letter, so goodbye. God bless you.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 20th, 1840.

‘November 20th, 1840.

‘My dearest Nell,—That last letter of thine treated of matters so high and important I cannot delay answering it for a day.  Now I am about to write thee a discourse, and a piece of advice which thou must take as if it came from thy grandmother.  But in the first place, before I begin with thee, I have a word to whisper in the ear of Mr. Vincent, and I wish it could reach him.  In the name of St. Chrysostom, St. Simon, and St. Jude, why does not that amiable young gentleman come forward like a man and say all that he has to say personally, instead of trifling with kinsmen and kinswomen.  “Mr. Vincent,” I say, “go personally, and say: ‘Miss ---, I want to speak to you.’  Miss --- will of course civilly answer: ‘I am at your service, Mr. Vincent.’  And then, when the room is cleared of all but yourself and herself, just take a chair nearer.  Insist upon her laying down that silly . . . work, and listening to you.  Then begin, in a clear, distinct, deferential, but determined voice: ‘Miss ---, I have a question to put to you—a very important question: “Will you take me as your husband, for better, for worse.  I am not a rich man, but I have sufficient to support us.  I am not a great man, but I love you honestly and truly.  Miss ---, if you knew the world better you would see that this is an offer not to be despised—a kind attached heart and a moderate competency.”  Do this, Mr. Vincent, and you may succeed.  Go on writing sentimental and love-sick letters to ---, and I would not give sixpence for your suit.”  So much for Mr. Vincent.  Now Miss ---’s turn comes to swallow the black bolus, called a friend’s advice.  Say to her: “Is the man a fool? is he a knave? a humbug, a hypocrite, a ninny, a noodle?  If he is any or all of these, of course there is no sense in trifling with him.  Cut him short at once—blast his hopes with lightning rapidity and keenness.  Is he p. 305something better than this? has he at least common sense, a good disposition, a manageable temper?  Then consider the matter.”  Say further: “You feel a disgust towards him now—an utter repugnance.  Very likely, but be so good as to remember you don’t know him; you have only had three or four days’ acquaintance with him.  Longer and closer intimacy might reconcile you to a wonderful extent.  And now I’ll tell you a word of truth, at which you may be offended or not as you like.”  Say to her: “From what I know of your character, and I think I know it pretty well, I should say you will never love before marriage.  After that ceremony is over, and after you have had some months to settle down, and to get accustomed to the creature you have taken for your worse half, you will probably make a most affectionate and happy wife; even if the individual should not prove all you could wish, you will be indulgent towards his little follies and foibles, and will not feel much annoyance at them.  This will especially be the case if he should have sense sufficient to allow you to guide him in important matters.”  Say also: “I hope you will not have the romantic folly to wait for what the French call ‘une grande passion.’  My good girl, ‘une grande passion’ is ‘une grande folie.’  Mediocrity in all things is wisdom; mediocrity in the sensations is superlative wisdom.”  Say to her: “When you are as old as I am (I am sixty at least, being your grandmother), you will find that the majority of those worldly precepts, whose seeming coldness shocks and repels us in youth, are founded in wisdom.”

My dearest Nell,—Your last letter touched on such significant and important topics that I can't wait even a day to reply. I'm about to share some advice that you should take as if it were from your grandmother. First, before I begin addressing you, there's something I want to say to Mr. Vincent, and I hope it reaches him. For the love of St. Chrysostom, St. Simon, and St. Jude, why doesn't that charming young man just step up and say everything he needs to say to you in person, instead of hanging around your family? "Mr. Vincent," I suggest, "go up to her and say: 'Miss ---, I would like to speak with you.' Of course, Miss --- would politely respond: 'I'm at your service, Mr. Vincent.' Then, when the room is clear except for the two of you, just take a chair closer. Urge her to set aside that silly . . . task and focus on you. Then start, in a clear, respectful, yet determined voice: 'Miss ---, I have an important question to ask you: Will you marry me, for better or worse? I might not be wealthy, but I can support us. I may not be a significant figure, but my love for you is real. Miss ---, if you had a better understanding of the world, you'd see this is an opportunity you shouldn't miss—offering a caring heart and a decent living.' Do this, Mr. Vincent, and you might actually succeed. Keep writing sentimental and lovesick letters to ---, and I wouldn’t bet a penny on your chances." That's enough about Mr. Vincent. Now it's time for Miss --- to hear some tough love from a friend. Tell her: "Is he a fool? Is he dishonest, fake, a loser, or clueless? If he falls into any of those categories, there's no point in wasting your time with him. Cut him off quickly—shatter his hopes swiftly and decisively. Is he something better than that? Does he at least have common sense, a good nature, a manageable temper? Then think it over." Also say: "You feel a strong aversion towards him right now—absolute disgust. That might be true, but please remember you don’t really know him; you've only interacted with him for a few days. More time and a deeper relationship might change your feelings significantly. Now, I'm going to tell you something honest, and you might find it offensive or not, as you choose." Tell her: "From what I know of your character, and I believe I understand it fairly well, I would say you'll never feel love before marriage. After the ceremony, and once you've settled in and gotten used to your chosen partner, you'll likely become a loving and happy wife; even if he’s not exactly what you hoped for, you’ll probably tolerate his little quirks without too much trouble. This is especially true if he’s wise enough to let you take the lead in important matters." Also say: "I hope you won’t entertain the foolish romantic notion of waiting for what the French call ‘une grande passion.’ My dear girl, ‘une grande passion’ is ‘une grande folie.’ Being moderate in all things is wise; moderation in feelings is the pinnacle of wisdom." Finally, say to her: "When you’re as old as I am (I’m at least sixty, being your grandmother), you’ll find that many of those worldly principles that seem cold and unwelcoming in youth are actually based on wisdom."

‘No girl should fall in love till the offer is actually made.  This maxim is just.  I will even extend and confirm it: No young lady should fall in love till the offer has been made, accepted, the marriage ceremony performed, and the first half-year of wedded life has passed away.  A woman may then begin to love, but with great precaution, very coolly, very moderately, very rationally.  If she ever loves so much that a harsh word or a cold look cuts her to the heart she is a fool.  If she ever loves so much that her husband’s will is her law, and that she has got into a habit of watching his looks in p. 306order that she may anticipate his wishes, she will soon be a neglected fool.

‘No girl should fall in love until the offer is actually made. This saying is true. I’ll go even further: No young woman should fall in love until the proposal has been made, accepted, the marriage ceremony completed, and the first six months of married life have passed. A woman may then begin to love, but she should be very cautious, very cool, very moderate, and very rational about it. If she ever loves so much that a harsh word or a cold look hurts her deeply, she is a fool. If she ever loves so much that her husband's wishes dictate her actions, and she gets into the habit of watching his expressions to anticipate his desires, she will soon become a neglected fool. p. 306

‘I have two studies: you are my study for the success, the credit, and the respectability of a quiet, tranquil character; Mary is my study for the contempt, the remorse, the misconstruction which follow the development of feelings in themselves noble, warm, generous, devoted, and profound, but which, being too freely revealed, too frankly bestowed, are not estimated at their real value.  I never hope to see in this world a character more truly noble.  She would die willingly for one she loved.  Her intellect and her attainments are of the very highest standard.  Yet I doubt whether Mary will ever marry.  Mr. Weightman expresses himself very strongly on young ladies saying “No,” when they mean “Yes.”  He assures me he means nothing personal.  I hope not.  Assuredly I quite agree with him in his disapprobation of such a senseless course.  It is folly indeed for the tongue to stammer a negative when the heart is proclaiming an affirmative.  Or rather, it is an act of heroic self-denial, of which I for one confess myself wholly incapable.  I would not tell such a lie to gain a thousand pounds.  Write to me again soon.  What made you say I admired Hippocrates?  It is a confounded “fib.”  I tried to find something admirable in him, and failed.’

‘I have two studies: you're my study for the success, the credit, and the respectability of a calm, peaceful character; Mary is my study for the disdain, guilt, and misunderstanding that come from developing feelings that are noble, warm, generous, devoted, and deep, but which, when revealed too freely and given too candidly, aren’t appreciated at their true value. I don’t expect to see a more genuinely noble character in this world. She would willingly die for someone she loves. Her intellect and accomplishments are of the highest caliber. Yet I doubt that Mary will ever get married. Mr. Weightman strongly believes that young ladies say “No” when they mean “Yes.” He assures me he’s not being personal. I hope not. I completely agree with him in his disapproval of such a ridiculous approach. It’s indeed foolish for the tongue to stammer a negative when the heart is shouting an affirmative. Or rather, it’s an act of heroic self-denial, of which I, for one, admit I’m completely incapable. I wouldn’t tell such a lie for a thousand pounds. Write to me again soon. What made you say I admired Hippocrates? That’s a ridiculous “fib.” I tried to find something admirable in him and failed.’

‘He is perhaps only like the majority of men’ (she says of an acquaintance).  ‘Certainly those men who lead a gay life in their youth, and arrive at middle-age with feelings blunted and passions exhausted, can have but one aim in marriage—the selfish advancement of their interest.  Hard to think that such men take as wives—as second-selves—women young, modest, sincere, pure in heart and life, with feelings all fresh and emotions all unworn, and bind such virtue and vitality to their own withered existence, such sincerity to their own hollowness, such disinterestedness to their own haggard avarice—to think this, troubles the soul to its inmost depths.  Nature and justice forbid the banns of such wedlock.’

‘He’s probably just like most guys’ (she says about an acquaintance). ‘Definitely those men who live it up in their youth and hit middle age with dull emotions and worn-out desires only have one goal in marriage—the selfish pursuit of their own interests. It’s hard to believe that these men choose as wives—like second selves—young, modest, sincere women, pure in heart and life, with fresh feelings and untouched emotions, and tie such virtue and vitality to their own faded existence, such sincerity to their own emptiness, such selflessness to their own worn-out greed—to think this deeply troubles the soul. Nature and justice oppose the idea of such unions.’

p. 307TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 307TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 9th, 1846.

‘August 9th, 1846.

‘Dear Nell,—Anne and I both thank you for your kind invitation.  And our thanks are not mere words of course—they are very sincere, both as addressed to yourself and your mother and sisters.  But we cannot accept it; and I think even you will consider our motives for declining valid this time.

Dear Nell,—Anne and I truly appreciate your kind invitation. Our thanks aren’t just polite—it’s genuine, both to you, your mother, and your sisters. However, we can’t accept it; and I believe even you will find our reasons for declining quite valid this time.

‘In a fortnight I hope to go with papa to Manchester to have his eyes couched.  Emily and I made a pilgrimage there a week ago to search out an operator, and we found one in the person of Mr. Wilson.  He could not tell from the description whether the eyes were ready for an operation.  Papa must therefore necessarily take a journey to Manchester to consult him.  If he judges the cataract ripe, we shall remain; if, on the contrary, he thinks it not yet sufficiently hardened, we shall have to return—and Papa must remain in darkness a while longer.

‘In two weeks, I hope to go with Dad to Manchester to have his eyes treated. Emily and I went there a week ago to find a surgeon, and we found one in Mr. Wilson. He couldn’t tell from the description if the eyes were ready for surgery. So, Dad has to make a trip to Manchester to consult him. If he thinks the cataract is ready, we’ll stay; if he believes it’s not hardened enough yet, we’ll have to go back—and Dad will have to stay in the dark a little longer.

‘There is a defect in your reasoning about the feelings a wife ought to experience.  Who holds the purse will wish to be master, Ellen, depend on it, whether man or woman.  Who provided the cash will now and then value himself, or herself, upon it, and, even in the case of ordinary minds, reproach the less wealthy partner.  Besides, no husband ought to be an object of charity to his wife, as no wife to her husband.  No, dear Ellen; it is doubtless pleasant to marry well, as they say, but with all pleasures are mixed bitters.  I do not wish for my friend a very rich husband.  I should not like her to be regarded by any man ever as “a sweet object of charity.”  Give my sincere love to all.—Yours,

‘There’s a flaw in your thinking about how a wife should feel. Whoever manages the finances will want to be in charge, Ellen, believe me, whether it's a man or a woman. The person who provides the money will sometimes take pride in it and, even for those of average understanding, will blame the less wealthy partner. Plus, no husband should be a charity case for his wife, and the same goes for wives. No, dear Ellen; it’s certainly nice to marry well, as they say, but with all pleasures come some bitterness. I don’t want my friend to have a husband who's very rich. I wouldn’t want her to ever be seen by any man as “a sweet object of charity.” Give my sincere love to everyone.—Yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘August 24th, 1849.

‘August 24th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I think the best title for the book would be Shirley, without any explanation or addition—the simpler and briefer, the better.

Dear Sir,—I think the best title for the book should just be Shirley, without any added explanations or unnecessary words—the simpler and shorter, the better.

‘If Mr. Taylor calls here on his return to town he might take charge of the Ms.; I would rather intrust it to him than send it by the ordinary conveyance.  Did I see Mr. Taylor when I was in London?  I cannot remember him.

‘If Mr. Taylor comes by when he’s back in town, he could take care of the manuscript; I'd rather give it to him in person than send it through regular mail. Did I see Mr. Taylor when I was in London? I can’t recall him.

‘I would with pleasure offer him the homely hospitalities of the Parsonage for a few days, if I could at the same time offer him the company of a brother, or if my father were young enough and strong enough to walk with him on the moors and show him the neighbourhood, or if the peculiar retirement of papa’s habits were not such as to render it irksome to him to give much of his society to a stranger, even in the house.  Without being in the least misanthropical or sour-natured, papa habitually prefers solitude to society, and custom is a tyrant whose fetters it would now be impossible for him to break.  Were it not for difficulties of this sort, I believe I should ere this have asked you to come down to Yorkshire.  Papa, I know, would receive any friend of Mr. Smith’s with perfect kindness and goodwill, but I likewise know that, unless greatly put out of his way, he could not give a guest much of his company, and that, consequently, his entertainment would be but dull.

‘I would be glad to offer him the comfortable hospitality of the Parsonage for a few days, if I could also provide the company of a brother, or if my father was younger and strong enough to walk with him on the moors and show him around, or if my father's need for solitude wasn't such that spending time with a stranger, even in the house, would be uncomfortable for him. Without being at all unfriendly or grumpy, my dad usually prefers being alone to socializing, and it’s hard for him to change that now. If it weren’t for these issues, I think I would have invited you to visit Yorkshire by now. I know my dad would welcome any friend of Mr. Smith’s warmly, but I also know that, unless really pushed, he wouldn’t be able to spend much time with a guest, making the visit probably quite dull.'

‘You will see the force of these considerations, and understand why I only ask Mr. Taylor to come for a day instead of requesting the pleasure of his company for a longer period; you will believe me also, and so will he, when I say I shall be most happy to see him.  He will find Haworth a strange uncivilised little place, such as, I daresay, he never saw before.  p. 309It is twenty miles distant from Leeds; he will have to come by rail to Keighley (there are trains every two hours I believe).  He must remember that at a station called Shipley the carriages are changed, otherwise they will take him on to Skipton or Colne, or I know not where.  When he reaches Keighley, he will yet have four miles to travel; a conveyance may be hired at the Devonshire Arms—there is no coach or other regular communication.

‘You’ll see why it’s important, and understand why I’m only inviting Mr. Taylor for a day instead of a longer stay; you’ll believe me, and so will he, when I say I’ll be very happy to see him. He’ll find Haworth a strange, uncivilized little place—likely unlike anything he’s seen before. p. 309It’s twenty miles from Leeds; he’ll need to take the train to Keighley (I think there are trains every two hours). He must remember that at a station called Shipley, he’ll have to change trains; otherwise, they’ll take him on to Skipton or Colne, or who knows where. Once he reaches Keighley, he’ll still have four miles to go; he can hire a ride at the Devonshire Arms—there’s no regular coach or reliable transport available.

‘I should like to hear from him before he comes, and to know on what day to expect him, that I may have the MS. ready; if it is not quite finished I might send the concluding chapter or two by post.

‘I would like to hear from him before he arrives and to know which day to expect him so I can have the manuscript ready. If it's not completely finished, I could send the last chapter or two by mail.’

‘I advise you to send this letter to Mr. Taylor—it will save you the trouble of much explanation, and will serve to apprise him of what lies before him; he can then weigh well with himself whether it would suit him to take so much trouble for so slight an end.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘I suggest you send this letter to Mr. Taylor—it will save you a lot of explaining and will let him know what to expect; he can then decide if it’s worth the effort for such a small outcome.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL.

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL.

‘September 3rd, 1849.

‘September 3rd, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—It will be quite convenient to my father and myself to secure your visit on Saturday the 8th inst.

Dear Sir,—It would be very helpful for my father and me to arrange your visit on Saturday the 8th.

‘The MS. is now complete, and ready for you.

The manuscript is now complete and ready for you.

‘Trusting that you have enjoyed your holiday and derived from your excursion both pleasure and profit,—I am, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Hoping you had a wonderful holiday and gained both enjoyment and benefit from your trip,—I am, dear sir, sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 310TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 310TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘September 14th, 1850.

‘September 14th, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—I found after sealing my last note to you that I had forgotten after all to inclose Amelia’s letter; however, it appears it does not signify.  While I think of it I must refer to an act of petty larceny committed by me when I was last at Brookroyd.  Do you remember lending me a parasol, which I should have left with you when we parted at Leeds?  I unconsciously carried it away in my hand.  You shall have it when you next come to Haworth.

Dear Ellen,—After sealing my last letter to you, I realized I forgot to include Amelia’s letter; but it seems it doesn’t matter. While I’m at it, I need to mention a small theft I committed when I was at Brookroyd last. Do you remember lending me a parasol that I was supposed to return when we parted in Leeds? I accidentally took it with me. I’ll make sure you get it the next time you come to Haworth.

‘I wish, dear Ellen, you would tell me what is the “twaddle about my marrying, etc.,” which you hear.  If I knew the details I should have a better chance of guessing the quarter from which such gossip comes—as it is, I am quite at a loss.  Whom am I to marry?  I think I have scarcely seen a single man with whom such a union would be possible since I left London.  Doubtless there are men whom, if I chose to encourage, I might marry; but no matrimonial lot is even remotely offered me which seems to me truly desirable.  And even if that were the case, there would be many obstacles.  The least allusion to such a thing is most offensive to papa.

“I wish you would tell me, dear Ellen, what the gossip is about me getting married and all that. If I knew the details, I’d have a better chance of figuring out where this talk is coming from—right now, I’m completely lost. Who am I supposed to marry? I can hardly say I’ve seen a single man since I left London that such a thing would be possible with. Sure, there are men I could choose to encourage, but none of the marriage prospects seem genuinely appealing. And even if they were, there would be plenty of obstacles. Just bringing up such a thing really upsets Dad.”

‘An article entitled Currer Bell has lately appeared in the Palladium, a new periodical published in Edinburgh.  It is an eloquent production, and one of such warm sympathy and high appreciation as I had never expected to see.  It makes mistakes about authorships, etc., but these I hope one day to set right.  Mr. Taylor (the little man) first informed me of this article.  I was somewhat surprised to receive his letter, having concluded nine months ago that there would be no more correspondence from that quarter.  I inclose you a note from him received subsequently, in answer to my acknowledgment.  Read it and tell me exactly how it impresses you regarding the writer’s character, etc.  His little newspaper disappeared for some weeks, and I thought it was gone to the tomb of the Capulets; however, it has reappeared, with an explanation that he had feared its regular transmission might rather annoy than gratify.  p. 311I told him this was a mistake—that I was well enough pleased to receive it, but hoped he would not make a task of sending it.  For the rest, I cannot consider myself placed under any personal obligation by accepting this newspaper, for it belongs to the establishment of Smith & Elder.  This little Taylor is deficient neither in spirit nor sense.

An article titled Currer Bell has recently come out in the Palladium, a new magazine published in Edinburgh. It’s a strong piece, filled with warmth and appreciation that I never expected to see. There are some errors regarding authorship, but I hope to correct those in the future. Mr. Taylor (the short guy) was the first one to tell me about this article. I was a bit surprised to get his letter since I thought there wouldn’t be any more communication from that side after nine months ago. I’m enclosing a note from him that I received later, in response to my acknowledgment. Read it and let me know what you think about the writer's character, etc. His little newspaper took a break for a few weeks, and I thought it was done for; however, it’s back, and he explained that he was worried its regular delivery might be more annoying than enjoyable. p. 311I told him that was a mistake—that I was happy to receive it and hoped it wouldn't be a chore for him to send it. As for the rest, I don’t think I have any personal obligation by taking this newspaper, since it belongs to Smith & Elder. This little Taylor has plenty of spirit and sense.

‘The report about my having published again is, of course, an arrant lie.

‘The report about me publishing again is, of course, a complete lie.

‘Give my kind regards to all, and—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Send my best to everyone, and—Trust me, yours sincerely,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 30th, 1851.

‘January 30th, 1851.

‘Dear Nell,—I am very sorry to hear that Amelia is again far from well; but I think both she and I should try and not be too anxious.  Even if matters do not prosper this time, all may go as well some future day.  I think it is not these early mishaps that break the constitution, but those which occur in a much later stage.  She must take heart—there may yet be a round dozen of little Joe Taylors to look after—run after—to sort and switch and train up in the way they should go—that is, with a generous use of pickled birch.  From whom do you think I have received a couple of notes lately?  From Alice.  They are returned from the Continent, it seems, and are now at Torquay.  The first note touched me a little by what I thought its subdued tone; I trusted her character might be greatly improved.  There were, indeed, traces of the “old Adam,” but such as I was willing to overlook.  I answered her soon and kindly.  In reply I received to-day a longish letter, full of clap-trap sentiment and humbugging attempts at fine writing.  In p. 312each production the old trading spirit peeps out; she asks for autographs.  It seems she had read in some paper that I was staying with Miss Martineau; thereupon she applies for specimens of her handwriting, and Wordsworth’s, and Southey’s, and my own.  The account of her health, if given by any one else, would grieve and alarm me.  She talks of fearing that her constitution is almost broken by repeated trials, and intimates a doubt as to whether she shall live long: but, remembering her of old, I have good hopes that this may be a mistake.  Her “beloved papa and mama” and her “precious sister,” she says, are living, and “gradely.”  (That last is my word.  I don’t know whether they use it in Birstall as they do here—it means in a middling way.)

Dear Nell,—I’m really sorry to hear that Amelia isn't feeling well again; however, I think both she and I should try not to worry too much. Even if things don't go well this time, there's always a chance they could improve in the future. I believe it's not the initial setbacks that affect one's health, but those that come later. She needs to stay positive—there may still be a whole bunch of little Joe Taylors to take care of—chase after—to guide and nurture correctly—with a generous helping of pickled birch. Guess who I've received a couple of notes from recently? Alice. They seem to have returned from the Continent and are now in Torquay. The first note touched me a bit because of its subdued tone; I hope her character has improved significantly. There were hints of the “old Adam,” but ones I was willing to overlook. I responded to her soon and kindly. Today, I got back a rather long letter, filled with pretentious sentiment and fake attempts at eloquence. In p. 312each message, the old commercial spirit sneaks through; she asks for autographs. Apparently, she read in some paper that I was staying with Miss Martineau; in response, she wants samples of her handwriting, along with Wordsworth’s, Southey’s, and mine. If anyone else were detailing her health, it would worry and upset me. She mentions fearing that her health is nearly broken by ongoing struggles and hints at doubt about how long she’ll live: but recalling her from the past, I have good reason to believe this might be a misunderstanding. She says her “beloved papa and mama” and her “prec

‘You are to say no more about “Jupiter” and “Venus”—what do you mean by such heathen trash?  The fact is, no fallacy can be wilder, and I won’t have it hinted at even in jest, because my common sense laughs it to scorn.  The idea of the “little man” shocks me less—it would be a more likely match if “matches” were at all in question, which they are not.  He still sends his little newspaper; and the other day there came a letter of a bulk, volume, pith, judgment, and knowledge, worthy to have been the product of a giant.  You may laugh as much and as wickedly as you please; but the fact is, there is a quiet constancy about this, my diminutive and red-haired friend, which adds a foot to his stature, turns his sandy locks dark, and altogether dignifies him a good deal in my estimation.  However, I am not bothered by much vehement ardour—there is the nicest distance and respect preserved now, which makes matters very comfortable.

‘You shouldn't talk anymore about “Jupiter” and “Venus”—what do you mean by that nonsense? The truth is, no falsehood can be crazier, and I won’t even entertain it as a joke because my common sense dismisses it completely. The idea of the “little man” bothers me less—it would be a more appropriate match if “matches” were even a thing, which they are not. He still sends his little newspaper; and the other day, a letter arrived that had the bulk, depth, insight, and wisdom worthy of a giant. You can laugh as much and as wickedly as you want; but the truth is, there’s a quiet consistency about this small, red-haired friend of mine that adds to his height, turns his sandy hair dark, and really elevates his presence in my eyes. Still, I'm not caught up in any intense passion—there’s a nice distance and respect maintained now, which makes everything quite comfortable.’

‘This is all nonsense, Nell, and so you will understand it.—Yours very faithfully,

‘This is all nonsense, Nell, and you will see that.—Yours truly,

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

‘March 22nd, 1851.

‘March 22nd, 1851.

‘My dear Sir,—Yesterday I despatched a box of books to p. 313Cornhill, including the number of the North British Review which you kindly lent me.  The article to which you particularly directed my attention was read with pleasure and interest, and if I do not now discuss it more at length, it is because I am well aware how completely your attention must be at present engrossed, since, if I rightly understood a brief paragraph in Mr. Smith’s last note, you are now on the eve of quitting England for India.

My dear Sir,—Yesterday, I sent a box of books to p. 313Cornhill, including the edition of the North British Review that you graciously lent me. I found the article you highlighted very interesting. If I'm not discussing it right now, it's because I know your mind must be entirely occupied at this moment, as, if I understood a brief note from Mr. Smith correctly, you're about to leave England for India.

‘I will limit myself, then, to the expression of a sincere wish for your welfare and prosperity in this undertaking, and to the hope that the great change of climate will bring with it no corresponding risk to health.  I should think you will be missed in Cornhill, but doubtless “business” is a Moloch which demands such sacrifices.

‘I'll keep it brief and sincerely wish you well in this endeavor, hoping the significant climate change won’t pose any health risks for you. I imagine you'll be missed in Cornhill, but of course, “business” can be demanding and requires such sacrifices.

‘I do not know when you go, nor whether your absence is likely to be permanent or only for a time; whichever it be, accept my best wishes for your happiness, and my farewell, if I should not again have the opportunity of addressing you.—Believe me, sincerely yours,

‘I don't know when you're leaving or if your absence will be permanent or temporary; either way, I wish you all the best for your happiness, and this is my farewell in case I don’t get another chance to speak with you.—Believe me, sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

‘March 24th, 1851.

‘March 24th, 1851.

‘My dear Sir,—I had written briefly to you before I received yours, but I fear the note would not reach you in time.  I will now only say that both my father and myself will have pleasure in seeing you on your return from Scotland—a pleasure tinged with sadness certainly, as all partings are, but still a pleasure.

‘My dear Sir,—I had sent you a short message before I received your letter, but I'm concerned it didn’t reach you in time. I wanted to say that both my father and I will be glad to see you when you return from Scotland—mixed feelings of joy and sadness, as all farewells are, but still joy.

‘I do most entirely agree with you in what you say about Miss Martineau’s and Mr. Atkinson’s book.  I deeply regret its publication for the lady’s sake; it gives a death-blow to her future usefulness.  Who can trust the word, or rely on the judgment, of an avowed atheist?

‘I completely agree with you about Miss Martineau’s and Mr. Atkinson’s book. I truly regret its publication for her sake; it severely undermines her future credibility. Who can trust or rely on the judgment of someone who openly identifies as an atheist?

‘May your decision in the crisis through which you have gone result in the best effect on your happiness and welfare; and indeed, guided as you are by the wish to do right and a high sense of duty, I trust it cannot be otherwise.  The change of climate is all I fear; but Providence will over-rule this too p. 314for the best—in Him you can believe and on Him rely.  You will want, therefore, neither solace nor support, though your lot be cast as a stranger in a strange land.—I am, yours sincerely,

‘I hope your decisions during the crisis you experienced lead to the best possible outcome for your happiness and well-being; since you’re motivated by a desire to do what’s right and a strong sense of duty, I believe it will. My only concern is the climate change; however, I trust that Providence will look after you too p. 314—you can trust in Him. So, you won’t need any comfort or support, even if you find yourself a stranger in a strange land.—I am, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘When you shall have definitely fixed the time of your return southward, write me a line to say on what day I may expect you at Haworth.

‘Once you decide on the date of your return south, drop me a message to let me know when I can expect you at Haworth.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 5th, 1851.

‘April 5th, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen,—Mr. Taylor has been and is gone; things are just as they were.  I only know in addition to the slight information I possessed before, that this Indian undertaking is necessary to the continued prosperity of the firm of Smith, Elder, & Co., and that he, Taylor, alone was pronounced to possess the power and means to carry it out successfully—that mercantile honour, combined with his own sense of duty, obliged him to accept the post of honour and of danger to which he has been appointed, that he goes with great personal reluctance, and that he contemplates an absence of five years.

'Dear Ellen,—Mr. Taylor has come and gone; things are just as they were. I only know, in addition to the little information I had before, that this Indian venture is crucial for the ongoing success of the firm of Smith, Elder, & Co., and that he, Taylor, was the only one deemed capable of executing it successfully. Business integrity, combined with his sense of responsibility, compelled him to take this honorable yet risky position, and he departs with great personal reluctance, expecting to be gone for five years.'

‘He looked much thinner and older.  I saw him very near, and once through my glass; the resemblance to Branwell struck me forcibly—it is marked.  He is not ugly, but very peculiar; the lines in his face show an inflexibility, and, I must add, a hardness of character which do not attract.  As he stood near me, as he looked at me in his keen way, it was all I could do to stand my ground tranquilly and steadily, and not to recoil as before.  It is no use saying anything if I am not candid.  I avow then, that on this occasion, predisposed as I was to regard him very favourably, his manners and his personal presence scarcely pleased me more than at the first interview.  He gave me a book at parting, requesting in his brief way that I would keep it for his sake, and adding hastily, “I shall hope to hear from you in India—your letters have been and will be a greater refreshment than you can think or I can tell.”

‘He looked much thinner and older. I saw him up close, and once through my glasses; the resemblance to Branwell struck me strongly—it’s quite noticeable. He’s not unattractive, but very unusual; the lines on his face indicate a stiffness and, I must add, a toughness of character that aren’t appealing. As he stood near me, looking at me with his keen gaze, it took everything I had to stay calm and steady, not to back away as I had before. There’s no point in pretending if I can’t be honest. So I admit, despite my initial intention to view him positively, his manner and presence pleased me no more than during our first meeting. He handed me a book when we parted, asking that I keep it for his sake, and quickly added, “I hope to hear from you in India—your letters have been and will be more refreshing than you can imagine or I can express.”

‘And so he is gone; and stern and abrupt little man as he p. 315is—too often jarring as are his manners—his absence and the exclusion of his idea from my mind leave me certainly with less support and in deeper solitude than before.

‘And so he is gone; although he was a stern and abrupt little man—his manners were often jarring—his absence and the absence of his ideas leave me feeling more unsupported and lonelier than before.

‘You see, dear Nell, though we are still precisely on the same level—you are not isolated.  I feel that there is a certain mystery about this transaction yet, and whether it will ever be cleared up to me I do not know; however, my plain duty is to wean my mind from the subject, and if possible to avoid pondering over it.  In his conversation he seemed studiously to avoid reference to Mr. Smith individually, speaking always of the “house”—the “firm.”  He seemed throughout quite as excited and nervous as when I first saw him.  I feel that in his way he has a regard for me—a regard which I cannot bring myself entirely to reciprocate in kind, and yet its withdrawal leaves a painful blank.’

‘You see, dear Nell, even though we are still exactly on the same level—you are not alone. I sense that there’s still some mystery surrounding this situation, and I don’t know if I’ll ever grasp it; however, my responsibility is to move on from it and, if possible, avoid dwelling on it. In our conversation, he seemed to purposefully avoid mentioning Mr. Smith by name, always referring to “the house” or “the firm.” He still appeared as anxious and nervous as when I first met him. I sense that he has some kind of care for me—a care that I can’t seem to fully reciprocate, and yet when it’s absent, it creates a painful void.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 9th, 1851.

‘April 9th, 1851.

‘Dear Nell,—Thank you for your kind note; it was just like you to write it though it was your school-day.  I never knew you to let a slight impediment stand in the way of a friendly action.

Dear Nell,—Thank you for your kind note; it was just like you to write it even though it was your school day. I’ve never known you to let a small obstacle get in the way of a friendly gesture.

‘Certainly I shall not soon forget last Friday, and never, I think, the evening and night succeeding that morning and afternoon.  Evils seldom come singly.  And soon after Mr. Taylor was gone, papa, who had been better, grew much worse.  He went to bed early, and was very sick and ill for an hour; and when at last he began to doze, and I left him, I came down to the dining-room with a sense of weight, fear, and desolation hard to express and harder to endure.  A wish that you were with me did cross my mind, but I repulsed it as a most selfish wish; indeed, it was only short-lived: my natural tendency in moments of this sort is to get through the struggle alone—to think that one is burdening and racking others makes all worse.

‘I'll definitely not forget last Friday anytime soon and think I'll never forget the evening and night that followed that morning and afternoon. Problems rarely come one at a time. Soon after Mr. Taylor left, Dad, who had been feeling better, got much worse. He went to bed early and was quite ill for about an hour; when he finally began to doze off, and I left him, I came down to the dining room feeling a heavy sense of fear and sadness that’s hard to put into words and even harder to bear. I thought about how much I wished you were here with me, but I dismissed that thinking it was selfish; really, it was just a fleeting feeling. My instinct in moments like this is to handle the struggle on my own—believing that I would just burden others makes everything feel worse.

‘You speak to me in soft consolating accents, but I hold far sterner language to myself, dear Nell.

'You talk to me with gentle, comforting words, but I speak much more harshly to myself, dear Nell.

p. 316‘An absence of five years—a dividing expanse of three oceans—the wide difference between a man’s active career and a woman’s passive existence—these things are almost equivalent to an eternal separation.  But there is another thing which forms a barrier more difficult to pass than any of these.  Would Mr. Taylor and I ever suit?  Could I ever feel for him enough love to accept him as a husband?  Friendship—gratitude—esteem I have, but each moment he came near me, and that I could see his eyes fastened on me, my veins ran ice.  Now that he is away I feel far more gently towards him; it is only close by that I grow rigid—stiffening with a strange mixture of apprehension and anger, which nothing softens but his retreat and a perfect subduing of his manner.  I did not want to be proud, nor intend to be proud, but I was forced to be so.

p. 316‘Being apart for five years—a separation across three oceans—the stark contrast between a man's active life and a woman's passive one—these factors feel nearly like an endless separation. But there's something else that creates an even stronger barrier. Would Mr. Taylor and I ever be compatible? Could I ever feel enough love for him to see him as my husband? I have friendship, gratitude, and respect for him, but whenever he gets close, and I feel his gaze on me, I freeze up. Now that he's away, I feel much warmer towards him; it’s only when he's near that I become tense—filled with a strange mix of fear and anger, which only eases when he steps back and calms his demeanor. I didn’t want to be proud, nor did I mean to be, but I felt pushed into it.

‘Most true is it that we are over-ruled by one above us—that in his hands our very will is as clay in the hands of the potter.

‘It’s most true that we are controlled by someone above us—that our will is in his hands like clay in the hands of a potter.

‘Papa continues very far from well, though yesterday, and I hope this morning, he is a little better.  How is your mother?  Give my love to her and your sister.  How are you?  Have you suffered from tic since you returned home?  Did they think you improved in looks?

‘Dad is still not doing well, but he seemed a bit better yesterday, and I hope he is this morning too. How is your mom? Send my love to her and your sister. How are you? Have you had any issues with tics since you got back home? Did they think you looked better?

‘Write again soon.—Yours faithfully,

‘Write again soon.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 23rd, 1851.

‘April 23rd, 1851.

‘My dear Ellen,—I have heard from Mr. Taylor to-day—a quiet little note.  He returned to London a week since on Saturday; he has since kindly chosen and sent me a parcel of books.  He leaves England May 20th.  His note concludes with asking whether he has any chance of seeing me in London before that time.  I must tell him that I have already fixed June for my visit, and therefore, in all human probability, we shall see each other no more.

‘My dear Ellen,—I heard from Mr. Taylor today—a short little note. He returned to London a week ago on Saturday; since then, he has kindly picked out and sent me a package of books. He’s leaving England on May 20th. His note ends with a question about whether he’ll have a chance to see me in London before then. I have to tell him that I’ve already planned my visit for June, so, most likely, we won’t see each other again.

‘There is still a want of plain mutual understanding in this business, and there is sadness and pain in more ways than one.  My conscience, I can truly say, does not now accuse me of p. 317having treated Mr. Taylor with injustice or unkindness.  What I once did wrong in this way, I have endeavoured to remedy both to himself and in speaking of him to others—Mr. Smith to wit, though I more than doubt whether that last opinion will ever reach him.  I am sure he has estimable and sterling qualities; but with every disposition and with every wish, with every intention even to look on him in the most favourable point of view at his last visit, it was impossible to me in my inward heart to think of him as one that might one day be acceptable as a husband.  It would sound harsh were I to tell even you of the estimate I felt compelled to form respecting him.  Dear Nell, I looked for something of the gentleman—something I mean of the natural gentleman; you know I can dispense with acquired polish, and for looks, I know myself too well to think that I have any right to be exacting on that point.  I could not find one gleam, I could not see one passing glimpse of true good-breeding.  It is hard to say, but it is true.  In mind too, though clever, he is second-rate—thoroughly second-rate.  One does not like to say these things, but one had better be honest.  Were I to marry him my heart would bleed in pain and humiliation; I could not, could not look up to him.  No; if Mr. Taylor be the only husband fate offers to me, single I must always remain.  But yet, at times I grieve for him, and perhaps it is superfluous, for I cannot think he will suffer much: a hard nature, occupation, and change of scene will befriend him.

There’s still a lack of clear mutual understanding in this situation, which brings sadness and pain in various ways. Honestly, my conscience doesn’t now accuse me of p. 317 treating Mr. Taylor unfairly or unkindly. Whatever mistakes I made in that regard, I’ve tried to make amends both to him and when discussing him to others—like Mr. Smith, though I seriously doubt that he’ll ever hear my true opinion. I know he possesses admirable and solid qualities, but despite my wish and intention to view him positively during his last visit, I simply couldn’t see him as a suitable husband one day. It would sound harsh if I told even you the opinion I felt pushed to form about him. Dear Nell, I was looking for a bit of a gentleman—something I mean by the natural gentleman; you know I can forgo learned refinement, and as for looks, I know myself well enough not to think I have the right to be picky about that. I couldn’t find any sign, not even a fleeting glimpse of true good manners. It’s difficult to say, but it’s the truth. Intellectually, though intelligent, he’s second-rate—thoroughly second-rate. It’s not easy to say these things, but it’s better to be honest. If I married him, my heart would ache with pain and embarrassment; I could not, could not look up to him. No; if Mr. Taylor is the only husband fate has in store for me, I must always remain single. Yet sometimes I feel pity for him, and perhaps it’s unnecessary, as I can’t imagine he’ll suffer much: a tough personality, work, and a change of scenery will help him.

‘With kind regards to all,—I am, dear Nell, your middle-aged friend,

‘With best wishes to everyone,—I am, dear Nell, your middle-aged friend,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Write soon.’

‘Write soon.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 5th, 1851.

‘May 5th, 1851.

‘My dear Ellen,—I have had a long kind letter from Miss Martineau lately.  She says she is well and happy.  Also, I have had a very long letter from Mr. Williams.  He speaks with much respect of Mr. Taylor.  I discover with some surprise, papa has taken a decided liking to Mr. Taylor.  The p. 318marked kindness of his manner when he bid him good-bye, exhorting him to be “true to himself, his country, and his God,” and wishing him all good wishes, struck me with some astonishment.  Whenever he has alluded to him since, it has been with significant eulogy.  When I alluded that he was no gentleman, he seemed out of patience with me for the objection.  You say papa has penetration.  On this subject I believe he has indeed.  I have told him nothing, yet he seems to be au fait to the whole business.  I could think at some moments his guesses go farther than mine.  I believe he thinks a prospective union, deferred for five years, with such a decorous reliable personage, would be a very proper and advisable affair.

My dear Ellen,—I recently received a long and kind letter from Miss Martineau. She says she is doing well and is happy. I also got a very detailed letter from Mr. Williams. He speaks highly of Mr. Taylor. To my surprise, I’ve noticed that Dad has taken a definite liking to Mr. Taylor. The p. 318kindness he showed when saying goodbye, advising him to be “true to himself, his country, and his God,” and wishing him well truly caught me off guard. Since then, whenever he mentions Mr. Taylor, it's with notable praise. When I suggested that he wasn't a gentleman, Dad seemed frustrated with me for saying that. You say Dad is perceptive. In this matter, I believe he is. I haven’t told him anything, yet he seems to be fully aware of the entire situation. At times, I feel like his assumptions go beyond mine. I think he believes that a potential engagement, delayed for five years, with someone as respectable and reliable as Mr. Taylor, would be a very appropriate and sensible idea.

‘How has your tic been lately?  I had one fiery night when this same dragon “tic” held me for some hours with pestilent violence.  It still comes at intervals with abated fury.  Owing to this and broken sleep, I am looking singularly charming, one of my true London looks—starved out and worn down.  Write soon, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘How has your tic been lately? I had one intense night when this same dragon “tic” had me for several hours with a lot of frustration. It still shows up occasionally with less intensity. Because of this and my disrupted sleep, I'm looking particularly rough, one of my true London looks—starved and exhausted. Write soon, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘112 Gloucester Place,
‘Hyde Park, June 2nd, 1851.

‘112 Gloucester Place,
‘Hyde Park, June 2nd, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen,—Mr. Taylor has gone some weeks since.  I hear more open complaints now about his temper.  Of Mr. Williams’ society I have enjoyed one evening’s allowance, and liked it and him as usual.  On such occasions his good qualities of ease, kindliness, and intelligence are seen, and his little faults and foibles hidden.  Mr. Smith is somewhat changed in appearance.  He looks a little older, darker, and more careworn; his ordinary manner is graver, but in the evening his spirits flow back to him.  Things and circumstances seem here to be as usual, but I fancy there has been some crisis in which his energy and filial affection have sustained them all.  This I judge from the fact that his mother and sisters are more peculiarly bound to him than ever, and that his slightest wish is an unquestioned law.—Faithfully yours,

Dear Ellen,—Mr. Taylor left a few weeks ago. That’s prompted more complaints about his temper. I spent one evening with Mr. Williams, which I enjoyed, as always. On such occasions, his good qualities of ease, kindness, and intelligence shine through while his minor faults and quirks are hidden. Mr. Smith looks a bit different. He seems older, darker, and more stressed; his usual demeanor is more serious, but in the evenings, his spirits seem to return. Everything here appears normal, but I suspect there has been a crisis that has drained his energy and family loyalty. I gather this from how his mother and sisters are more tightly connected to him than ever, and how even his smallest wishes are treated as absolute. —Faithfully yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 319TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 319TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 4th, 1851.

‘November 4th, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen,—Papa, Tabby, and Martha are at present all better, yet none of them well.  Martha at present looks feeble.  I wish she had a better constitution.  As it is, one is always afraid of giving her too much to do; and yet there are many things I cannot undertake myself, and we do not like to change when we have had her so long.  How are you getting on in the matter of servants?  The other day I received a long letter from Mr. Taylor.  I told you I did not expect to hear thence, nor did I.  The letter is long, but it is worth your while to read it.  In its way it has merit, that cannot be denied; abundance of information, talent of a certain kind, alloyed (I think) here and there with errors of taste.  He might have spared many of the details of the bath scene, which, for the rest, tallies exactly with Mr. Thackeray’s account of the same process.  This little man with all his long letters remains as much a conundrum to me as ever.  Your account of the domestic joys at Hunsworth amused me much.  The good folks seem very happy—long may they continue so!  It somewhat cheers me to know that such happiness does exist on the earth.  Return Mr. Taylor’s letter when you have read it.  With love to your mother,—I am, dear Nell, sincerely yours,

‘Dear Ellen,—Dad, Tabby, and Martha are all feeling better now, but none of them are fully well. Martha seems quite weak at the moment. I really wish she had a stronger constitution. As it is, I'm always worried about giving her too much to do, yet there are a lot of things I can't take on myself, and we don’t want to change things after having her with us for so long. How are you managing with your staff? The other day, I received a long letter from Mr. Taylor. I told you I didn’t expect to hear from him, and I didn’t. The letter is lengthy, but it’s worth reading. It has its merits, that’s undeniable; it's full of information and has a certain flair, mixed (I think) here and there with some taste issues. He could have omitted many of the details about the bath scene, which aligns perfectly with Mr. Thackeray’s description of the same process. This little man with all his long letters remains as much of a puzzle to me as ever. Your update on the domestic joys at Hunsworth made me laugh. The good people there seem very happy—hope they stay that way! It lightens my day to know that such happiness does exist in the world. Please return Mr. Taylor’s letter once you’ve read it. Sending love to your mom,—I am, dear Nell, sincerely yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO JAMES TAYLOR, BOMBAY

TO JAMES TAYLOR, BOMBAY

‘Haworth, November 15th, 1851.

‘Haworth, November 15th, 1851.

‘My dear Sir,—Both your communications reached me safely—the note of the 17th September and the letter of the 2nd October.  You do yourself less than justice when you stigmatise the latter as “ill-written.”  I found it quite legible, nor did I lose a word, though the lines and letters were so close.  I should have been sorry if such had not been the case, as it appeared to me throughout highly interesting.  It is observable that the very same information which we have previously collected, perhaps with rather languid attention, from printed books, when placed before us in familiar manuscript, and comprising p. 320the actual experience of a person with whom we are acquainted, acquires a new and vital interest: when we know the narrator we seem to realise the tale.

My dear Sir,—I received both your messages—your note from September 17th and your letter from October 2nd. You underestimate yourself when you call the latter "poorly written." I found it perfectly readable, and I didn't miss a word, even though the lines were quite close together. I would have been disappointed if that weren't the case because I found it very engaging overall. It’s striking how the same information we’ve gathered previously, perhaps with a bit of indifference, from printed books gains new and important significance when it’s presented to us in familiar handwriting and includes the actual experiences of someone we know. When we know the storyteller, it makes the story feel real.

‘The bath scene amused me much.  Your account of that operation tallies in every point with Mr. Thackeray’s description in the Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo.  The usage seems a little rough, and I cannot help thinking that equal benefit might be obtained through less violent means; but I suppose without the previous fatigue the after-sensation would not be so enjoyable, and no doubt it is that indolent after-sensation which the self-indulgent Mahometans chiefly cultivate.  I think you did right to disdain it.

‘The bath scene really amused me. Your description of that process matches Mr. Thackeray’s account in the Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo. The experience seems a bit harsh, and I can’t help but think you could achieve the same benefits through gentler methods. However, I suppose without the prior exertion, the after-feeling wouldn’t be as pleasurable, and it’s probably that lazy after-feeling that self-indulgent Muslims focus on the most. I think you were right to dismiss that.

‘It would seem to me a matter of great regret that the society at Bombay should be so deficient in all intellectual attraction.  Perhaps, however, your occupations will so far absorb your thoughts as to prevent them from dwelling painfully on this circumstance.  No doubt there will be moments when you will look back to London and Scotland, and the friends you have left there, with some yearning; but I suppose business has its own excitement.  The new country, the new scenes too, must have their interest; and as you will not lack books to fill your leisure, you will probably soon become reconciled to a change which, for some minds, would too closely resemble exile.

It’s really unfortunate that the social scene in Bombay lacks intellectual appeal. Nevertheless, I hope your work keeps you busy enough that you won’t dwell on that too much. There will surely be times when you miss London and Scotland and the friends you left behind, but I imagine business has its own thrills. The new country and new experiences should captivate you as well, and with plenty of books to enjoy in your free time, you’ll likely adjust to this change that might feel like exile for some people.

‘I fear the climate—such as you describe it—must be very trying to an European constitution.  In your first letter, you mentioned October as the month of danger; it is now over.  Whether you have passed its ordeal safely, must yet for some weeks remain unknown to your friends in England—they can but wish that such may be the case.  You will not expect me to write a letter that shall form a parallel with your own either in quantity or quality; what I write must be brief, and what I communicate must be commonplace and of trivial interest.

‘I worry that the climate you described must be really tough on someone from Europe. In your first letter, you mentioned October as the risky month; that’s now behind us. Whether you made it through safely will remain a mystery to your friends in England for a few more weeks—they can only wish that it’s true. You shouldn’t expect me to write a letter that matches yours in length or quality; what I have to say will be brief, and what I share will be ordinary and of little interest.

‘My father, I am thankful to say, continues in pretty good health.  I read portions of your letter to him and he was interested in hearing them.  He charged me when I wrote to convey his very kind remembrances.

‘I’m pleased to say my father is doing pretty well health-wise. I read parts of your letter to him, and he expressed interest in hearing it. He asked me to send his warm regards when I wrote.

p. 321‘I had myself ceased to expect a letter from you.  On taking leave at Haworth you said something about writing from India, but I doubted at the time whether it was not one of those forms of speech which politeness dictates; and as time passed, and I did not hear from you, I became confirmed in this view of the subject.  With every good wish for your welfare,—I am, yours sincerely,

p. 321‘I had stopped expecting a letter from you. When we said goodbye at Haworth, you mentioned writing from India, but I doubted it was anything more than polite conversation. As time went on without hearing from you, I became more convinced of that. Wishing you all the best, — I am, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 19th, 1851.

‘November 19th, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen,—All here is much as usual, and I was thinking of writing to you this morning when I received your note.  I am glad to hear your mother bears this severe weather tolerably, as papa does also.  I had a cold, chiefly in the throat and chest, but I applied cold water, which relieved me, I think, far better than hot applications would have done.  The only events in my life consist in that little change occasional letters bring.  I have had two from Miss Wooler since she left Haworth which touched me much.  She seems to think so much of a little congenial company.  She says she has not for many days known such enjoyment as she experienced during the ten days she stayed here.  Yet you know what Haworth is—dull enough.

Dear Ellen,—Everything here is pretty much the same, and I was actually planning to write to you this morning when I got your note. I'm glad to hear that your mother is handling this harsh weather reasonably well, just like Dad is. I caught a cold, mostly affecting my throat and chest, but I used cold water to soothe it, which I believe helped me much more than hot treatments would have. The only changes in my life stem from the occasional letters I receive. I've had two from Miss Wooler since she left Haworth, and they really touched me. She seems to treasure even a little bit of friendly company. She mentioned that she hasn't felt such enjoyment in a long time as she did during the ten days she stayed here. But you know how dull Haworth can be.

‘How could you imagine your last letter offended me?  I only disagreed with you on one point.  The little man’s disdain of the sensual pleasure of a Turkish bath had, I must own, my approval.  Before answering his epistle I got up my courage to write to Mr. Williams, through whose hands or those of Mr. Smith I knew the Indian letter had come, and beg him to give me an impartial judgment of Mr. Taylor’s character and disposition, owning that I was very much in the dark.  I did not like to continue correspondence without further information.  I got the answer, which I inclose.  You say nothing about the Hunsworth Turtle-doves—how are they? and how is the branch of promise?  I hope doing well.—Yours faithfully,

‘How could you think your last letter upset me? I only disagreed with you on one point. The little man’s disregard for the pleasure of a Turkish bath, I must admit, gets my approval. Before replying to his letter, I gathered the courage to write to Mr. Williams, through whom I knew the Indian letter had come, and asked him for an unbiased opinion on Mr. Taylor’s character and personality, admitting that I was quite in the dark. I didn’t want to keep corresponding without more information. I received his reply, which I’m sending along. You didn’t mention the Hunsworth Turtle-doves—how are they? And how’s the branch of promise? I hope it’s doing well.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 322TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 322TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘January 1st, 1852.

‘January 1st, 1852.

‘My dear Sir,—I am glad of the opportunity of writing to you, for I have long wished to send you a little note, and was only deterred from doing so by the conviction that the period preceding Christmas must be a very busy one to you.

Dear Sir,—I’m glad to have the chance to write to you because I’ve been wanting to send you a little note for a while, but I hesitated, thinking that the time leading up to Christmas must be very hectic for you.

‘I have wished to thank you for your last, which gave me very genuine pleasure.  You ascribe to Mr. Taylor an excellent character; such a man’s friendship, at any rate, should not be disregarded; and if the principles and disposition be what you say, faults of manner and even of temper ought to weigh light in the balance.  I always believed in his judgment and good-sense, but what I doubted was his kindness—he seemed to me a little too harsh, rigid, and unsympathising.  Now, judgment, sense, principle are invaluable and quite indispensable points, but one would be thankful for a little feeling, a little indulgence in addition—without these, poor fallible human nature shrinks under the domination of the sterner qualities.  I answered Mr. Taylor’s letter by the mail of the 19th November, sending it direct, for, on reflection, I did not see why I should trouble you with it.

‘I wanted to thank you for your last letter, which truly brought me joy. You describe Mr. Taylor as having an excellent character; such a person's friendship shouldn’t be overlooked, and if his principles and personality are as you say, then any faults in his manner or temperament should not weigh heavily. I’ve always had faith in his judgment and common sense, but my concern was about his kindness—he came across as a bit too harsh, rigid, and unsympathetic. Now, judgment, sense, and principles are invaluable and completely essential, but it would be wonderful to have a little feeling, a little tolerance on top of that—without these, poor, imperfect human nature can feel overwhelmed by harsher qualities. I responded to Mr. Taylor’s letter by mail on November 19th, sending it directly because, upon further reflection, I didn’t see why I should burden you with it.’

‘Did your son Frank call on Mrs. Gaskell? and how did he like her?

‘Did your son Frank visit Mrs. Gaskell? And what did he think of her?

‘My health has not been very satisfactory lately, but I think, though I vary almost daily, I am much better than I was a fortnight ago.  All the winter the fact of my never being able to stoop over a desk without bringing on pain and oppression in the chest has been a great affliction to me, and the want of tranquil rest at night has tried me much, but I hope for the better times.  The doctors say that there is no organic mischief.

‘My health hasn’t been great lately, but I think, even though it changes almost every day, I’m doing much better than I was two weeks ago. All winter, not being able to bend over a desk without feeling pain and pressure in my chest has bothered me a lot, and the lack of peaceful sleep at night has really worn me down, but I’m hoping for better days ahead. The doctors say there’s nothing seriously wrong.’

‘Wishing a happy New Year to you,

‘Wishing you a happy New Year,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 7th, 1852.

‘March 7th, 1852.

‘Dear Ellen,—I hope both your mother’s cold and yours are quite well ere this.  Papa has got something of his spring p. 323attack of bronchitis, but so far it is in a greatly ameliorated form, very different to what it has been for three years past.  I do trust it may pass off thus mildly.  I continue better.

'Dear Ellen,—I hope both your mom and you are feeling better by now. Papa has had a bit of a spring p. 323attack of bronchitis, but thankfully it’s not as bad as it has been for the last three years. I really hope it stays mild. I’m still getting better.'

‘Dear Nell, I told you from the beginning that my going to Sussex was a most improbable event; I tell you now that unless want of health should absolutely compel me to give up work and leave home (which I trust and hope will not be the case) I certainly shall not think of going.  It is better to be decided, and decided I must be.  You can never want me less than when in Sussex surrounded by amusement and friends.  I do not know that I shall go to Scarbro’, but it might be possible to spare a fortnight to go there (for the sake of a sad duty rather than pleasure), when I could not give a month to a longer excursion.  I have not a word of news to tell you.  Many mails have come from India since I was at Brookroyd.  Expectation would at times be on the alert, but disappointment knocked her down.  I have not heard a syllable, and cannot think of making inquiries at Cornhill.  Well, long suspense in any matter usually proves somewhat cankering, but God orders all things for us, and to His Will we must submit.  Be sure to keep a calm mind; expect nothing.—Yours faithfully,

‘Dear Nell, I told you from the start that my trip to Sussex was very unlikely; I’m telling you now that unless health issues force me to stop working and leave home (which I hope won’t happen), I definitely won’t consider going. It’s better to be certain, and I have to be. You could never need me less than when I’m in Sussex, surrounded by fun and friends. I’m not sure if I’ll go to Scarbro, but I might be able to take a couple of weeks to go there (more out of a sad obligation than enjoyment), as I couldn’t spare a whole month for a longer trip. I don’t have any news to share with you. Many letters have come from India since I was at Brookroyd. I’d be hopeful occasionally, but disappointment would hit hard. I haven’t heard a thing and can’t think of asking about it at Cornhill. Well, being left in suspense about anything usually gets a bit frustrating, but God takes care of everything for us, and we must accept His will. Make sure to stay calm; don’t expect anything.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

JAMES TAYLOR.  DIED APRIL 29, 1874, AGED 57.

JAMES TAYLOR. PASSED AWAY ON APRIL 29, 1874, AT THE AGE OF 57.

‘On the 23rd inst., at the Church of St. John the Evangelist, St. Pancras, by the Rev. James Moorhouse, M.A., James Taylor, Esq., of Furnival’s-inn, and Bombay, to Annie, widow of Adolph Ritter, of Vienna, and stepdaughter of Thos. Harrison, Esq., of Birchanger Place, Essex.’

“On the 23rd of this month, at the Church of St. John the Evangelist in St. Pancras, the Rev. James Moorhouse, M.A., officiated the marriage of James Taylor, Esq., from Furnival’s Inn and Bombay, to Annie, the widow of Adolph Ritter from Vienna, and the stepdaughter of Thos. Harrison, Esq., of Birchanger Place, Essex.”

p. 325CHAPTER XIII: LITERARY AMBITIONS

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘January 28th, 1846.

‘January 28th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—May I request to be informed whether you p. 326would undertake the publication of a collection of short poems in one volume, 8vo.

‘Gentlemen,—Could you let me know if you would be willing to publish a collection of short poems in a single volume, 8vo?

‘If you object to publishing the work at your own risk, would you undertake it on the author’s account?—I am, gentlemen, your obedient humble servant,

‘If you’re not comfortable publishing the work at your own risk, would you take it on behalf of the author?—I am, gentlemen, your obedient humble servant,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Address—Rev. P. Brontë, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire.’

'Address—Rev. P. Brontë, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire.'

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘March 3rd, 1846.

‘March 3rd, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—I send a draft for £31, 10s., being the amount of your estimate.

‘Gentlemen,—I’m sending a draft for £31.50, which is the total of your estimate.

‘I suppose there is nothing now to prevent your immediately commencing the printing of the work.

‘I guess there's nothing left to stop you from starting the printing of the work right away.

‘When you acknowledge the receipt of the draft, will you state how soon it will be completed?—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘When you confirm that you've received the draft, could you let me know how soon it will be finished?—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘March 11th, 1846.

‘March 11th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—I have received the proof-sheet, and return it corrected.  If there is any doubt at all about the printer’s competency to correct errors, I would prefer submitting each sheet to the inspection of the authors, because such a mistake, for instance, as tumbling stars, instead of trembling, would suffice to throw an air of absurdity over a whole poem; but if you know from experience that he is to be relied on, I would trust to your assurance on the subject, and leave the task of correction to him, as I know that a considerable saving both of time and trouble would be thus effected.

Gentlemen,—I’ve received the proof sheet and I’m returning it with my corrections. If there’s any doubt about the printer’s ability to fix errors, I’d prefer that each sheet be checked by the authors because a mistake like using tumbling stars instead of trembling would make the whole poem seem ridiculous. However, if you’re confident in his skills based on your experience, I would trust your judgment and let him handle the corrections, as I know this would save a good amount of time and effort.

‘The printing and paper appear to me satisfactory.  Of course I wish to have the work out as soon as possible, but I am still more anxious that it should be got up in a manner creditable to the publishers and agreeable to the authors.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘The printing and paper look good to me. Of course, I want the work published as soon as possible, but I’m even more concerned that it’s done in a way that reflects well on the publishers and is pleasing to the authors.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 327TO AYLOTT & JONES

p. 327TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘March 13th, 1846.

‘March 13th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—I return you the second proof.  The authors have finally decided that they would prefer having all the proofs sent to them in turn, but you need not inclose the Ms., as they can correct the errors from memory.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

Gentlemen,—I’m sending back the second proof. The authors have decided they would prefer to receive all the proofs one after another, but you don’t need to include the manuscript, as they can fix the mistakes from memory.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘March 23rd, 1846.

‘March 23rd, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—As the proofs have hitherto come safe to hand under the direction of C. Brontë, Esq., I have not thought it necessary to request you to change it, but a little mistake having occurred yesterday, I think it will be better to send them to me in future under my real address, which is Miss Brontë, Rev. P. Brontë, etc.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

Gentlemen,—Since the proofs have reached me safely so far under the direction of C. Brontë, Esq., I hadn’t thought it necessary to ask for a change. However, a small mistake occurred yesterday, so I think it would be better to send them to me at my actual address in the future, which is Miss Brontë, Rev. P. Brontë, etc.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘April 6th, 1846.

‘April 6th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—C., E., and A. Bell are now 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 shall be deemed most advisable.

Gentlemen,—C., E., and A. Bell are currently preparing to publish a fiction work made up of three separate and unrelated stories. These may be released together as a three-volume set of regular novel size, or individually as single volumes, depending on what seems best.

‘It is not their intention to publish these tales on their own account.  They direct me to ask you whether you would be disposed to undertake the work, after having, of course, by due inspection of the Ms., ascertained that its contents are such as to warrant an expectation of success.

‘They don’t intend to publish these stories themselves. They’ve asked me to see if you would be interested in taking on the project, after you have, of course, properly reviewed the manuscript to determine if its content is likely to lead to success.

‘An early answer will oblige, as, in case of your negativing the proposal, inquiry must be made of other publishers.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘A prompt response would be appreciated, as if you decline the proposal, I will need to reach out to other publishers. —I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘April 15th, 1846.

‘April 15th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—I have to thank you for your obliging answer to my last.  The information you give is of value to us, p. 328and when the MS. is completed your suggestions shall be acted on.

Gentlemen,—Thank you for your helpful response to my last message. The information you provided is valuable to us, p. 328and once the manuscript is finished, we will consider your suggestions.

‘There will be no preface to the poems.  The blank leaf may be filled up by a table of contents, which I suppose the printer will prepare.  It appears the volume will be a thinner one than was calculated on.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘There will be no preface to the poems. The blank page may be filled with a table of contents, which I assume the printer will prepare. It appears the book will be thinner than expected.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘May 11th, 1846.

‘May 11th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—The books may be done up in the style of Moxon’s duodecimo edition of Wordsworth.

Gentlemen,—The books can be wrapped like Moxon’s duodecimo edition of Wordsworth.

‘The price may be fixed at 5s., or if you think that too much for the size of the volume, say 4s.

‘The price can be set at 5 shillings, or if you think that’s too much for the size of the book, then it can be 4 shillings.

‘I think the periodicals I mentioned in my last will be sufficient for advertising in at present, and I should not wish you to lay out a larger sum than £2, especially as the estimate is increased by nearly £5, in consequence, it appears, of a mistake.  I should think the success of a work depends more on the notice it receives from periodicals, than on the quantity of advertisements.

‘I think the magazines I mentioned in my last message will be enough for advertising right now, and I wouldn’t want you to spend more than £2, especially since the estimate has gone up by almost £5 due to what seems to be a mistake. I believe the success of a project relies more on the attention it gets from magazines than on the number of ads.’

‘If you do not object, the additional amount of the estimate can be remitted when you send in your account at the end of the first six months.

‘If you don’t mind, the extra amount from the estimate can be paid when you submit your account at the end of the first six months.

‘I should be obliged to you if you could let me know how soon copies can be sent to the editors of the magazines and newspapers specified.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘I would appreciate it if you could let me know how soon copies can be sent to the editors of the specified magazines and newspapers.—I am, gentlemen, sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘May 25th, 1846.

‘May 25th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—I received yours of the 22nd this morning.  I now transmit £5, being the additional sum necessary to defray the entire expense of paper and printing.  It will leave a small surplus of 11s. 9d., which you can place to my account.

Gentlemen,—I received your message from the 22nd this morning. I'm sending £5, which is the extra amount needed to cover the total cost of paper and printing. This will leave a small surplus of 11s. 9d., which you can credit to my account.

‘I am glad you have sent copies to the newspapers you mention, and in case of a notice favourable or otherwise appearing in them, or in any of the other periodicals to which p. 329copies have been sent, I should be obliged to you if you would send me down the numbers; otherwise, I have not the opportunity of seeing these publications regularly.  I might miss it, and should the poems be remarked upon favourably, it is my intention to appropriate a further sum to 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 am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘I’m glad you sent copies to the newspapers you mentioned, and if any notices, whether positive or negative, appear in them or in any of the other periodicals that p. 329 received copies, I would appreciate it if you could send me the issues; otherwise, I don’t have the chance to see these publications regularly. I might miss it, and if the poems are received well, I plan to allocate more money for advertising. On the other hand, if they go unnoticed or are criticized, I think it would be pointless to advertise, as there’s nothing in the title of the work or the names of the authors that would grab anyone’s attention.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO AYLOTT & JONES

TO AYLOTT & JONES

‘July 10th, 1846.

‘July 10th, 1846.

‘Gentlemen,—I am directed by the Messrs. Bell to acknowledge the receipt of the Critic and the Athenæum containing notices of the poems.

Gentlemen,—I'm instructed by the Messrs. Bell to confirm that we've received the Critic and the Athenæum with reviews of the poems.

‘They now think that a further sum of £10 may be devoted to advertisements, leaving it to you to select such channels as you deem most advisable.

‘They now believe that an additional amount of £10 can be allocated for advertisements, and they trust you to choose the channels you think are best.’

‘They would wish the following extract from the Critic to be appended to each advertisement:—

‘They would like the following extract from the Critic to be added to each advertisement:—

‘“They in whose hearts are chords strung by Nature to sympathise with the beautiful and the true, will recognise in these compositions the presence of more genius than it was supposed this utilitarian age had devoted to the loftier exercises of the intellect.”

‘“Those whose hearts resonate with the sounds of Nature to connect with beauty and truth will see in these works the presence of more genius than this practical age has thought to dedicate to the higher pursuits of the mind.”’

‘They likewise request you to send copies of the poems to Fraser’s Magazine, Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, the Globe, and Examiner.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘They also ask you to send copies of the poems to Fraser’s Magazine, Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, the Globe, and Examiner.—I am, gentlemen, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ‘DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.’

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ‘DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.’

‘October 6th, 1846.

‘October 6th, 1846.

‘Sirs,—I thank you in my own name and that of my brothers, Ellis and Acton, for the indulgent notice that appeared in your p. 330last number of our first humble efforts in literature; but I thank you far more for the essay on modern poetry which preceded that notice—an essay in which seems to me to be condensed the very spirit of truth and beauty.  If all or half your other readers shall have derived from its perusal the delight it afforded to myself and my brothers, your labours have produced a rich result.

‘Dear Sirs,—I want to thank you on behalf of myself and my brothers, Ellis and Acton, for the kind mention in your p. 330last issue about our early writing efforts; but I am even more thankful for the essay on modern poetry that appeared prior to that mention—an essay that truly captures the essence of truth and beauty. If any of your other readers enjoy it as much as my brothers and I did, your work will have made a wonderful impact.

‘After such criticism an author may indeed be smitten at first by a sense of his own insignificance—as we were—but on a second and a third perusal he finds a power and beauty therein which stirs him to a desire to do more and better things.  It fulfils the right end of criticism: without absolutely crushing, it corrects and rouses.  I again thank you heartily, and beg to subscribe myself,—Your constant and grateful reader,

‘After receiving such criticism, an author might initially feel overwhelmed by their own lack of significance—just like we did—but after reading it a second and third time, they find a strength and beauty in it that encourages them to create more and better work. It fulfills the true purpose of criticism: it doesn’t completely tear down, but it corrects and inspires. I want to thank you sincerely once more, and I remain,—Your loyal and grateful reader,

‘Currer Bell.’

‘Currer Bell.’

TO THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

TO THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

‘June 16th, 1847.

‘June 16th, 1847.

‘Sirs,—My relatives, Ellis and Acton Bell, and myself, heedless of the repeated warnings of various respectable publishers, have committed the rash act of printing a volume of poems.

'Dear Sir,—My relatives, Ellis and Acton Bell, and I have decided to go against the advice of several well-known publishers and publish a collection of poems.'

‘The consequences predicted have, of course, overtaken us: our book is found to be a drug; no man needs it or heeds it.  In the space of a year our publisher has disposed but of two copies, and by what painful efforts he succeeded in getting rid of these two, himself only knows.

‘As expected, the outcome has caught up with us: our book has proven to be worthless; no one seems to want it or care about it. Over the past year, our publisher has sold only two copies, and only he knows how he managed to sell those.’

‘Before transferring the edition to the trunkmakers, we have decided on distributing as presents a few copies of what we cannot sell; and we beg to offer you one in acknowledgment of the pleasure and profit we have often and long derived from your works.—I am, sir, yours very respectfully,

‘Before we send the remaining copies to the trunk makers, we've decided to give away a few copies that we can't sell as gifts; and we would like to offer you one as a sign of our gratitude for the enjoyment and benefit we have often received from your work.—I am, sir, sincerely yours,

‘Currer Bell.’

‘Currer Bell.’

POEMS

POEMS

by

by

CURRER, ELLIS
and
ACTON BELL

CURRER, ELLIS
and
ACTON BELL

london
Aylott & Jones, 8 Paternoster Row
1846

london
Aylott & Jones, 8 Paternoster Row
1846

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 4th, 1847.

‘October 4th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I thank you sincerely for your last letter.  It is valuable to me because it furnishes me with a sound opinion on points respecting which I desired to be advised; be assured I shall do what I can to profit by your wise and good counsel.

Dear Sir,—Thank you very much for your last letter. It means a lot to me because it gives me solid opinions on the issues I needed guidance on; I promise to make the most of your wise and kind advice.

‘Permit me, however, sir, to caution you against forming too favourable an idea of my powers, or too sanguine an expectation of what they can achieve.  I am myself sensible both of deficiencies of capacity and disadvantages of circumstance which will, I fear, render it somewhat difficult for me to attain popularity as an author.  The eminent writers you mention—Mr. Thackeray, Mr. Dickens, Mrs. Marsh, [333] etc., doubtless enjoyed facilities for observation such as I have not; certainly they possess a knowledge of the world, whether intuitive or acquired, such as I can lay no claim to, and this gives their p. 334writings an importance and a variety greatly beyond what I can offer the public.

‘However, I want to caution you against overestimating my abilities or expecting too much from me. I’m aware of my limitations and the challenges I face, which I worry might make it difficult for me to become popular as a writer. The well-known authors you mentioned—Mr. Thackeray, Mr. Dickens, Mrs. Marsh, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ etc.—definitely had observational advantages that I don’t have; they possess a depth of understanding about the world, whether it's instinctive or learned, that I can't claim, giving their writings a significance and variety far beyond what I can offer the public.

‘Still, if health be spared and time vouchsafed me, I mean to do my best; and should a moderate success crown my efforts, its value will be greatly enhanced by the proof it will seem to give that your kind counsel and encouragement have not been bestowed on one quite unworthy.—Yours respectfully,

‘Still, if I stay healthy and have the time, I plan to do my best; and if I achieve some level of success, it will be made more meaningful by the fact that your kind advice and support weren’t given to someone entirely unworthy.—Yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 9th, 1847.

‘October 9th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I do not know whether the Dublin University Magazine is included in the list of periodicals to which Messrs. Smith & Elder are accustomed to send copies of new publications, but as a former work, the joint production of myself and my two relatives, Ellis and Acton Bell, received a somewhat favourable notice in that magazine, it appears to me that if the editor’s attention were drawn to Jane Eyre he might possibly bestow on it also a few words of remark.

Dear Sir,—I'm not sure if the Dublin University Magazine is one of the periodicals that Messrs. Smith & Elder usually sends new publications to, but since a previous work I co-authored with my relatives, Ellis and Acton Bell, received a somewhat positive review in that magazine, I think the editor might consider giving a few comments on Jane Eyre if made aware of it.

‘The Critic and the Athenæum also gave comments on the work I allude to.  The review in the first-mentioned paper was unexpectedly and generously eulogistic, that in the Athenæum more qualified, but still not discouraging.  I mention these circumstances and leave it to you to judge whether any advantage is derivable from them.

‘The Critic and the Athenæum also provided feedback on the work I'm mentioning. The review in the first publication was surprisingly and generously positive, while the one in the Athenæum was more measured but still not discouraging. I share these details and leave it to you to decide if there's any benefit in them.

‘You dispensed me from the duty of answering your last letter, but my sense of the justness of the views it expresses will not permit me to neglect this opportunity both of acknowledging it and thanking you for it.—Yours sincerely,

‘You excused me from replying to your last letter, but my belief in the validity of the views it presents compels me to take this opportunity to acknowledge it and thank you for it.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, December 13th, 1847.

‘Haworth, December 13th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—Your advice merits and shall have my most serious attention.  I feel the force of your reasoning.  It is my wish to do my best in the career on which I have entered.  p. 335So I shall study and strive; and by dint of time, thought, and effort, I hope yet to deserve in part the encouragement you and others have so generously accorded me.  But time will be necessary—that I feel more than ever.  In case of Jane Eyre reaching a second edition, I should wish some few corrections to be made, and will prepare an errata.  How would the accompanying preface do?  I thought it better to be brief.

Dear Sir,—Your advice is valuable and will have my full attention. I understand your reasoning. I want to do my best on the path I've chosen. p. 335So, I will study and work hard; with time, thought, and effort, I hope to earn, at least in part, the encouragement you and others have kindly given me. But I realize that I will need time—that's clearer to me than ever. If Jane Eyre goes to a second edition, I would like to make a few corrections and will prepare an errata. How would the accompanying preface work? I thought it was best to keep it brief.

‘The Observer has just reached me.  I always compel myself to read the analysis in every newspaper-notice.  It is a just punishment, a due though severe humiliation for faults of plan and construction.  I wonder if the analysis of other fictions read as absurdly as that of Jane Eyre always does.—I am, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘The Observer just reached me. I always push myself to read the analysis in every newspaper review. It’s a fitting punishment and a well-deserved, albeit harsh, humiliation for my mistakes in planning and construction. I wonder if the analysis of other fictional works sounds as absurd as that of Jane Eyre often does.—I am, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 14th, 1847.

‘December 14th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I have just received your kind and welcome letter of the 11th.  I shall proceed at once to discuss the principal subject of it.

Dear Sir,—I just received your thoughtful and appreciated letter from the 11th. Let’s dive right into the main topic.

‘Of course a second work has occupied my thoughts much.  I think it would be premature in me to undertake a serial now—I am not yet qualified for the task: I have neither gained a sufficiently firm footing with the public, nor do I possess sufficient confidence in myself, nor can I boast those unflagging animal spirits, that even command of the faculty of composition, which as you say, and, I am persuaded, most justly, is an indispensable requisite to success in serial literature.  I decidedly feel that ere I change my ground I had better make another venture in the three volume novel form.

‘Naturally, I've been considering a second project. I think it would be too soon for me to start a serial right now—I’m not quite ready for that yet: I haven't built a strong enough connection with the audience, lack confidence in myself, and can’t muster the kind of relentless energy that is vital for success in serial literature, as you noted, and I completely agree. I strongly believe that before I change direction, I should try another three-volume novel first.

p. 336‘Respecting the plan of such a work, I have pondered it, but as yet with very unsatisfactory results.  Three commencements have I essayed, but all three displease me.  A few days since I looked over The Professor.  I found the beginning very feeble, the whole narrative deficient in incident and in general attractiveness.  Yet the middle and latter portion of the work, all that relates to Brussels, the Belgian school, etc., is as good as I can write: it contains more pith, more substance, more reality, in my judgment, than much of Jane Eyre.  It gives, I think, a new view of a grade, an occupation, and a class of characters—all very commonplace, very insignificant in themselves, but not more so than the materials composing that portion of Jane Eyre which seems to please most generally.

p. 336‘I’ve spent a lot of time considering the structure of this work, but I still haven’t come up with anything satisfying. I’ve tried to start it three times, but none of those attempts have worked for me. A few days ago, I revisited The Professor. I found the beginning very weak, and the whole story lacking in events and overall appeal. However, the middle and later sections about Brussels, the Belgian school, and so on, are the best I can write: they have more depth, substance, and realism than much of Jane Eyre. I believe it offers a fresh perspective on a certain lifestyle, a profession, and a group of characters—who are all quite ordinary and unremarkable themselves, just like the elements that make up the parts of Jane Eyre that seem to be the most popular.

‘My wish is to recast The Professor, add as well as I can what is deficient, retrench some parts, develop others, and make of it a three volume work—no easy task, I know, yet I trust not an impracticable one.

‘My goal is to revise The Professor, improve on its weaknesses, cut some parts, expand others, and turn it into a three-volume work—no small task, I know, but I believe it’s doable.

‘I have not forgotten that The Professor was set aside in my agreement with Messrs. Smith & Elder; therefore before I take any step to execute the plan I have sketched, I should wish to have your judgment on its wisdom.  You read or looked over the Ms.—what impression have you now respecting its worth? and what confidence have you that I can make it better than it is?

‘I haven’t forgotten that The Professor was excluded from my agreement with Messrs. Smith & Elder; so before I proceed with my plan, I would like your opinion on its viability. You read or reviewed the manuscript—what do you think of its value? And how confident are you that I can improve it?’

‘Feeling certain that from business reasons as well as from natural integrity you will be quite candid with me, I esteem it a privilege to be able thus to consult you.—Believe me, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘Knowing that for both business reasons and your own integrity you will be honest with me, I consider it a privilege to consult you like this.—Trust me, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.

‘C. Bell.

‘Wuthering Heights is, I suppose, at length published, at least Mr. Newby has sent the authors their six copies.  I wonder how it will be received.  I should say it merits the epithets of “vigorous” and “original” much more decidedly than Jane Eyre did.  Agnes Grey should please such critics as Mr. Lewes, for it is “true” and “unexaggerated” enough.  The books are not well got up—they abound in errors of the p. 337press.  On a former occasion I expressed myself with perhaps too little reserve regarding Mr. Newby, yet I cannot but feel, and feel painfully, that Ellis and Acton have not had the justice at his hands that I have had at those of Messrs. Smith & Elder.’

Wuthering Heights has finally been published; at least Mr. Newby has sent the authors their six copies. I wonder how it will be received. I think it deserves the labels “vigorous” and “original” much more strongly than Jane Eyre did. Agnes Grey should satisfy critics like Mr. Lewes, as it is “true” and “unexaggerated” enough. The books aren’t well produced—they have a lot of printing errors. Previously, I may have been too blunt about Mr. Newby, but I can’t help but feel, and it pains me to say, that Ellis and Acton haven’t received the fair treatment from him that I have from Messrs. Smith & Elder.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 31st, 1847.

‘December 31st, 1847.

‘Dear Sirs,—I think, for the reasons you mention, it is better to substitute author for editor.  I should not be ashamed to be considered the author of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey, but, possessing no real claim to that honour, I would rather not have it attributed to me, thereby depriving the true authors of their just meed.

Dear Sirs,—I think, for the reasons you mentioned, it’s better to replace editor with author. I wouldn’t mind being recognized as the author of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey, but since I don’t actually deserve that title, I’d prefer not to have it given to me, which would unfairly take credit away from the real authors.

‘You do very rightly and very kindly to tell me the objections made against Jane Eyre—they are more essential than the praises.  I feel a sort of heart-ache when I hear the book called “godless” and “pernicious” by good and earnest-minded men; but I know that heart-ache will be salutary—at least I trust so.

‘You are absolutely right and very kind to share the objections raised against Jane Eyre—they are more important than the praises. I feel a sort of heartache when I hear good, earnest people call the book “godless” and “harmful”; but I believe this heartache will ultimately be beneficial—at least I hope so.

‘What is meant by the charges of trickery and artifice I have yet to comprehend.  It was no art in me to write a tale—it was no trick in Messrs. Smith & Elder to publish it.  Where do the trickery and artifice lie?

‘What do the accusations of trickery and artifice mean? I still don’t understand. It wasn’t a skill for me to write a story—it wasn’t deceitful for Messrs. Smith & Elder to publish it. Where exactly is the trickery and artifice?’

‘I have received the Scotsman, and was greatly amused to see Jane Eyre likened to Rebecca Sharp—the resemblance would hardly have occurred to me.

‘I’ve received the Scotsman, and I was really amused to see Jane Eyre compared to Rebecca Sharp—the similarity hadn’t crossed my mind.

‘I wish to send this note by to-day’s post, and must therefore conclude in haste.—I am, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘I want to send this note with today’s mail, so I have to wrap it up quickly.—I am, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, January 4th, 1848.

‘Haworth, January 4th, 1848.

‘Dear Sir,—Your letter made me ashamed of myself that I should ever have uttered a murmur, or expressed by any sign that I was sensible of pain from the unfavourable opinions of p. 338some misjudging but well-meaning people.  But, indeed, let me assure you, I am not ungrateful for the kindness which has been given me in such abundant measure.  I can discriminate the proportions in which blame and praise have been awarded to my efforts: I see well that I have had less of the former and more of the latter than I merit.  I am not therefore crushed, though I may be momentarily saddened by the frown, even of the good.

Dear Sir,—Your letter made me feel ashamed that I ever complained or showed in any way that I felt hurt by the negative opinions of p. 338some well-meaning but mistaken people. But honestly, let me assure you, I’m not ungrateful for the kindness I’ve received in such generous amounts. I can see clearly how blame and praise have been given to my efforts: I recognize that I’ve received less criticism and more praise than I deserve. So, I’m not completely crushed, even though I might feel a bit down by the disapproval, even from those with good intentions.

‘It would take a great deal to crush me, because I know, in the first place, that my own intentions were correct, that I feel in my heart a deep reverence for religion, that impiety is very abhorrent to me; and in the second, I place firm reliance on the judgment of some who have encouraged me.  You and Mr. Lewes are quite as good authorities, in my estimation, as Mr. Dilke or the editor of the Spectator, and I would not under any circumstances, or for any opprobrium, regard with shame what my friends had approved—none but a coward would let the detraction of an enemy outweigh the encouragement of a friend.  You must not, therefore, fulfil your threat of being less communicative in future; you must kindly tell me all.

‘It would take a lot to bring me down because I know, first of all, that my intentions are good, that I have a deep respect for religion, and that I find disrespect for it very upsetting; and secondly, I trust the judgment of some who have supported me. You and Mr. Lewes are just as credible sources, in my opinion, as Mr. Dilke or the editor of the Spectator, and I would never feel ashamed of what my friends have supported—only a coward would let an enemy’s insults overshadow a friend’s encouragement. So you must not carry out your threat of being less forthcoming in the future; please share everything with me.’

‘Miss Kavanagh’s view of the maniac coincides with Leigh Hunt’s.  I agree with them that the character is shocking, but I know that it is but too natural.  There is a phase of insanity which may be called moral madness, in which all that is good or even human seems to disappear from the mind, and a fiend-nature replaces it.  The sole aim and desire of the being thus possessed is to exasperate, to molest, to destroy, and preternatural ingenuity and energy are often exercised to that dreadful end.  The aspect, in such cases, assimilates with the disposition—all seem demonized.  It is true that profound pity ought to be the only sentiment elicited by the view of such degradation, and equally true is it that I have not sufficiently dwelt on that feeling: I have erred in making horror too predominant.  Mrs. Rochester, indeed, lived a sinful life before she was insane, but sin is itself a species of insanity—the truly good behold and compassionate it as such.

‘Miss Kavanagh’s view of the maniac aligns with Leigh Hunt’s. I agree with them that the character is shocking, but I know that it is all too natural. There’s a type of insanity that can be called moral madness, where everything good or even human seems to disappear from the mind, and a fiendish nature takes its place. The only aim and desire of someone possessed in this way is to annoy, to harm, to destroy, and they often show incredible cleverness and energy to achieve that dreadful end. The appearance in such cases matches the disposition—all seem demonized. It’s true that deep pity should be the only feeling provoked by observing such degradation, and it’s also true that I haven’t focused enough on that feeling: I’ve erred in making horror too dominant. Mrs. Rochester did live a sinful life before she became insane, but sin itself is a kind of insanity—the truly good see it and empathize with it as such.

‘Jane Eyre has got down into Yorkshire, a copy has even p. 339penetrated into this neighbourhood.  I saw an elderly clergyman reading it the other day, and had the satisfaction of hearing him exclaim, “Why, they have got --- School, and Mr. --- here, I declare! and Miss ---” (naming the originals of Lowood, Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss Temple).  He had known them all.  I wondered whether he would recognise the portraits, and was gratified to find that he did, and that, moreover, he pronounced them faithful and just.  He said, too, that Mr. --- (Brocklehurst) “deserved the chastisement he had got.”

‘Jane Eyre has made its way to Yorkshire, and a copy has even p. 339reached this area. I saw an older clergyman reading it the other day, and I was pleased to hear him exclaim, “Wow, they have --- School, and Mr. --- in here, I swear! And Miss ---” (referring to the real people behind Lowood, Mr. Brocklehurst, and Miss Temple). He recognized them all. I wondered if he would identify the characters and was pleased to see that he did, and he even said they were accurate and true to life. He also remarked that Mr. --- (Brocklehurst) “deserved the punishment he received.”

‘He did not recognise Currer Bell.  What author would be without the advantage of being able to walk invisible?  One is thereby enabled to keep such a quiet mind.  I make this small observation in confidence.

‘He did not recognize Currer Bell. What author wouldn’t want the advantage of being able to walk unnoticed? It allows one to have such a calm mind. I share this little observation in confidence.

‘What makes you say that the notice in the Westminster Review is not by Mr. Lewes?  It expresses precisely his opinions, and he said he would perhaps insert a few lines in that periodical.

‘What makes you think that the notice in the Westminster Review isn’t by Mr. Lewes? It clearly reflects his opinions, and he mentioned that he might add a few lines to that publication.

‘I have sometimes thought that I ought to have written to Mr. Lewes to thank him for his review in Fraser; and, indeed, I did write a note, but then it occurred to me that he did not require the author’s thanks, and I feared it would be superfluous to send it, therefore I refrained; however, though I have not expressed gratitude I have felt it.

‘I have occasionally thought that I should have written to Mr. Lewes to thank him for his review in Fraser; and actually, I did start a note, but then it struck me that he didn’t need the author’s thanks, and I worried it would be unnecessary to send it, so I held back; however, even though I haven’t expressed my gratitude, I have definitely felt it.

‘I wish you, too, many many happy new years, and prosperity and success to you and yours.—Believe me, etc.,

'I wish you, too, many many happy new years, and prosperity and success to you and your family.—Believe me, etc.,

‘Currer Bell.

‘Currer Bell.

‘I have received the Courier and the Oxford Chronicle.’

‘I have received the Courier and the Oxford Chronicle.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘January 22nd, 1848.

‘January 22nd, 1848.

‘Dear Sir,—I have received the Morning Herald, and was much pleased with the notice, chiefly on account of the reference made to that portion of the preface which concerns Messrs. Smith & Elder.  If my tribute of thanks can benefit my publishers, it is desirable that it should have as much publicity as possible.

Dear Sir,—I have received the Morning Herald, and I was very pleased with the mention, especially because of the reference to the part of the preface that talks about Messrs. Smith & Elder. If my thanks can help my publishers, it’s important that they get as much visibility as possible.

p. 340‘I do not know if the part which relates to Mr. Thackeray is likely to be as well received; but whether generally approved of and understood or not, I shall not regret having written it, for I am convinced of its truth.

p. 340“I’m not sure if the section about Mr. Thackeray will be well-received, but regardless of whether it’s widely accepted or understood, I won’t regret writing it because I truly believe in its accuracy.

‘I see I was mistaken in my idea that the Athenæum and others wished to ascribe the authorship of Wuthering Heights to Currer Bell; the contrary is the case, Jane Eyre is given to Ellis Bell; and Mr. Newby, it appears, thinks it expedient so to frame his advertisements as to favour the misapprehension.  If Mr. Newby had much sagacity he would see that Ellis Bell is strong enough to stand without being propped by Currer Bell, and would have disdained what Ellis himself of all things disdains—recourse to trickery.  However, Ellis, Acton, and Currer care nothing for the matter personally; the public and the critics are welcome to confuse our identities as much as they choose; my only fear is lest Messrs. Smith & Elder should in some way be annoyed by it.

‘I see I was wrong in thinking that the Athenæum and others wanted to attribute the authorship of Wuthering Heights to Currer Bell; in fact, it’s the opposite—Jane Eyre is credited to Ellis Bell; and Mr. Newby seems to think it’s wise to word his advertisements in a way that supports this misunderstanding. If Mr. Newby had any sense, he would realize that Ellis Bell is strong enough to stand on its own without needing support from Currer Bell and would have rejected what Ellis himself despises above all—resorting to trickery. However, Ellis, Acton, and Currer don’t care about this personally; the public and the critics can mix up our identities as much as they want; my only concern is that Messrs. Smith & Elder might somehow be bothered by it.

‘I was much interested in your account of Miss Kavanagh.  The character you sketch belongs to a class I peculiarly esteem: one in which endurance combines with exertion, talent with goodness; where genius is found unmarred by extravagance, self-reliance unalloyed by self-complacency.  It is a character which is, I believe, rarely found except where there has been toil to undergo and adversity to struggle against: it will only grow to perfection in a poor soil and in the shade; if the soil be too indigent, the shade too dank and thick, of course it dies where it sprung.  But I trust this will not be the case with Miss Kavanagh.  I trust she will struggle ere long into the sunshine.  In you she has a kind friend to direct her, and I hope her mother will live to see the daughter, who yields to her such childlike duty, both happy and successful.

‘I was really interested in your account of Miss Kavanagh. The character you describe belongs to a type I particularly admire: one where endurance goes hand in hand with hard work, talent is paired with kindness; where genius remains intact and balanced without being overbearing, and self-reliance exists without arrogance. I believe this kind of character is rarely found unless there has been hard work and challenges to overcome: it can only reach its full potential in difficult circumstances and less-than-ideal conditions; if the circumstances are too harsh and the conditions too stifling, it will surely fade away. But I hope that won't be the case with Miss Kavanagh. I believe she will soon rise into the light. With you as her kind friend to guide her, I also hope her mother will live to see her daughter, who shows such innocent devotion, both happy and successful.’

‘You asked me if I should like any copies of the second edition of Jane Eyre, and I said—no.  It is true I do not want any for myself or my acquaintances, but if the request be not unusual, I should much like one to be given to Miss Kavanagh.  If you would have the goodness, you might write on the fly-leaf that the book is presented with the author’s best p. 341wishes for her welfare here and hereafter.  My reason for wishing that she should have a copy is because she said the book had been to her a suggestive one, and I know that suggestive books are valuable to authors.

‘You asked if I’d like any copies of the second edition of Jane Eyre, and I said—no. It’s true I don’t want any for myself or my friends, but if it’s not too much trouble, I would really like one to be given to Miss Kavanagh. If you could, please write on the fly-leaf that the book is presented with the author’s best p. 341wishes for her well-being now and in the future. I want her to have a copy because she mentioned that the book has been a suggestive one for her, and I know that suggestive books are significant to authors.

‘I am truly sorry to hear that Mr. Smith has had an attack of the prevalent complaint, but I trust his recovery is by this time complete.  I cannot boast entire exemption from its ravages, as I now write under its depressing influence.  Hoping that you have been more fortunate,—I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘I’m really sorry to hear that Mr. Smith has had an episode of the common illness, but I hope he’s fully recovered by now. I can’t say I’m completely free from its effects, as I’m currently feeling down because of it. I hope you’ve had better luck—sincerely yours,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 3rd, 1848.

‘March 3rd, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I have received the Christian Remembrancer, and read the review.  It is written with some ability; but to do justice was evidently not the critic’s main object, therefore he excuses himself from performing that duty.

'My dear Sir,—I have received the Christian Remembrancer, and read the review. It is well-written; but it’s clear that the critic’s main goal wasn’t fairness, so he avoids providing that role.'

‘I daresay the reviewer imagines that Currer Bell ought to be extremely afflicted, very much cut up, by some smart things he says—this however is not the case.  C. Bell is on the whole rather encouraged than dispirited by the review: the hard-wrung praise extorted reluctantly from a foe is the most precious praise of all—you are sure that this, at least, has no admixture of flattery.  I fear he has too high an opinion of my abilities and of what I can do; but that is his own fault.  In other respects, he aims his shafts in the dark, and the success, or, rather, ill-success of his hits makes me laugh rather than cry.  His shafts of sarcasm are nicely polished, keenly pointed; he should not have wasted them in shooting at a mark he cannot see.

‘I bet the reviewer thinks that Currer Bell should be really upset, bothered by the harsh things he says—but that’s not the case. C. Bell is more encouraged than discouraged by the review: the hard-earned praise grudgingly given by an enemy is the most valuable kind—you can be sure it’s not mixed with flattery. I worry he has too high an opinion of my abilities and what I can achieve; but that’s his problem. In other ways, he takes shots in the dark, and the fact that he misses makes me laugh instead of cry. His sarcastic jabs are nicely polished and sharply aimed; he shouldn’t have wasted them on a target he can’t see.’

‘I hope such reviews will not make much difference with me, and that if the spirit moves me in future to say anything about priests, etc., I shall say it with the same freedom as heretofore.  I hope also that their anger will not make me angry.  As a body, I had no ill-will against them to begin with, and I feel it would be an error to let opposition engender such ill-will.  A few individuals may possibly be called upon to sit for their portraits p. 342some time; if their brethren in general dislike the resemblance and abuse the artist—tant pis!—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘I hope these reviews won’t affect me too much, and that if I feel inspired in the future to talk about priests or anything else, I’ll do so just as freely as I have before. I also hope their anger won’t make me angry. Overall, I didn’t have any ill-will toward them to begin with, and I think it would be a mistake to let opposition create such feelings. A few individuals might eventually be asked to sit for their portraits p. 342; if their peers don’t like the likeness and criticize the artist—too bad!—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 11th, 1848.

‘March 11th, 1848.

‘Dear Sir,—I have just received the copy of the second edition, and will look over it, and send the corrections as soon as possible; I will also, since you think it advisable, avail myself of the opportunity of a third edition to correct the mistake respecting the authorship of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey.

Dear Sir,—I just received the second edition and will write a review, sending back the corrections as soon as I can. Since you think it’s a good idea, I’ll also take this opportunity with the third edition to address the mistake about the authorship of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey.

‘As to your second suggestion, it is, one can see at a glance, a very judicious and happy one; but I cannot adopt it, because I have not the skill you attribute to me.  It is not enough to have the artist’s eye, one must also have the artist’s hand to turn the first gift to practical account.  I have, in my day, wasted a certain quantity of Bristol board and drawing-paper, crayons and cakes of colour, but when I examine the contents of my portfolio now, it seems as if during the years it has been lying closed some fairy had changed what I once thought sterling coin into dry leaves, and I feel much inclined to consign the whole collection of drawings to the fire; I see they have no value.  If, then, Jane Eyre is ever to be illustrated, it must be by some other hand than that of its author.  But I hope no one will be at the trouble to make portraits of my characters.  Bulwer and Byron heroes and heroines are very well, they are all of them handsome; but my personages are mostly unattractive in look, and therefore ill-adapted to figure in ideal portraits.  At the best, I have always thought such representations futile.  You will not easily find a second Thackeray.  How he can render, with a few black lines and dots, shades of expression so fine, so real; traits of character so minute, so subtle, so difficult to seize and fix, I cannot tell—I p. 343can only wonder and admire.  Thackeray may not be a painter, but he is a wizard of a draughtsman; touched with his pencil, paper lives.  And then his drawing is so refreshing; after the wooden limbs one is accustomed to see pourtrayed by commonplace illustrators, his shapes of bone and muscle clothed with flesh, correct in proportion and anatomy, are a real relief.  All is true in Thackeray.  If Truth were again a goddess, Thackeray should be her high priest.

‘About your second suggestion, it’s clear that it’s a thoughtful and appealing idea; however, I can’t take it on because I lack the talent you think I have. Having an artist’s eye isn’t enough; you also need the artist’s hand to make that initial gift practical. I’ve wasted a lot of Bristol board, drawing paper, crayons, and paints over the years, but when I look through my portfolio now, it feels like a fairy has turned what I once thought was valuable into dried leaves during the time it has been closed. I’m very tempted to throw the entire collection of drawings into the fire; I see they have no value. So, if Jane Eyre is ever illustrated, it must be by someone other than me. But I hope no one bothers to create portraits of my characters. Bulwer and Byron’s heroes and heroines are all well and good—they’re all attractive—but my characters are mostly not very appealing to look at, making them unsuitable for ideal portraits. At best, I’ve always found such portrayals pointless. You won’t easily find another Thackeray. I can’t explain how he captures such fine, real expressions with just a few black lines and dots; the nuances of character he conveys are so subtle and difficult to grasp—I can only admire his skill. Thackeray may not be a painter, but he’s an exceptional draftsman; with just a pencil, he brings paper to life. His drawing is so refreshing; after seeing the stiff figures typical of average illustrators, his forms of bone and muscle wrapped in flesh, accurately in proportion and anatomy, are a real breath of fresh air. Everything in Thackeray is true. If Truth were alive as a goddess again, Thackeray would surely be her high priest.’

‘I read my preface over with some pain—I did not like it.  I wrote it when I was a little enthusiastic, like you, about the French Revolution.  I wish I had written it in a cool moment; I should have said the same things, but in a different manner.  One may be as enthusiastic as one likes about an author who has been dead a century or two, but I see it is a fault to bore the public with enthusiasm about a living author.  I promise myself to take better care in future.  Still I will think as I please.

‘I read my preface again and felt somewhat uncomfortable—I didn’t like it. I wrote it when I was a bit too enthusiastic, like you, about the French Revolution. I wish I had written it when I was calmer; I would have said the same things, just differently. You can be as passionate as you like about an author who’s been dead for a century or two, but I realize it’s a mistake to bore the public with enthusiasm about a living author. I promise to be more careful in the future. Still, I will think as I please.

‘Are the London republicans, and you amongst the number, cooled down yet?  I suppose not, because your French brethren are acting very nobly.  The abolition of slavery and of the punishment of death for political offences are two glorious deeds, but how will they get over the question of the organisation of labour!  Such theories will be the sand-bank on which their vessel will run aground if they don’t mind.  Lamartine, there is not doubt, would make an excellent legislator for a nation of Lamartines—but where is that nation?  I hope these observations are sceptical and cool enough.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Have the London republicans, including you, calmed down yet? I doubt it, since your French counterparts are acting quite heroically. The abolition of slavery and the end of the death penalty for political crimes are two remarkable achievements, but how will they address labor organization? Such theories could be quicksand that sinks their ship if they’re not careful. Lamartine would certainly make a great legislator for a nation full of Lamartines—but where is that nation? I hope these thoughts sound skeptical and measured enough.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 16th, 1848.

‘November 16th, 1848.

‘My dear Sirs,—I have already acknowledged in a note to Mr. Smith the receipt of the parcel of books, and in my thanks for this well-timed attention I am sure I ought to include you; your taste, I thought, was recognisable in the choice of some of the volumes, and a better selection it would have been difficult to make.

'Dear Sirs,—I've already acknowledged in a note to Mr. Smith that I received the parcel of books, and in my thanks for this thoughtful gesture, I believe I should also include you; I recognized your taste in choosing some of the volumes, and it would have been hard to make a better selection.'

p. 344‘To-day I have received the Spectator and the Revue des deux Mondes.  The Spectator consistently maintains the tone it first assumed regarding the Bells.  I have little to object to its opinion as far as Currer Bell’s portion of the volume is concerned.  It is true the critic sees only the faults, but for these his perception is tolerably accurate.  Blind is he as any bat, insensate as any stone, to the merits of Ellis.  He cannot feel or will not acknowledge that the very finish and labor limæ which Currer wants, Ellis has; he is not aware that the “true essence of poetry” pervades his compositions.  Because Ellis’s poems are short and abstract, the critics think them comparatively insignificant and dull.  They are mistaken.

p. 344‘Today I received the Spectator and the Revue des deux Mondes. The Spectator still maintains the same opinion it had about the Bells. I don't have much to argue with regarding its views on Currer Bell's section of the volume. It's true that the critic only points out the flaws, but their observations are quite accurate. However, they are as blind as a bat and as cold as stone to the strengths of Ellis. They can't see or refuse to acknowledge that the polish and careful crafting that Currer lacks, Ellis possesses; they don't recognize that the "true essence of poetry" is present in his work. Because Ellis's poems are short and abstract, critics deem them relatively unimportant and dull. They're mistaken.

‘The notice in the Revue des deux Mondes is one of the most able, the most acceptable to the author, of any that has yet appeared.  Eugène Forçade understood and enjoyed Jane Eyre.  I cannot say that of all who have professed to criticise it.  The censures are as well-founded as the commendations.  The specimens of the translation given are on the whole good; now and then the meaning of the original has been misapprehended, but generally it is well rendered.

‘The review in the Revue des deux Mondes is one of the most skillful and satisfying for the author of all that have appeared so far. Eugène Forçade understood and appreciated Jane Eyre. I can't say the same for everyone who has claimed to critique it. The criticisms are as valid as the praises. The examples of the translation provided are mostly good; occasionally, the meaning of the original has been misunderstood, but overall, it’s well done.’

‘Every cup given us to taste in this life is mixed.  Once it would have seemed to me that an evidence of success like that contained in the Revue would have excited an almost exultant feeling in my mind.  It comes, however, at a time when counteracting circumstances keep the balance of the emotions even—when my sister’s continued illness darkens the present and dims the future.  That will seem to me a happy day when I can announce to you that Emily is better.  Her symptoms continue to be those of slow inflammation of the lungs, tight cough, difficulty of breathing, pain in the chest, and fever.  We watch anxiously for a change for the better—may it soon come.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Every experience we have in life is a mix of good and bad. Once, I would have thought that a success like this in the Revue would make me feel almost ecstatic. However, it comes at a time when opposing circumstances keep my emotions in check—when my sister’s ongoing illness casts a shadow over the present and dims the future. I will consider it a happy day when I can tell you that Emily is doing better. Her symptoms are still those of a slow lung infection: a persistent cough, difficulty breathing, chest pain, and fever. We’re anxiously waiting for a positive change—may it come soon.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘As I was about to seal this I received your kind letter.  Truly glad am I to hear that Fanny is taking the path which pleases her parents.  I trust she may persevere in it.  She may be sure that a contrary one will never lead to happiness; and I p. 345should think that the reward of seeing you and her mother pleased must be so sweet that she will be careful not to run the risk of forfeiting it.

‘As I was about to finalize this, I received your thoughtful letter. I’m truly happy to hear that Fanny is choosing the path that makes her parents proud. I hope she stays on it. She can be sure that going in the opposite direction will never bring her happiness; and I would imagine that the reward of seeing you and her mom happy must be so wonderful that she will be careful not to risk losing it. p. 345

‘It is somewhat singular that I had already observed to my sisters, I did not doubt it was Mr. Lewes who had shown you the Revue.’

‘It’s quite interesting that I had already mentioned to my sisters, I’m sure it was Mr. Lewes who had shown you the Revue.’

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

‘March 1st, 1849.

‘March 1st, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—The parcel arrived on Saturday evening.  Permit me to express my sense of the judgment and kindness which have dictated the selection of its contents.  They appear to be all good books, and good books are, we know, the best substitute for good society; if circumstances debar me from the latter privilege, the kind attentions of my friends supply me with ample measure of the former.

Dear Sir,—The package arrived on Saturday evening. I want to thank you for the thoughtful selections inside. They all seem to be excellent books, and we know that good books are the best substitute for good company; if I'm unable to enjoy the latter due to circumstances, the kind gestures of my friends provide me with plenty of the former.

‘Thank you for your remarks on Shirley.  Some of your strictures tally with some by Mr. Williams.  You both complain of the want of distinctness and impressiveness in my heroes.  Probably you are right.  In delineating male character I labour under disadvantages: intuition and theory will not always adequately supply the place of observation and experience.  When I write about women I am sure of my ground—in the other case, I am not so sure.

‘Thank you for your comments on Shirley. Some of your critiques align with what Mr. Williams said. You both mention the lack of clarity and impact with my heroes. You’re probably right. When it comes to writing male characters, I face difficulties: intuition and theory can’t always compensate for a lack of observation and experience. I feel confident writing about women, but I’m not as sure when it comes to the other case.’

‘Here, then, each of you has laid the critical finger on a point that by its shrinking confesses its vulnerability; whether the disapprobation you intimate respecting the Briarchapel scenes, the curates, etc., be equally merited, time will show.  I am well aware what will be the author’s present meed for these passages: I anticipate general blame and no praise.  And were my motive-principle in writing a thirst for popularity, or were the chief check on my pen a dread of censure, I should p. 346withdraw these scenes—or rather, I should never have written them.  I will not say whether the considerations that really govern me are sound, or whether my convictions are just; but such as they are, to their influence I must yield submission.  They forbid me to sacrifice truth to the fear of blame.  I accept their prohibition.

‘Here, then, each of you has highlighted a critical issue that, through its diminishing nature, reveals its weakness; whether the criticism you imply regarding the Briarchapel scenes, the curates, etc., is equally justified, only time will tell. I know what the author will receive for these passages: I expect general criticism and no praise. And if my main reason for writing were a desire for popularity, or if my biggest concern while writing were a fear of criticism, I would either remove these scenes—or rather, I would never have written them in the first place. I won't claim whether the reasons that truly guide me are valid or if my beliefs are right; but however they may be, I must adhere to their influence. They prevent me from sacrificing truth to avoid blame. I accept their limitation.'

‘With the sincere expression of my esteem for the candour by which your critique is distinguished,—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘With genuine appreciation for the honesty that distinguishes your critique,—I am, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘August 16th, 1849.

‘August 16th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—Since I last wrote to you I have been getting on with my book as well as I can, and I think I may now venture to say that in a few weeks I hope to have the pleasure of placing the MS. in the hands of Mr. Smith.

Dear Sir,—Since I last wrote to you, I've been making progress on my book as best I can, and I think I can now say that in a few weeks, I hope to be able to hand the manuscript over to Mr. Smith.

‘The North British Review duly reached me.  I read attentively all it says about E. Wyndham, Jane Eyre, and F. Hervey.  Much of the article is clever, and yet there are remarks which—for me—rob it of importance.

‘The North British Review finally arrived. I read carefully everything it says about E. Wyndham, Jane Eyre, and F. Hervey. Much of the article is insightful, but there are comments that—for me—diminish its significance.

‘To value praise or stand in awe of blame we must respect the source whence the praise and blame proceed, and I do not respect an inconsistent critic.  He says, “if Jane Eyre be the production of a woman, she must be a woman unsexed.”

‘To appreciate praise or fear criticism, we need to respect where that praise and criticism come from, and I don’t respect an inconsistent critic. He says, “if Jane Eyre is written by a woman, she must be a woman who has lost her femininity.”’

‘In that case the book is an unredeemed error and should be unreservedly condemned.  Jane Eyre is a woman’s autobiography, by a woman it is professedly written.  If it is written as no woman would write, condemn it with spirit and decision—say it is bad, but do not eulogise and then detract.  I am reminded of the Economist.  The literary critic of that paper praised the book if written by a man, and pronounced it “odious” if the work of a woman.

‘In that case, the book is an irredeemable mistake and should be completely condemned. Jane Eyre is a woman’s autobiography, explicitly written by a woman. If it’s written in a way that no woman would write, then condemn it firmly and decisively—call it bad, but don’t praise it and then criticize it. This reminds me of the Economist. The literary critic for that paper praised the book if it was written by a man and called it “odious” if it was the work of a woman.

‘To such critics I would say, “To you I am neither man nor woman—I come before you as an author only.  It is the sole standard by which you have a right to judge me—the sole ground on which I accept your judgment.”

‘To such critics I would say, “To you, I am neither a man nor a woman—I stand before you simply as an author. That is the only standard by which you have the right to judge me—the only basis on which I accept your judgment.”

‘There is a weak comment, having no pretence either to justice p. 347or discrimination, on the works of Ellis and Acton Bell.  The critic did not know that those writers had passed from time and life.  I have read no review since either of my sisters died which I could have wished them to read—none even which did not render the thought of their departure more tolerable to me.  To hear myself praised beyond them was cruel, to hear qualities ascribed to them so strangely the reverse of their real characteristics was scarce supportable.  It is sad even now; but they are so remote from earth, so safe from its turmoils, I can bear it better.

‘There’s a weak comment that shows no pretense of justice or fairness regarding the works of Ellis and Acton Bell. The critic didn’t realize that those writers had passed away. I haven’t read a review since my sisters died that I would want them to see—none that didn’t make me feel their loss more acutely. It was cruel to hear myself praised more than them and even harder to hear qualities attributed to them that were so completely opposite to who they really were. It’s still sad, but they are so far removed from this world, so safe from its chaos, that I can cope with it better.

‘But on one point do I now feel vulnerable: I should grieve to see my father’s peace of mind perturbed on my account; for which reason I keep my author’s existence as much as possible out of his way.  I have always given him a carefully diluted and modified account of the success of Jane Eyre—just what would please without startling him.  The book is not mentioned between us once a month.  The Quarterly I kept to myself—it would have worried papa.  To that same Quarterly I must speak in the introduction to my present work—just one little word.  You once, I remember, said that review was written by a lady—Miss Rigby.  Are you sure of this?

‘But there’s one thing that makes me feel vulnerable: I would be saddened to see my father’s peace of mind disturbed because of me; that’s why I try to keep my writing out of his sight as much as I can. I’ve always given him a carefully toned-down version of how Jane Eyre is doing—just enough to make him happy without surprising him. We don’t mention the book between us more than once a month. I kept the Quarterly to myself—it would have upset Dad. In the introduction to my current work, I need to mention that same Quarterly—just a little word. I remember you once said that review was written by a lady—Miss Rigby. Are you sure about that?

‘Give no hint of my intention of discoursing a little with the Quarterly.  It would look too important to speak of it beforehand.  All plans are best conceived and executed without noise.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Don’t give any indication of my intention to discuss a bit with the Quarterly. It would seem too significant to mention it beforehand. All plans are best thought out and carried out quietly.—Trust me, yours sincerely,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘August 21st, 1849.

‘August 21st, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I can only write very briefly at present—first to thank you for your interesting letter and the graphic description it contained of the neighbourhood where you have been staying, and then to decide about the title of the book.

Dear Sir,—I can only write very briefly for now—first to thank you for your fascinating letter and the vivid description it included of the area where you’ve been staying, and then to discuss the title of the book.

‘If I remember rightly, my Cornhill critics objected to Hollow’s Mill, nor do I now find it appropriate.  It might rather be called Fieldhead, though I think Shirley would perhaps p. 348be the best title.  Shirley, I fancy, has turned out the most prominent and peculiar character in the work.

‘If I remember correctly, my critics from Cornhill disliked Hollow’s Mill, and I don’t think it fits now either. It could be more accurately named Fieldhead, but I believe Shirley would probably be the best title. I think Shirley has emerged as the most notable and unique character in the story. p. 348

‘Cornhill may decide between Fieldhead and Shirley.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Cornhill may choose between Fieldhead and Shirley.—Trust me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘About three years ago I received a small volume of ‘Poems by Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell,’ and a queer little note by Currer, who said the book had been published a year, and just two copies sold, so they were to burn the rest, but distributed a few copies, mine being one.  I find what seems rather a fair review of that tiny tome in the Spectator of this week; pray look at it.

About three years ago, I received a small book titled ‘Poems by Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell’ along with a quirky note from Currer. The note mentioned that the book had been out for a year, only two copies had sold, and they were planning to burn the rest but decided to send out a few copies, mine being one of them. I found what seems like a pretty decent review of that little book in this week's Spectator; you should take a look.

‘I think the poems of Currer much better than those of Acton and Ellis, and believe his novel is vastly better than those which they have more recently put forth.

I think Currer’s poems are much better than those of Acton and Ellis, and I believe his novel outshines the ones they've recently published.

p. 349‘I know nothing of the writers, but the common rumour is that they are brothers of the weaving order in some Lancashire town.  At first it was generally said Currer was a lady, and Mayfair circumstantialised by making her the chère amie of Mr. Thackeray.  But your skill in “dress” settles the question of sex.  I think, however, some woman must have assisted in the school scenes of Jane Eyre, which have a striking air of truthfulness to me—an ignoramus, I allow, on such points.

p. 349I don’t know much about the authors, but the common belief is that they are brothers from the weaving industry in some town in Lancashire. Initially, there was a widespread notion that Currer was a woman, and Mayfair added to that by claiming she was Mr. Thackeray’s lover. However, your knack for “dress” makes their gender clear. Still, I think a woman must have helped with the school scenes in Jane Eyre, which seem very realistic to me—though I admit I'm no expert on these things.

‘I should say you might as well glance at the novels by Acton and Ellis Bell—Wuthering Heights is one of them.  If you have any friend about Manchester, it would, I suppose, be easy to learn accurately as to the position of these men.’  [349]

I recommend you check out the novels by Acton and Ellis Bell—Wuthering Heights is one of them. If you have any friends in Manchester, it should be easy to find out more about these authors.

[349]

‘We do not hesitate to say that the tone of mind and thought which has overthrown authority, and violated every code, human and divine, abroad, and fostered chartism and rebellion at home, is the same which has also written Jane Eyre.’

“We firmly believe that the mindset and ideas that have challenged authority and violated every human and divine law across the globe, and have sparked chartism and rebellion at home, are the same ones that brought about Jane Eyre.”

‘No woman trusses game, and garnishes dessert dishes with the same hands, or talks of so doing in the same breath.  Above all, no woman attires another in such fancy dresses as Jane’s ladies assume.  Miss Ingram coming down irresistible in a morning robe of sky-blue crape, a gauze azure scarf twisted in her hair!!  No lady, we understand, when suddenly roused in the night, would think of hurrying on “a frock.”  They have garments more convenient for such occasions, and more becoming too.’

No woman trusses game and serves dessert with the same hands, or even mentions doing both in the same breath. Most importantly, no woman dresses another in the elegant clothes that Jane’s ladies wear. Miss Ingram comes down irresistibly in a morning robe of sky-blue crêpe, with a delicate blue scarf twisted in her hair!! No lady, we understand, would suddenly think of putting on “a dress” if she were awakened in the middle of the night. They have outfits that are more suitable for such moments, and that look better too.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘August 29th, 1849.

‘August 29th, 1849.

‘Dear Sir,—The book is now finished (thank God) and ready for Mr. Taylor, but I have not yet heard from him.  I thought I should be able to tell whether it was equal to Jane Eyre or not, but I find I cannot—it may be better, it may be worse.  I shall be curious to hear your opinion, my own is of no value.  I send the Preface or “Word to the Quarterly” for your perusal.

Dear Sir,—The book is finally finished (thank goodness) and ready for Mr. Taylor, but I haven’t heard from him yet. I thought I would know if it measures up to Jane Eyre, but I can't—I’m not sure if it’s better or worse. I’m eager to hear what you think; my opinion doesn’t really matter. I'm sending you the Preface or “Word to the Quarterly” for you to read.

‘Whatever now becomes of the work, the occupation of writing it has been a boon to me.  It took me out of dark and desolate reality into an unreal but happier region.  The worst of it is, my eyes are grown somewhat weak and my head somewhat weary and prone to ache with close work.  You can write nothing of value unless you give yourself wholly to the theme, and when you so give yourself, you lose appetite and sleep—it cannot be helped.

‘Regardless of what happens with the work, writing it has been a blessing for me. It pulled me out of a dark and dreary reality into a happier, albeit unreal, place. The downside is that my eyes have become a bit weak, and my head often gets tired and aches from too much focus. You can't create anything worthwhile unless you fully immerse yourself in the subject, and when you do, you lose your appetite and sleep—it’s unavoidable.

‘At what time does Mr. Smith intend to bring the book out?  It is his now.  I hand it and all the trouble and care and anxiety over to him—a good riddance, only I wish he fairly had it.—Yours sincerely,

‘When does Mr. Smith plan to publish the book? It's his now. I’m handing it over along with all the trouble, care, and anxiety—good riddance, though I only wish he really had it.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘August 31st, 1849.

‘August 31st, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I cannot change my preface.  I can shed no tears before the public, nor utter any groan in the public ear.  The deep, real tragedy of our domestic experience is yet terribly fresh in my mind and memory.  It is not a time to be talked about to the indifferent; it is not a topic for allusion to in print.

Dear Sir,—I can't change my introduction. I can’t show any tears to the public or make any complaints for everyone to hear. The deep, real tragedy of our home life is still painfully fresh in my mind. This isn't the time to discuss it with those who don’t care; it’s not something to mention in print.

‘No righteous indignation can I lavish on the Quarterly.  I p. 352can condescend but to touch it with the lightest satire.  Believe me, my dear sir, “C. Brontë” must not here appear; what she feels or has felt is not the question—it is “Currer Bell” who was insulted—he must reply.  Let Mr. Smith fearlessly print the preface I have sent—let him depend upon me this once; even if I prove a broken reed, his fall cannot be dangerous: a preface is a short distance, it is not three volumes.

‘I can’t direct any righteous indignation at the Quarterly. I can only approach it with a touch of satire. Believe me, my dear sir, “C. Brontë” should not appear here; what she feels or has felt is not the issue—it is “Currer Bell” who has been insulted—he must respond. Let Mr. Smith boldly publish the preface I’ve sent—he can count on me this time; even if I turn out to be unreliable, his downfall won’t be serious: a preface is brief, it’s not three volumes.

‘I have always felt certain that it is a deplorable error in an author to assume the tragic tone in addressing the public about his own wrongs or griefs.  What does the public care about him as an individual?  His wrongs are its sport; his griefs would be a bore.  What we deeply feel is our own—we must keep it to ourselves.  Ellis and Acton Bell were, for me, Emily and Anne; my sisters—to me intimately near, tenderly dear—to the public they were nothing—worse than nothing—beings speculated upon, misunderstood, misrepresented.  If I live, the hour may come when the spirit will move me to speak of them, but it is not come yet.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘I’ve always felt it’s a terrible mistake for an author to adopt a tragic tone when speaking to the public about their personal wrongs or sorrows. What does the public care about him as an individual? His problems are entertainment for them; his sorrows would bore them. What we truly feel is our own—we need to keep it private. Ellis and Acton Bell were, for me, Emily and Anne; my sisters—intimately close and dearly beloved to me—but to the public, they were nothing—worse than nothing—just subjects for speculation, misunderstood and misrepresented. If I live, there may come a time when I feel inspired to speak of them, but that time hasn’t come yet.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 17, 1849.

‘September 17th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—Your letter gave me great pleasure.  An author who has showed his book to none, held no consultation about plan, subject, characters, or incidents, asked and had no opinion from one living being, but fabricated it darkly in the silent workshop of his own brain—such an author awaits with a singular feeling the report of the first impression produced by his creation in a quarter where he places confidence, and truly glad he is when that report proves favourable.

My dear Sir,—Your letter made me very happy. An author who hasn’t shown his book to anyone, hasn’t discussed the plan, characters, or events, hasn’t sought opinions from anyone, but has quietly crafted it in the hidden workshop of his own mind—such an author experiences a unique feeling while awaiting feedback on the first impression made by his creation from someone he trusts, and he is genuinely happy when that feedback is positive.

‘Do you think this book will tend to strengthen the idea that Currer Bell is a woman, or will it favour a contrary opinion?

‘Do you think this book will support the idea that Currer Bell is a woman, or will it suggest something different?

‘I return the proof-sheets.  Will they print all the French phrases in italics?  I hope not, it makes them look somehow obtrusively conspicuous.

‘I return the proof sheets. Will they print all the French phrases in italics? I hope not; it makes them look strangely obvious.’

p. 353‘I have no time to add more lest I should be too late for the post.—Yours sincerely,

p. 353‘I don't have time to say more, or I'll miss the post.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 10th, 1849.

‘September 10th, 1849.

‘Dear Sir,—Your advice is very good, and yet I cannot follow it: I cannot alter now.  It sounds absurd, but so it is.

'Dear Sir,—Your advice is really good, but I just can't follow it: I can’t change now. It may sound ridiculous, but that's how it is.'

‘The circumstances of Shirley’s being nervous on such a matter may appear incongruous because I fear it is not well managed; otherwise it is perfectly natural.  In such minds, such odd points, such queer unexpected inconsistent weaknesses are found—perhaps there never was an ardent poetic temperament, however healthy, quite without them; but they never communicate them unless forced, they have a suspicion that the terror is absurd, and keep it hidden.  Still the thing is badly managed, and I bend my head and expect in resignation what, here, I know I deserve—the lash of criticism.  I shall wince when it falls, but not scream.

‘Shirley’s nervousness about this issue might seem strange because I don't think it’s handled well; otherwise, it’s completely normal. In people like her, you find these odd quirks, these weird, unexpected inconsistencies—they're common with passionate, creative individuals, no matter how healthy they are; but they usually don’t share them unless they have to. They suspect their fear is silly, so they keep it to themselves. Still, it’s not being handled well, and I lower my head, bracing myself for what I know I deserve here—the sting of criticism. I’ll flinch when it hits, but I won’t shout out.

‘You are right about Goth, you are very right—he is clear, deep, but very cold.  I acknowledge him great, but cannot feel him genial.

‘You’re right about Goth; you’re spot on—he’s clear, deep, but really cold. I recognize that he’s great, but I can’t feel that he’s friendly.’

‘You mention the literary coteries.  To speak the truth, I recoil from them, though I long to see some of the truly great literary characters.  However, this is not to be yet—I cannot sacrifice my incognito.  And let me be content with seclusion—it has its advantages.  In general, indeed, I am tranquil, it is only now and then that a struggle disturbs me—that I wish for a wider world than Haworth.  When it is past, Reason tells me how unfit I am for anything very different.  Yours sincerely,

‘You mention literary circles. Honestly, I steer clear of them, even though I'd love to meet some truly great literary figures. But that can’t happen yet—I can’t give up my anonymity. And I'm okay with being in seclusion—it has its perks. Overall, I'm generally at peace, it's just now and then that I feel the urge for a bigger world than Haworth. Once that feeling passes, reason reminds me how unsuited I am for anything too different. Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 15th, 1849.

‘September 15th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—You observed that the French of Shirley might be cavilled at.  There is a long paragraph written in the French language in that chapter entitled “Le coeval damped.”  I forget the number.  I fear it will have a pretentious air.  If p. 354you deem it advisable, and will return the chapter, I will efface, and substitute something else in English.—Yours sincerely,

My dear Sir,—You mentioned that the French in Shirley might be criticized. There’s a long paragraph written in French in the chapter titled “Le coeval damped.” I can't recall the number. I’m worried it might seem a bit overdone. If p. 354 you think it’s best to change it and send back the chapter, I’ll remove it and replace it with something else in English.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

‘September 20th, 1849.

‘September 20th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—It is time I answered the note which I received from you last Thursday; I should have replied to it before had I not been kept more than usually engaged by the presence of a clergyman in the house, and the indisposition of one of our servants.

‘My dear Sir,—It’s time I answered the note I got from you last Thursday; I would have replied earlier, but I’ve been unusually busy with a clergyman staying at my house and one of our servants being unwell.

‘As you may conjecture, it cheered and pleased me much to learn that the opinion of my friends in Cornhill was favourable to Shirley—that, on the whole, it was considered no falling off from Jane Eyre.  I am trying, however, not to encourage too sanguine an expectation of a favourable reception by the public: the seeds of prejudice have been sown, and I suppose the produce will have to be reaped—but we shall see.

‘As you might guess, I was very happy to hear that my friends at Cornhill had a positive opinion of Shirley—that, overall, it was seen as a solid follow-up to Jane Eyre. I’m trying not to get my hopes up too much about how the public will react: the seeds of prejudice have been planted, and I suppose we’ll have to deal with the consequences—but we shall see.

‘I read with pleasure Friends in Council, and with very great pleasure The Thoughts and Opinions of a Statesman.  It is the record of what may with truth be termed a beautiful mind—serene, harmonious, elevated, and pure; it bespeaks, too, a heart full of kindness and sympathy.  I like it much.

‘I read with pleasure Friends in Council, and with great delight The Thoughts and Opinions of a Statesman. It reflects what can truly be called a beautiful mind—calm, balanced, insightful, and genuine; it also shows a heart full of kindness and compassion. I really like it.

‘Papa has been pretty well during the past week, he begs to join me in kind remembrances to yourself.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours very sincerely,

‘Papa has been doing well this past week, and he asks me to send you his warm regards.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours very sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 29th, 1849.

‘September 29th, 1849.

‘Dear Sir,—I have made the alteration; but I have made it to please Cornhill, not the public nor the critics.

Dear Sir,—I’ve made the change; however, I did it to satisfy Cornhill, not the public or the critics.

‘I am sorry to say Newby does know my real name.  I wish he did not, but that cannot be helped.  Meantime, though I earnestly wish to preserve my incognito, I live under no slavish fear of discovery.  I am ashamed of nothing I have written—not a line.

‘I’m sorry to say Newby knows my real name. I wish he didn't, but there's nothing I can do about it. In the meantime, even though I really want to keep my identity a secret, I’m not terrified of being found out. I'm not ashamed of anything I’ve written—not a single line.’

‘The envelope containing the first proof and your letter had p. 355been received open at the General Post Office and resealed there.  Perhaps it was accident, but I think it better to inform you of the circumstance.—Yours sincerely,

‘The envelope with the first proof and your letter was received open at the General Post Office and was resealed there. Maybe it was just an accident, but I think it's best to let you know about it.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 1st, 1849.

‘October 1st, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I am chagrined about the envelope being opened: I see it is the work of prying curiosity, and now it would be useless to make a stir—what mischief is to be apprehended is already done.  It was not done at Haworth.  I know the people of the post-office there, and am sure they would not venture on such a step; besides, the Haworth people have long since set me down as bookish and quiet, and trouble themselves no farther about me.  But the gossiping inquisitiveness of small towns is rife at Keighley; there they are sadly puzzled to guess why I never visit, encourage no overtures to acquaintance, and always stay at home.  Those packets passing backwards and forwards by the post have doubtless aggravated their curiosity.  Well, I am sorry, but I shall try to wait patiently and not vex myself too much, come what will.

My dear Sir,—I’m upset about the envelope being opened: I can tell it was out of nosy curiosity, and now it’s pointless to make a fuss—whatever trouble might arise has already happened. It didn’t happen at Haworth. I know the people at the post office there, and I’m sure they wouldn’t take such a step; besides, the folks in Haworth have long regarded me as studious and reserved, and they don’t bother with me anymore. But the gossiping curiosity of small towns is alive and well in Keighley; they’re really confused about why I never visit, don’t make attempts to connect, and always stay home. Those packets going back and forth through the post have surely sparked their curiosity even more. Well, I’m sorry, but I’ll try to wait patiently and not let it get to me, whatever happens.

‘I am glad you like the English substitute for the French devour.

‘I’m glad you like the English substitute for the French devour.

‘The parcel of books came on Saturday.  I write to Mr. Taylor by this post to acknowledge its receipt.  His opinion of Shirley seems in a great measure to coincide with yours, only he expresses it rather differently to you, owing to the difference in your casts of mind.  Are you not different on some points?—Yours sincerely,

‘The package of books arrived on Saturday. I’m writing to Mr. Taylor in this post to confirm I received it. His thoughts on Shirley largely align with yours, but he expresses it a bit differently, probably due to the differences in how you both think. Aren't you different in some ways?—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 1st, 1849

‘November 1st, 1849

‘My dear Sir,—I reached home yesterday, and found your letter and one from Mr. Lewes, and one from the Peace Congress Committee, awaiting my arrival.  The last document it is now too late to answer, for it was an invitation to Currer Bell to appear on the platform at their meeting at Exeter Hall last Tuesday!  A wonderful figure Mr. Currer Bell would have cut p. 356under such circumstances!  Should the “Peace Congress” chance to read Shirley they will wash their hands of its author.

My dear Sir,—I got home yesterday and found your letter, along with one from Mr. Lewes and another from the Peace Congress Committee, waiting for me. Unfortunately, it’s too late to respond to the last document because it was an invitation for Currer Bell to speak at their meeting at Exeter Hall last Tuesday! What a striking impression Mr. Currer Bell would have made p. 356 in that situation! If the “Peace Congress” happens to read Shirley, they'll want nothing to do with its author.

‘I am glad to hear that Mr. Thackeray is better, but I did not know he had been seriously ill, I thought it was only a literary indisposition.  You must tell me what he thinks of Shirley if he gives you any opinion on the subject.

‘I’m glad to hear that Mr. Thackeray is better, but I didn’t know he had been seriously ill; I thought it was just a literary setback. You must tell me what he thinks of Shirley if he shares any opinions on it.

‘I am also glad to hear that Mr. Smith is pleased with the commercial prospects of the work.  I try not to be anxious about its literary fate; and if I cannot be quite stoical, I think I am still tolerably resigned.

‘I am also glad to hear that Mr. Smith is pleased with the commercial prospects of the work. I try not to worry about its literary fate; and if I can’t be completely stoic, I still think I'm fairly resigned.

‘Mr. Lewes does not like the opening chapter, wherein he resembles you.

‘Mr. Lewes doesn't like the opening chapter, where he compares you to himself.

‘I have permitted myself the treat of spending the last week with my friend Ellen.  Her residence is in a far more populous and stirring neighbourhood than this.  Whenever I go there I am unavoidably forced into society—clerical society chiefly.

‘I have allowed myself the pleasure of spending the last week with my friend Ellen. Her place is in a much busier and more lively neighborhood than this. Whenever I go there, I can't help but get caught up in socializing—mostly with the clergy.’

‘During my late visit I have too often had reason, sometimes in a pleasant, sometimes in a painful form, to fear that I no longer walk invisible.  Jane Eyre, it appears, has been read all over the district—a fact of which I never dreamt—a circumstance of which the possibility never occurred to me.  I met sometimes with new deference, with augmented kindness: old schoolfellows and old teachers, too, greeted me with generous warmth.  And again, ecclesiastical brows lowered thunder at me.  When I confronted one or two large-made priests, I longed for the battle to come on.  I wish they would speak out plainly.  You must not understand that my schoolfellows and teachers were of the Clergy Daughters School—in fact, I was never there but for one little year as a very little girl.  I am certain I have long been forgotten; though for myself, I remember all and everything clearly: early impressions are ineffaceable.

‘During my recent visit, I often found myself, sometimes pleasantly and sometimes painfully, worrying that I'm no longer in the background. Jane Eyre seems to have been read all over the area—a fact I never imagined—a possibility I never considered. I occasionally encountered new respect and greater kindness: old classmates and former teachers welcomed me warmly. But again, some church leaders looked at me with disapproval. When I faced a couple of hefty priests, I yearned for a confrontation. I wish they would just speak their minds. You shouldn't think that my classmates and teachers were from the Clergy Daughters School—I only attended for a brief year when I was very little. I'm sure I’ve long been forgotten; however, I clearly remember everything: early experiences are unforgettable.

‘I have just received the Daily News.  Let me speak the truth—when I read it my heart sickened over it.  It is not a good review, it is unutterably false.  If Shirley strikes all readers as it has struck that one, but—I shall not say what follows.

‘I have just received the Daily News. Let me be honest—when I read it, I felt sick. It’s not a good review; it’s completely dishonest. If Shirley affects all readers the way it affected that one, but—I won’t say what comes next.’

‘On the whole I am glad a decidedly bad notice has come first—a notice whose inexpressible ignorance first stuns and p. 357then stirs me.  Are there no such men as the Helstones and Yorkes?

‘Overall, I’m actually glad a really negative review appeared first—a review so shockingly ignorant that it first leaves me speechless and then gets me fired up. Do men like the Helstones and Yorkes not exist?

‘Yes, there are.

‘Yes, they do.

‘Is the first chapter disgusting or vulgar?

‘Is the first chapter gross or inappropriate?

‘It is not, it is real.

‘It is not, it is real.

‘As for the praise of such a critic, I find it silly and nauseous, and I scorn it.

‘As for the praise from that critic, I think it's ridiculous and sickening, and I look down on it.

‘Were my sisters now alive they and I would laugh over this notice; but they sleep, they will wake no more for me, and I am a fool to be so moved by what is not worth a sigh.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘If my sisters were still alive, we would laugh about this notice together; but they are gone, and they won’t wake up for me again, and it’s foolish of me to be so affected by something that isn’t worth even a sigh.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘You must spare me if I seem hasty, I fear I really am not so firm as I used to be, nor so patient.  Whenever any shock comes, I feel that almost all supports have been withdrawn.’

‘You have to excuse me if I come off as impatient; I'm afraid I'm not as strong as I once was, nor as patient. Anytime something upsetting happens, I feel like almost all support has been taken away.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 5th, 1849.

‘November 5th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I did not receive the parcel of copies till Saturday evening.  Everything sent by Bradford is long in reaching me.  It is, I think, better to direct: Keighley.  I was very much pleased with the appearance and getting up of the book; it looks well.

'My dear Sir,—I didn’t get the parcel of copies until Saturday evening. Everything sent by Bradford takes a while to reach me. I think it’s better to address it to: Keighley. I was very pleased with how the book looks and its overall presentation; it looks great.'

‘I have got the Examiner and your letter.  You are very good not to be angry with me, for I wrote in indignation and grief.  The critic of the Daily News struck me as to the last degree incompetent, ignorant, and flippant.  A thrill of mutiny went all through me when I read his small effusion.  To be judged by such a one revolted me.  I ought, however, to have controlled myself, and I did not.  I am willing to be judged by the Examiner—I like the Examiner.  Fonblanque has power, he has discernment—I bend to his censorship, I am grateful for his praise; his blame deserves consideration; when he approves, I permit myself a moderate emotion of pride.  Am I wrong in supposing that critique to be written by Mr. Fonblanque?  But whether it is by him or Forster, I am thankful.

‘I’ve received the Examiner and your letter. You are very kind not to be upset with me, even though I wrote out of anger and sadness. The critic from the Daily News struck me as utterly incompetent, clueless, and dismissive. I felt a surge of rebellion when I read his brief piece. Being judged by someone like that disgusted me. I should have kept my composure, but I didn’t. I’m fine being judged by the Examiner—I actually like the Examiner. Fonblanque has insight; I respect his feedback, and I’m grateful for his praise. His criticism is worth considering; when he approves, I allow myself a bit of pride. Am I wrong to think that critique was written by Mr. Fonblanque? Regardless of whether it’s him or Forster, I appreciate it.’

‘In reading the critiques of the other papers—when I get them—I will try to follow your advice and preserve my p. 358equanimity.  But I cannot be sure of doing this, for I had good resolutions and intentions before, and, you see, I failed.

‘In reading the critiques from other papers—when I get them—I will try to follow your advice and maintain my p. 358composure. But I can't guarantee that I'll succeed because I had good intentions before, and, well, I failed.

‘You ask me if I am related to Nelson.  No, I never heard that I was.  The rumour must have originated in our name resembling his title.  I wonder who that former schoolfellow of mine was that told Mr. Lewes, or how she had been enabled to identify Currer Bell with C. Brontë.  She could not have been a Cowan Bridge girl, none of them can possibly remember me.  They might remember my eldest sister, Maria; her prematurely-developed and remarkable intellect, as well as the mildness, wisdom, and fortitude of her character might have left an indelible impression on some observant mind amongst her companions.  My second sister, Elizabeth, too, may perhaps be remembered, but I cannot conceive that I left a trace behind me.  My career was a very quiet one.  I was plodding and industrious, perhaps I was very grave, for I suffered to see my sisters perishing, but I think I was remarkable for nothing.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘You ask me if I'm related to Nelson. No, I've never heard that I am. The rumor must have started because our name is similar to his title. I wonder who that former schoolmate of mine was who told Mr. Lewes, or how she figured out that Currer Bell was C. Brontë. She couldn't have been a Cowan Bridge girl; none of them could possibly remember me. They might remember my oldest sister, Maria; her early-developed and impressive intellect, along with her gentle wisdom and strength of character, might have left a lasting impression on some observant person among her peers. My second sister, Elizabeth, might also be remembered, but I can't imagine that I left any mark. My life was very uneventful. I was hard-working and diligent; perhaps I seemed quite serious since I was struggling to see my sisters suffer, but I don't believe I was notable for anything.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 15th, 1849.

‘November 15th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I have received since I wrote last the Globe, Standard of Freedom, Britannia, Economist, and Weekly Chronicle.

My dear Sir,—I have received since my last letter the Globe, Standard of Freedom, Britannia, Economist, and Weekly Chronicle.

‘How is Shirley getting on, and what is now the general feeling respecting the work?

‘How is Shirley doing, and what’s the general feeling about the work now?

‘As far as I can judge from the tone of the newspapers, it seems that those who were most charmed with Jane Eyre are the least pleased with Shirley; they are disappointed at not finding the same excitement, interest, stimulus; while those who spoke disparagingly of Jane Eyre like Shirley a little better than her predecessor.  I suppose its dryer matter suits their dryer minds.  But I feel that the fiat for which I wait does not depend on newspapers, except, indeed, such newspapers as the Examiner.  The monthlies and quarterlies will pronounce it, I suppose.  Mere novel-readers, it is evident, think Shirley something of a failure.  Still, the majority of the notices have on the p. 359whole been favourable.  That in the Standard of Freedom was very kindly expressed; and coming from a dissenter, William Howitt, I wonder thereat.

‘From what I can gather from the newspapers, it looks like those who loved Jane Eyre are the least impressed with Shirley; they’re disappointed that it doesn’t have the same excitement, interest, or engagement. Meanwhile, those who weren’t fans of Jane Eyre seem to prefer Shirley a bit more than its predecessor. I guess its drier content suits their drier tastes. But I believe the judgment I’m waiting for doesn’t rely on newspapers, except for ones like the Examiner. I assume the monthlies and quarterlies will have their say. It’s clear that casual novel-readers think Shirley is somewhat of a letdown. Still, most of the reviews have been positive overall. The one in the Standard of Freedom was very kindly written; coming from a dissenter like William Howitt, I found that surprising.’

‘Are you satisfied at Cornhill, or the contrary?  I have read part of The Caxtons, and, when I have finished, will tell you what I think of it; meantime, I should very much like to hear your opinion.  Perhaps I shall keep mine till I see you, whenever that may be.

‘Are you happy at Cornhill, or the opposite? I’ve read part of The Caxtons, and when I finish it, I’ll let you know what I think; in the meantime, I would really like to hear your thoughts. Maybe I’ll hold onto mine until I see you, whenever that may be.

‘I am trying by degrees to inure myself to the thought of some day stepping over to Keighley, taking the train to Leeds, thence to London, and once more venturing to set foot in the strange, busy whirl of the Strand and Cornhill.  I want to talk to you a little and to hear by word of mouth how matters are progressing.  Whenever I come, I must come quietly and but for a short time—I should be unhappy to leave papa longer than a fortnight.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I am gradually getting used to the idea of someday heading over to Keighley, catching a train to Leeds, then to London, and once again stepping into the bustling chaos of the Strand and Cornhill. I want to chat with you a bit and hear in person how things are going. Whenever I do come, I must do so quietly and only for a short time—I would feel uneasy leaving Dad for more than a fortnight.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 22nd, 1849.

‘November 22nd, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—If it is discouraging to an author to see his work mouthed over by the entirely ignorant and incompetent, it is equally reviving to hear what you have written discussed and analysed by a critic who is master of his subject—by one whose heart feels, whose powers grasp the matter he undertakes to handle.  Such refreshment Eugène Forçade has given me.  Were I to see that man, my impulse would be to say, “Monsieur, you know me, I shall deem it an honour to know you.”

‘My dear Sir,—If it's discouraging for an author to watch their work misinterpreted by the completely ignorant and incompetent, it’s equally uplifting to hear your writing discussed and analyzed by a critic who truly understands the subject—someone whose heart feels and whose skills grasp the material they're tackling. Eugène Forçade has provided me with such uplift. If I were to meet that man, my instinct would be to say, “Sir, you know me, and I would consider it an honor to know you.”’

‘I do not find that Forçade detects any coarseness in the work—it is for the smaller critics to find that out.  The master in the art—the subtle-thoughted, keen-eyed, quick-feeling Frenchman, knows the true nature of the ingredients which went to the composition of the creation he analyses—he knows the true nature of things, and he gives them their right name.

‘I don’t see that Forçade notices any roughness in the work—it’s up to the lesser critics to point that out. The master of the art—the perceptive, observant, sensitive Frenchman—understands the true nature of the elements that made up the piece he analyzes—he knows the essence of things, and he names them correctly.

‘Yours of yesterday has just reached me.  Let me, in the first place, express my sincere sympathy with your anxiety on Mrs. Williams’s account.  I know how sad it is when pain and suffering attack those we love, when that mournful guest p. 360sickness comes and takes a place in the household circle.  That the shadow may soon leave your home is my earnest hope.

‘Your letter from yesterday just arrived. First of all, I want to express my heartfelt sympathy for your worries about Mrs. Williams. I understand how heartbreaking it is when pain and suffering affect those we care about when that unwelcome visitor p. 360 sickness comes and takes its place in the family. I sincerely hope the shadow soon departs from your home.

‘Thank you for Sir J. Herschel’s note.  I am happy to hear Mr. Taylor is convalescent.  It may, perhaps, be some weeks yet before his hand is well, but that his general health is in the way of re-establishment is a matter of thankfulness.

‘Thank you for Sir J. Herschel’s note. I’m glad to hear that Mr. Taylor is recovering. It might still take a few weeks for his hand to heal, but it’s certainly a relief that his overall health is improving.

‘One of the letters you sent to-day addressed “Currer Bell” has almost startled me.  The writer first describes his family, and then proceeds to give a particular account of himself in colours the most candid, if not, to my ideas, the most attractive.  He runs on in a strain of wild enthusiasm about Shirley, and concludes by announcing a fixed, deliberate resolution to institute a search after Currer Bell, and sooner or later to find him out.  There is power in the letter—talent; it is at times eloquently expressed.  The writer somewhat boastfully intimates that he is acknowledged the possessor of high intellectual attainments, but, if I mistake not, he betrays a temper to be shunned, habits to be mistrusted.  While laying claim to the character of being affectionate, warm-hearted, and adhesive, there is but a single member of his own family of whom he speaks with kindness.  He confesses himself indolent and wilful, but asserts that he is studious and, to some influences, docile.  This letter would have struck me no more than the others rather like it have done, but for its rash power, and the disagreeable resolve it announces to seek and find Currer Bell.  It almost makes me feel like a wizard who has raised a spirit he may find it difficult to lay.  But I shall not think about it.  This sort of fervour often foams itself away in words.

‘One of the letters you sent today addressed to “Currer Bell” really took me by surprise. The writer starts by describing his family and then goes on to give a very honest, if not particularly charming, account of himself. He rambles on with wild enthusiasm about Shirley and ends by declaring his firm intention to track down Currer Bell and eventually discover who he is. There's power in the letter—talent; at times, it’s expressed quite eloquently. The writer somewhat boastfully suggests that he has impressive intellectual abilities, but I think he reveals a temperament to avoid, along with some habits that seem untrustworthy. While claiming to be affectionate, warm-hearted, and loyal, he only speaks kindly of a single member of his family. He admits to being lazy and stubborn but insists he is also studious and somewhat compliant to certain influences. This letter would have struck me like the others that are similar, but its boldness and the unpleasant decision to seek and find Currer Bell makes it stand out. It almost makes me feel like a wizard who has summoned a spirit he might struggle to banish. But I won’t dwell on it. This kind of fervor often fizzles out in words.’

‘Trusting that the serenity of your home is by this time restored with your wife’s health,—I am, yours sincerely,

‘Hoping that the peace of your home has been restored now that your wife is better,—I am, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘February 16th, 1850.

‘February 16th, 1850.

‘Dear Nell,—Yesterday, just after dinner, I heard a loud bustling voice in the kitchen demanding to see Mr. Brontë.  Somebody was shown into the parlour.  Shortly after, wine was p. 361rung for.  “Who is it, Martha?” I asked.  “Some mak of a tradesman,” said she.  “He’s not a gentleman, I’m sure.”  The personage stayed about an hour, talking in a loud vulgar key all the time.  At tea-time I asked papa who it was.  “Why,” said he, “no other than the vicar of B---!” [361]  Papa had invited him to take some refreshment, but the creature had ordered his dinner at the Black Bull, and was quite urgent with papa to go down there and join him, offering by way of inducement a bottle, or, if papa liked, “two or three bottles of the best wine Haworth could afford!”  He said he was come from Bradford just to look at the place, and reckoned to be in raptures with the wild scenery!  He warmly pressed papa to come and see him, and to bring his daughter with him!!!  Does he know anything about the books, do you think; he made no allusion to them.  I did not see him, not so much as the tail of his coat.  Martha said he looked no more like a parson than she did.  Papa described him as rather shabby-looking, but said he was wondrous cordial and friendly.  Papa, in his usual fashion, put him through a regular catechism of questions: what his living was worth, etc., etc.  In answer to inquiries respecting his age he affirmed himself to be thirty-seven—is not this a lie?  He must be more.  Papa asked him if he were married.  He said no, he had no thoughts of being married, he did not like the trouble of a wife.  He described himself as “living in style, and keeping a very hospitable house.”

Dear Nell,—Yesterday, right after dinner, I heard a loud, bustling voice in the kitchen asking to see Mr. Brontë. Someone was taken into the parlor. Soon after, wine was p. 361called for. “Who is it, Martha?” I asked. “Some kind of tradesman,” she replied. “He’s definitely not a gentleman.” The person stayed for about an hour, talking loudly and rudely the whole time. At tea, I asked Papa who it was. “Well,” he said, “it’s none other than the vicar of B---!” __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ Papa had invited him to have a drink, but the guy had ordered dinner at the Black Bull and was very insistent that Papa go down there and join him, promising, as an incentive, a bottle—or, if Papa preferred, “two or three bottles of the best wine Haworth could offer!” He claimed he came from Bradford just to check out the place and expected to be thrilled by the wild scenery! He urged Papa to come and visit him, and to bring his daughter along!!! Do you think he knows anything about the books? He didn’t mention them at all. I didn’t see him, not even a glimpse of his coat. Martha said he looked nothing like a clergyman. Papa described him as rather shabby but said he was very warm and friendly. As usual, Papa grilled him with a series of questions: what his living was worth, and so on. When asked about his age, he claimed to be thirty-seven— isn’t that a lie? He must be older. Papa asked if he was married. He said no, he wasn’t thinking about getting married, he didn’t want the hassle of a wife. He portrayed himself as “living in style and keeping a very hospitable house.”

‘Dear Nell, I have written you a long letter; write me a long one in answer.

‘Dear Nell, I’ve written you a long letter; please write me a long one in response.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘April 3rd, 1850.

‘April 3rd, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I have received the Dublin Review, and your letter inclosing the Indian Notices.  I hope these reviews will do good; they are all favourable, and one of them (the Dublin) is very able.  I have read no critique so discriminating since that in the Revue des deux Mondes.  It offers a curious contrast to Lewes’s in the Edinburgh, where forced praise, given by p. 362jerks, and obviously without real and cordial liking, and censure, crude, conceited, and ignorant, were mixed in random lumps—forming a very loose and inconsistent whole.

Dear Sir,—I’ve received the Dublin Review and your letter that included the Indian Notices. I hope these reviews will be helpful; they are all positive, and one of them (the Dublin) is very insightful. I haven't read any critique as thoughtful since the one in the Revue des deux Mondes. It presents a striking contrast to Lewes’s review in the Edinburgh, where the forced praise came across as awkward and clearly not genuine, mixed with criticism that was rough, arrogant, and misinformed, creating a very loose and inconsistent overall impression.

‘Are you aware whether there are any grounds for that conjecture in the Bengal Hurkaru, that the critique in the Times was from the pen of Mr. Thackeray?  I should much like to know this.  If such were the case (and I feel as if it were by no means impossible), the circumstance would open a most curious and novel glimpse of a very peculiar disposition.  Do you think it likely to be true?

‘Do you know if there’s any reason to believe that the suggestion in the Bengal Hurkaru that the critique in the Times was written by Mr. Thackeray? I would really like to find out. If that were true (and I feel like it’s not impossible), it would give us an interesting and new insight into a very unique personality. Do you think it could be true?

‘The account you give of Mrs. Williams’s health is not cheering, but I should think her indisposition is partly owing to the variable weather; at least, if you have had the same keen frost and cold east winds in London, from which we have lately suffered in Yorkshire.  I trust the milder temperature we are now enjoying may quickly confirm her convalescence.  With kind regards to Mrs. Williams,—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘The update you provided about Mrs. Williams's health isn’t very encouraging, but I think her illness might be partly due to the changing weather; at least, if you've experienced the same sharp frost and cold east winds in London that we've recently faced in Yorkshire. I hope the milder weather we’re currently enjoying will help her recover quickly. Please send my best wishes to Mrs. Williams. Sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘April 25th, 1850.

‘April 25th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I cannot let the post go without thanking Mr. Smith through you for the kind reply to Greenwood’s application; and, I am sure, both you and he would feel true pleasure could you see the delight and hope with which these liberal terms have inspired a good and intelligent though poor man.  He thinks he now sees a prospect of getting his livelihood by a method which will suit him better than wool-combing work has hitherto done, exercising more of his faculties and sparing his health.  He will do his best, I am sure, to extend the sale of the cheap edition of Jane Eyre; and whatever twinges I may still feel at the thought of that work being in the possession of all the worthy folk of Haworth and Keighley, such scruples are more than counterbalanced by the attendant good;—I mean, by the assistance it will give a man who deserves assistance.  I wish he could permanently establish a little bookselling business in Haworth: it would benefit the place as well as himself.

My dear Sir,—I can’t let this chance go by without thanking Mr. Smith through you for the kind response to Greenwood’s application; and I know that both you and he would feel genuine joy if you could see the delight and hope these generous terms have sparked in a good, intelligent, yet poor man. He believes he now has a chance to earn a living in a way that suits him better than wool-combing ever did, using more of his skills and taking care of his health. I’m sure he will do his best to promote the inexpensive edition of Jane Eyre; and while I may still feel a little uneasy about that work being available to all the decent people of Haworth and Keighley, those worries are outweighed by the good it will do—specifically, the help it will provide to a man who truly deserves it. I wish he could set up a small bookselling business in Haworth for good; it would be beneficial for both the town and himself.

p. 363‘Thank you for the Leader, which I read with pleasure.  The notice of Newman’s work in a late number was very good.—Believe me, my dear sir, in haste, yours sincerely,

p. 363“Thank you for the Leader; I enjoyed reading it. The review of Newman’s work in a recent edition was excellent. —Believe me, my dear sir, I’m writing in a hurry, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘May 6th, 1850.

‘May 6th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I have received the copy of Jane Eyre.  To me the printing and paper seem very tolerable.  Will not the public in general be of the same opinion?  And are you not making yourselves causelessly uneasy on the subject?

My dear Sir,—I've received the copy of Jane Eyre. The printing and paper seem pretty decent to me. Don't you think the public will feel the same way? And aren't you making yourselves unnecessarily worried about it?

‘I imagine few will discover the defects of typography unless they are pointed out.  There are, no doubt, technical faults and perfections in the art of printing to which printers and publishers ascribe a greater importance than the majority of readers.

‘I imagine few will notice the flaws in typography unless someone points them out. There are definitely technical issues and strengths in the art of printing that printers and publishers consider more important than most readers do.

‘I will mention Mr. Smith’s proposal respecting the cheap publications to Greenwood.  I believe him to be a man on whom encouragement is not likely to be thrown away, and who, if fortune should not prove quite adverse, will contrive to effect something by dint of intelligence and perseverance.

‘I will bring up Mr. Smith’s proposal regarding the affordable publications to Greenwood. I believe he is someone who won’t waste encouragement, and who, if luck isn’t too unfavorable, will manage to achieve something through intelligence and determination.

‘I am sorry to say my father has been far from well lately—the cold weather has tried him severely; and, till I see him better, my intended journey to town must be deferred.  With sincere regards to yourself and other Cornhill friends,—I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘I’m sorry to say my father hasn’t been well lately—the cold weather has really taken a toll on him; and until I see him feeling better, I’ll have to postpone my planned trip to town. With warm regards to you and the other friends in Cornhill,—I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 5th, 1850.

‘September 5th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I trust your suggestion for Miss Kavanagh’s benefit will have all success.  It seems to me truly felicitous and excellent, and, I doubt not, she will think so too.  The last class of female character will be difficult to manage: there will be nice points in it—yet, well-managed, both an attractive and instructive book might result therefrom.  One thing may be depended upon in the execution of this plan.  Miss Kavanagh will commit no error, either of taste, judgment, or principle; and even when she deals with the feelings, I would rather p. 364follow the calm course of her quiet pen than the flourishes of a more redundant one where there is not strength to restrain as well as ardour to impel.

My dear Sir,—I hope your suggestion for Miss Kavanagh’s benefit will be very successful. It seems truly wonderful and excellent to me, and I’m sure she will feel the same. The last type of female character will be tough to handle; there will be subtle issues involved—but with proper management, it could lead to both an engaging and educational book. One thing can be counted on in the implementation of this plan. Miss Kavanagh will make no mistakes, whether in taste, judgment, or principle; and even when she engages with emotions, I would rather follow the steady flow of her thoughtful writing than the flashy style of a more excessive writer where there is not enough strength to control as well as enthusiasm to drive. p. 364

‘I fear I seemed to you to speak coolly of the beauty of the Lake scenery.  The truth is, it was, as scenery, exquisite—far beyond anything I saw in Scotland; but it did not give me half so much pleasure, because I saw it under less congenial auspices.  Mr. Smith and Sir J. K. Shuttleworth are two different people with whom to travel.  I need say nothing of the former—you know him.  The latter offers me his friendship, and I do my best to be grateful for the gift; but his is a nature with which it is difficult to assimilate—and where there is no assimilation, how can there be real regard?  Nine parts out of ten in him are utilitarian—the tenth is artistic.  This tithe of his nature seems to me at war with all the rest—it is just enough to incline him restlessly towards the artist class, and far too little to make him one of them.  The consequent inability to do things which he admires, embitters him I think—it makes him doubt perfections and dwell on faults.  Then his notice or presence scarcely tend to set one at ease or make one happy: he is worldly and formal.  But I must stop—have I already said too much?  I think not, for you will feel it is said in confidence and will not repeat it.

‘I fear I may have seemed to you to talk casually about the beauty of the Lake scenery. The truth is, it was, as scenery, stunning—far beyond anything I saw in Scotland; but it didn’t give me nearly as much joy because I experienced it under less favorable circumstances. Mr. Smith and Sir J. K. Shuttleworth are two very different people to travel with. I don’t need to say anything about the former—you know him. The latter offers me his friendship, and I do my best to appreciate the gift; but his personality is one that’s hard to connect with—and where there’s no connection, how can there be genuine affection? Nine out of ten parts of him are practical—the last part is artistic. This small portion of his nature seems to conflict with the rest—it’s just enough to make him restlessly drawn to the artist crowd, yet far too little to actually make him one of them. Consequently, his inability to do things that he admires seems to embitter him, I think—it makes him question perfection and focus on flaws. Plus, his attention or presence rarely makes one feel relaxed or happy: he is very worldly and formal. But I should stop—have I already said too much? I think not, because you’ll realize this is said in confidence and won’t share it.’

‘The article in the Palladium is indeed such as to atone for a hundred unfavourable or imbecile reviews.  I have expressed what I think of it to Mr. Taylor, who kindly wrote me a letter on the subject.  I thank you also for the newspaper notices, and for some you sent me a few weeks ago.

‘The article in the Palladium really makes up for a hundred negative or foolish reviews. I’ve shared my thoughts on it with Mr. Taylor, who kindly wrote me a letter about it. I also appreciate the newspaper mentions and some you sent me a few weeks ago.

‘I should much like to carry out your suggestions respecting a reprint of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey in one volume, with a prefatory and explanatory notice of the authors; but the question occurs, Would Newby claim it?  I could not bear to commit it to any other hands than those of Mr. Smith.  Wildfell Hall, it hardly appears to me desirable to preserve.  The choice of subject in that work is a mistake: it was too little consonant with the character, tastes, and ideas of the gentle, retiring, inexperienced writer.  She wrote it under p. 365a strange, conscientious, half-ascetic notion of accomplishing a painful penance and a severe duty.  Blameless in deed and almost in thought, there was from her very childhood a tinge of religious melancholy in her mind.  This I ever suspected, and I have found amongst her papers mournful proofs that such was the case.  As to additional compositions, I think there would be none, as I would not offer a line to the publication of which my sisters themselves would have objected.

‘I would really like to go ahead with your suggestions about reprinting Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey in one volume, with an introduction and explanations about the authors; but the question is, would Newby claim it? I couldn’t stand to hand it over to anyone other than Mr. Smith. As for Wildfell Hall, I don’t find it worthwhile to preserve. The choice of subject in that work is a mistake: it doesn’t align at all with the character, tastes, and ideas of the gentle, shy, inexperienced writer. She wrote it under a strange, conscientious, half-ascetic notion of performing a painful penance and fulfilling a severe duty. Virtuous in action and nearly in thought, there was from her very childhood a hint of religious melancholy in her mind. I always suspected this, and I have found among her papers sorrowful evidence that it was true. As for any additional writings, I believe there would be none, as I would not submit anything that my sisters themselves would have opposed.

‘I must conclude or I shall be too late for the post.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I need to wrap this up or I'll miss the post. —Trust me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 13th, 1850.

‘September 13th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—Mr. Newby undertook first to print 350 copies of Wuthering Heights, but he afterwards declared he had only printed 250.  I doubt whether he could be induced to return the £50 without a good deal of trouble—much more than I should feel justified in delegating to Mr. Smith.  For my own part, the conclusion I drew from the whole of Mr. Newby’s conduct to my sisters was that he is a man with whom it is desirable to have little to do.  I think he must be needy as well as tricky—and if he is, one would not distress him, even for one’s rights.

My dear Sir,—Mr. Newby initially agreed to print 350 copies of Wuthering Heights, but later he claimed he only printed 250. I doubt he would agree to return the £50 without a lot of hassle—much more than I would feel comfortable asking Mr. Smith to handle. Personally, the impression I got from Mr. Newby’s overall behavior towards my sisters is that he’s someone best avoided. I think he must be both desperate and deceitful—and if that’s the case, it wouldn't be right to upset him, even for the sake of our rights.

‘If Mr. Smith thinks right to reprint Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey, I would prepare a preface comprising a brief and simple notice of the authors, such as might set at rest all erroneous conjectures respecting their identity—and adding a few poetical remains of each.

‘If Mr. Smith thinks it's okay to reprint Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey, I would write a preface that includes a brief and clear overview of the authors, which would clarify any wrong assumptions about their identities—and include a few poems from each.

‘In case this arrangement is approved, you will kindly let me know, and I will commence the task (a sad, but, I believe, a necessary one), and send it when finished.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘If this arrangement is approved, please let me know, and I will start the task (which is unfortunate, but I believe necessary) and send it when it's done. —I am, my dear sir, sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 16th, 1850.

‘October 16th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—On the whole it is perhaps as well that the last paragraph of the Preface should be omitted, for I believe it p. 366was not expressed with the best grace in the world.  You must not, however, apologise for your suggestion—it was kindly meant and, believe me, kindly taken; it was not you I misunderstood—not for a moment, I never misunderstand you—I was thinking of the critics and the public, who are always crying for a moral like the Pharisees for a sign.  Does this assurance quite satisfy you?

My dear Sir,—Overall, it might be for the best that the last paragraph of the Preface is left out, because I don't think it was worded very well. However, you shouldn't apologize for your suggestion—it was well intended and, believe me, well received; it wasn’t you I misunderstood—not for a second, I never misunderstand you—I was just concerned about the critics and the public, who are always demanding a moral like the Pharisees asked for a sign. Does this assurance fully satisfy you?

‘I forgot to say that I had already heard, first from Miss Martineau, and subsequently through an intimate friend of Sydney Yendys (whose real name is Mr. Dobell) that it was to the author of the Roman we are indebted for that eloquent article in the Palladium.  I am glad you are going to send his poem, for I much wished to see it.

‘I forgot to mention that I had already heard, first from Miss Martineau, and later through a close friend of Sydney Yendys (whose real name is Mr. Dobell) that we owe that eloquent article in the Palladium to the author of the Roman. I'm glad you're going to send his poem because I really wanted to see it.

‘May I trouble you to look at a sentence in the Preface which I have erased, because on reading it over I was not quite sure about the scientific correctness of the expressions used.  Metal, I know, will burn in vivid-coloured flame, exposed to galvanic action, but whether it is consumed, I am not sure.  Perhaps you or Mr. Taylor can tell me whether there is any blunder in the term employed—if not, it might stand.—I am, yours sincerely,

‘Could you please take a look at a sentence in the Preface that I’ve deleted? Upon rereading it, I wasn't completely confident about the scientific accuracy of the terms used. I know that metal can burn with a bright flame when exposed to galvanic action, but I’m not certain if it’s being consumed. Maybe you or Mr. Taylor can clarify if there’s any mistake in the terminology—if not, it could remain as it is.—I am, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘February 1st, 1851.

‘February 1st, 1851.

‘My dear Sir,—I cannot lose any time in telling you that your letter, after all, gave me heart-felt satisfaction, and such a feeling of relief as it would be difficult to express in words.  The fact is, what goads and tortures me is not any anxiety of my own to publish another book, to have my name before the public, to get cash, etc., but a haunting fear that my dilatoriness disappoints others.  Now the “others” whose wish on the subject I really care for, reduces itself to my father and Cornhill, and since Cornhill ungrudgingly counsels me to take p. 367my own time, I think I can pacify such impatience as my dear father naturally feels.  Indeed, your kind and friendly letter will greatly help me.

My dear Sir,—I want to quickly express how much your letter meant to me. It brought me real happiness and a huge sense of relief that’s hard to describe. Honestly, what worries me isn’t my desire to publish another book, gain public attention, or make money, but a constant anxiety that my procrastination is letting others down. The “others” I care about most are my father and Cornhill, and since Cornhill kindly suggests I take my time, I feel I can ease the understandable impatience of my dear father. Your thoughtful and friendly letter will help me a lot with that.

‘Since writing the above, I have read your letter to papa.  Your arguments had weight with him: he approves, and I am content.  I now only regret the necessity of disappointing the Palladium, but that cannot be helped.—Good-bye, my dear sir, yours very sincerely,

‘After writing the above, I shared your letter with Dad. Your arguments convinced him: he approves, and I’m pleased. I just wish I didn't have to let the Palladium down, but there’s nothing I can do about it.—Goodbye, my dear sir, yours very sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Tuesday Morning.

‘Tuesday Morning.

‘Dear Ellen,—The rather dark view you seem inclined to take of the general opinion about Villette surprises me the less, dear Nell, as only the more unfavourable reviews seem to have come in your way.  Some reports reach me of a different tendency; but no matter, time will shew.  As to the character of Lucy Snow, my intention from the first was that she should not occupy the pedestal to which Jane Eyre was raised by some injudicious admirers.  She is where I meant her to be, and where no charge of self-laudation can touch her.

Dear Ellen,—I’m not as surprised by your rather negative view of the general opinion on Villette, dear Nell, since it seems you’ve only received the more critical reviews. I’ve heard some reports that suggest otherwise, but it’s not a big deal; time will reveal the truth. Regarding the character of Lucy Snow, I intended from the start for her not to be put on the pedestal that some foolish admirers created for Jane Eyre. She is exactly where I wanted her, and no accusation of self-praise can change that.

‘I cannot accept your kind invitation.  I must be at home at Easter, on two or three accounts connected with sermons to be preached, parsons to be entertained, Mechanics’ Institute meetings and tea-drinkings to be solemnised, and ere long I have promised to go and see Mrs. Gaskell; but till this wintry weather is passed, I would rather eschew visiting anywhere.  I trust that bad cold of yours is quite well, and that you will take good care of yourself in future.  That night work is always perilous.—Yours faithfully,

‘I can’t accept your kind invitation. I need to be home for Easter for several reasons, like sermons to preach, guests to entertain, Mechanics’ Institute meetings, and tea gatherings to host, plus I promised to visit Mrs. Gaskell soon. But until this cold weather goes away, I’d prefer to avoid traveling. I hope your cold is totally gone, and that you take good care of yourself from now on. Night work is always risky.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS WOOLER

TO MISS WOOLER

‘Haworth, April 13th, 1851.

‘Haworth, April 13th, 1851.

‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your last kind letter ought to have been answered long since, and would have been, did I find it practicable to proportion the promptitude of the response to the value I place upon my correspondents and their communications.  You will easily understand, however, that p. 368the contrary rule often holds good, and that the epistle which importunes often takes precedence of that which interests.

'Dear Miss Wooler,—I should have replied to your thoughtful letter much sooner, and I would have if I could balance timely responses with how much I value my friends and their messages. However, it’s clear that the opposite often happens, with the letter that demands attention coming before the one that truly matters. p. 368'

‘My publishers express entire satisfaction with the reception which has been accorded to Villette, and indeed the majority of the reviews has been favourable enough; you will be aware, however, that there is a minority, small in number but influential in character, which views the work with no favourable eye.  Currer Bell’s remarks on Romanism have drawn down on him the condign displeasure of the High Church party, which displeasure has been unequivocally expressed through their principal organs—the Guardian, the English Churchman, and the Christian Remembrancer.  I can well understand that some of the charges launched against me by those publications will tell heavily to my prejudice in the minds of most readers—but this must be borne; and for my part, I can suffer no accusation to oppress me much which is not supported by the inward evidence of conscience and reason.

‘My publishers are very pleased with how Villette has been received, and indeed, most reviews have been quite positive; however, you might know there’s a small but influential minority that views the work negatively. Currer Bell’s comments on Romanism have sparked the justified anger of the High Church faction, which has been clearly expressed through their main outlets—the Guardian, the English Churchman, and the Christian Remembrancer. I understand that some of the criticisms from those publications will weigh heavily against me in the eyes of many readers—but I have to accept that; and for my part, I won’t let any accusation burden me too much unless it’s backed by my own sense of conscience and reason.

‘“Extremes meet,” says the proverb; in proof whereof I would mention that Miss Martineau finds with Villette nearly the same fault as the Puseyites.  She accuses me with attacking popery “with virulence,” of going out of my way to assault it “passionately.”  In other respects she has shown with reference to the work a spirit so strangely and unexpectedly acrimonious, that I have gathered courage to tell her that the gulf of mutual difference between her and me is so wide and deep, the bridge of union so slight and uncertain, I have come to the conclusion that frequent intercourse would be most perilous and unadvisable, and have begged to adjourn sine die my long projected visit to her.  Of course she is now very angry, and I know her bitterness will not be short-lived—but it cannot be helped.

“Extremes meet,” as the proverb says; to illustrate this, I’d mention that Miss Martineau finds almost the same fault in Villette as the Puseyites do. She accuses me of attacking popery “with virulence,” and of going out of my way to criticize it “passionately.” In other respects, she has shown an unexpectedly harsh attitude towards the work, which has given me the courage to tell her that the gap between us is so wide and deep, and the chance of finding common ground so slim and uncertain, that I’ve concluded frequent interactions would be quite risky and unwise; thus, I’ve requested to postpone sine die my long-planned visit to her. Of course, she is very angry now, and I know her bitterness won’t be short-lived—but there's nothing I can do about it.

‘Two or three weeks since I received a long and kind letter from Mr. White, which I answered a short time ago.  I believe Mr. White thinks me a much hotter advocate for change and what is called “political progress” than I am.  However, in my reply, I did not touch on these subjects.  He intimated a wish to publish some of his own MSS.  I fear he would hardly p. 369like the somewhat dissuasive tendency of my answer; but really, in these days of headlong competition, it is a great risk to publish.  If all be well, I purpose going to Manchester next week to spend a few days with Mrs. Gaskell.  Ellen’s visit to Yarmouth seems for the present given up; and really, all things considered, I think the circumstance is scarcely to be regretted.

‘Two or three weeks ago, I received a long and kind letter from Mr. White, which I replied to shortly after. I think Mr. White sees me as a much stronger supporter of change and so-called “political progress” than I actually am. However, in my response, I didn’t address those topics. He expressed a desire to publish some of his own manuscripts. I’m concerned he wouldn’t appreciate the somewhat discouraging tone of my reply; but honestly, in these days of fierce competition, publishing is a significant risk. If all goes well, I plan to go to Manchester next week to spend a few days with Mrs. Gaskell. Ellen’s trip to Yarmouth seems to be off for now; and honestly, upon reflection, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.’

‘Do you not think, my dear Miss Wooler, that you could come to Haworth before you go to the coast?  I am afraid that when you once get settled at the sea-side your stay will not be brief.  I must repeat that a visit from you would be anticipated with pleasure, not only by me, but by every inmate of Haworth Parsonage.  Papa has given me a general commission to send his respects to you whenever I write—accept them, therefore, and—Believe me, yours affectionately and sincerely,

‘Don't you think, my dear Miss Wooler, that you could come to Haworth before you head to the coast? I'm afraid that once you settle by the seaside, your stay won’t be short. A visit from you would be greatly anticipated, not just by me but by everyone at Haworth Parsonage. Papa has asked me to send his regards to you whenever I write—so please accept them, and—Believe me, yours affectionately and sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 370CHAPTER XIV: WILLIAM SMITH WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

Denmark Hill, 25th November, 1861.

Denmark Hill, 25th November, 1861.

‘My dear Sir,—I am requested by Mrs. Ruskin to return her very sincere and grateful thanks for your kind consideration in presenting her with so beautifully bound a copy of the Selections from her son’s writings; and which she will have great pleasure in seeing by the side of the very magnificent volumes which the liberality of the gentlemen of your house has already enriched our library with.

Dear Sir,—Mrs. Ruskin has asked me to convey her sincere gratitude for your kind gesture in presenting her with such a beautifully bound edition of the Selections from her son’s writings. She will be delighted to add it to the stunning volumes that the generosity of your colleagues has already contributed to our library.

‘Mrs. Ruskin joins me in offering congratulations on the great judgment you have displayed in your Selections, and, sending my own thanks and those of my son for the handsome gift to Mrs. Ruskin,—I am, my dear sir, yours very truly,

‘Mrs. Ruskin joins me in congratulating you on the excellent judgment you have shown in your Selections, and, extending my own thanks and those of my son for the generous gift to Mrs. Ruskin,—I am, my dear sir, yours very truly,

‘John James Ruskin.’

‘John James Ruskin.’

p. 373TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 373TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘February 25th 1848.

‘February 25th 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I thank you for your note; its contents moved me much, though not to unmingled feelings of exultation.  Louis Philippe (unhappy and sordid old man!) and M. Guizot doubtless merit the sharp lesson they are now being taught, because they have both proved themselves men of dishonest hearts.  And every struggle any nation makes in the cause of Freedom and Truth has something noble in it—something that makes me wish it success; but I cannot believe that France—or at least Paris—will ever be the battle-ground of true Liberty, or the scene of its real triumphs.  I fear she does not know “how genuine glory is put on.”  Is that strength to be found in her which will not bend “but in magnanimous meekness”?  Have not her “unceasing changes” as yet always brought “perpetual emptiness”?  Has Paris the materials within her for thorough reform?  Mean, dishonest Guizot being discarded, will any better successor be found for him than brilliant, unprincipled Thiers?

My dear Sir,—Thank you for your note; it moved me deeply, although I can't say it made me completely happy. Louis Philippe (that pathetic and greedy old man!) and M. Guizot are getting the hard lesson they deserve for their dishonesty. Any nation fighting for Freedom and Truth has a certain nobility about it, which makes me hope for its success; but I just can’t believe that France—or at least Paris—will ever be the true battlefield for real Liberty or the site of its actual victories. I fear she doesn’t grasp how “true glory is won.” Is there strength there that can only be found in “magnanimous meekness”? Haven’t her “endless changes” always led to “perpetual emptiness”? Does Paris have what it takes for real reform? With the mean, dishonest Guizot gone, will a better successor come along, or just another flashy, unprincipled Thiers?

‘But I damp your enthusiasm, which I would not wish to do, for true enthusiasm is a fine feeling whose flash I admire wherever I see it.

‘But I don’t mean to dampen your enthusiasm, which I don’t want to do, because true enthusiasm is a wonderful feeling whose spark I admire wherever I see it.

‘The little note inclosed in yours is from a French lady, who asks my consent to the translation of Jane Eyre into the French language.  I thought it better to consult you before I replied.  I suppose she is competent to produce a decent translation, though one or two errors of orthography in her note rather afflict the eye; but I know that it is not unusual for what are considered well-educated French women to fail in the point of writing their mother tongue correctly.  But whether competent or not, I presume she has a right to translate the book with or without my consent.  She gives her address: Mdlle B--- [373]  W. Cumming, Esq., 23 North Bank, Regent’s Park.

‘The little note included in yours is from a French woman who is asking for my permission to translate Jane Eyre into French. I thought it best to check with you before I reply. I assume she's capable of producing a decent translation, although a couple of spelling mistakes in her note are a bit distracting; still, it’s not uncommon for well-educated French women to struggle with writing their own language correctly. But whether she’s capable or not, I believe she has the right to translate the book with or without my approval. She includes her address: Mdlle B--- __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ W. Cumming, Esq., 23 North Bank, Regent’s Park.

‘Shall I reply to her note in the affirmative?

‘Should I reply to her note with a yes?

‘Waiting your opinion and answer,—I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘Eagerly awaiting your opinion and response,—I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

p. 374TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 374TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘February 28th, 1848.

‘February 28th, 1848.

‘Dear Sir,—I have done as you advised me respecting Mdlle B---, thanked her for her courtesy, and explained that I do not wish my consent to be regarded in the light of a formal sanction of the translation.

‘Dear Sir,—I took your advice regarding Mdlle B---, thanked her for her kindness, and clarified that I don’t want my consent to be viewed as official approval of the translation.

‘From the papers of Saturday I had learnt the abdication of Louis Philippe, the flight of the royal family, and the proclamation of a republic in France.  Rapid movements these, and some of them difficult of comprehension to a remote spectator.  What sort of spell has withered Louis Philippe’s strength?  Why, after having so long infatuatedly clung to Guizot, did he at once ignobly relinquish him?  Was it panic that made him so suddenly quit his throne and abandon his adherents without a struggle to retain one or aid the other?

‘From Saturday's papers, I learned about Louis Philippe's abdication, the royal family's escape, and the announcement of a republic in France. These events unfolded quickly, some of which are hard to grasp for an outsider. What kind of spell has drained Louis Philippe's power? Why did he suddenly abandon Guizot without a second thought after holding on to him for so long? Was it sheer panic that made him leave his throne and abandon his supporters without even trying to fight for either?’

‘Perhaps it might have been partly fear, but I daresay it was still more long-gathering weariness of the dangers and toils of royalty.  Few will pity the old monarch in his flight, yet I own he seems to me an object of pity.  His sister’s death shook him; years are heavy on him; the sword of Damocles has long been hanging over his head.  One cannot forget that monarchs and ministers are only human, and have only human energies to sustain them; and often they are sore beset.  Party spirit has no mercy; indignant Freedom seldom shows forbearance in her hour of revolt.  I wish you could see the aged gentleman trudging down Cornhill with his umbrella and carpet-bag, in good earnest; he would be safe in England: John Bull might laugh at him but he would do him no harm.

‘Maybe it was partly fear, but I think it was mostly just the long-standing weariness from the dangers and struggles of being a monarch. Few people will feel sorry for the old king as he flees, but I must admit he seems like a figure to pity. His sister’s death hit him hard; he’s weighed down by the years; the sword of Damocles has been hanging over him for a long time. We can't forget that kings and ministers are only human, with only human strengths to keep them going; often, they face significant challenges. Political factions show no mercy; outraged Freedom rarely displays patience during its uprising. I wish you could see the old man trudging down Cornhill with his umbrella and carpet-bag, earnestly; he would be safe in England: John Bull might laugh at him, but he wouldn't harm him.

‘How strange it appears to see literary and scientific names figuring in the list of members of a Provisional Government!  How would it sound if Carlyle and Sir John Herschel and Tennyson and Mr. Thackeray and Douglas Jerrold were selected to manufacture a new constitution for England?  Whether do such men sway the public mind most effectually from their quiet studies or from a council-chamber?

‘How strange it is to see literary and scientific names listed among the members of a Provisional Government! How would it sound if Carlyle, Sir John Herschel, Tennyson, Mr. Thackeray, and Douglas Jerrold were chosen to create a new constitution for England? Do such individuals influence public opinion more effectively from their quiet studies or from a council chamber?

‘And Thiers is set aside for a time; but won’t they be glad of p. 375him by-and-by?  Can they set aside entirely anything so clever, so subtle, so accomplished, so aspiring—in a word, so thoroughly French, as he is?  Is he not the man to bide his time—to watch while unskilful theorists try their hand at administration and fail; and then to step out and show them how it should be done?

‘And Thiers is put on hold for now; but won’t they be thrilled to bring him back later? Can they totally ignore someone so clever, so subtle, so accomplished, so ambitious—in a word, so thoroughly French, as he is? Isn’t he the type to wait patiently—to observe while inexperienced theorists try to manage things and fail—and then step in to show them how it should be done?

‘One would have thought political disturbance the natural element of a mind like Thiers’; but I know nothing of him except from his writings, and I always think he writes as if the shade of Bonaparte were walking to and fro in the room behind him and dictating every line he pens, sometimes approaching and bending over his shoulder, pour voir de ses yeux that such an action or event is represented or misrepresented (as the case may be) exactly as he wishes it.  Thiers seems to have contemplated Napoleon’s character till he has imbibed some of its nature.  Surely he must be an ambitious man, and, if so, surely he will at this juncture struggle to rise.

"One would think that political turmoil would be Thiers' natural state; but I only know him through his writings, and I always feel he writes as if the ghost of Bonaparte is hovering behind him, dictating every line. Sometimes, the ghost seems to lean over his shoulder, pour voir de ses yeux to ensure that an action or event is shown or misrepresented just as he intends. Thiers seems to have studied Napoleon’s character to the point that he has absorbed its essence. He must surely be an ambitious man, and if that’s true, it’s likely he will be striving to rise at this moment."

‘You should not apologise for what you call your “crudities.”  You know I like to hear your opinions and views on whatever subject it interests you to discuss.

‘You shouldn’t apologize for what you call your “crudities.” You know I enjoy hearing your thoughts and opinions on any topic that interests you.’

‘From the little inscription outside your note I conclude you sent me the Examiner.  I thank you therefore for your kind intention and am sorry some unscrupulous person at the Post Office frustrated it, as no paper has reached my hands.  I suppose one ought to be thankful that letters are respected, as newspapers are by no means sure of safe conveyance.—I remain, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘From the small note outside your message, I gather you sent me the Examiner. I appreciate your kind gesture, and I’m sorry that some dishonest person at the Post Office interrupted it, as I haven’t received any paper. I guess we should be grateful that letters are respected, since newspapers can’t always be guaranteed safe delivery.—I remain, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘May 12th, 1848.

‘May 12th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I take a large sheet of paper, because I foresee that I am about to write another long letter, and for the same reason as before, viz., that yours interested me.

My dear Sir,—I’m using a big sheet of paper because I know I’m going to write another long letter for the same reason as before: your letter caught my interest.

‘I have received the Morning Chronicle, and was both surprised and pleased to see the passage you speak of in one of its leading articles.  An allusion of that sort seems to say more than a regular notice.  I do trust I may have the power so to p. 376write in future as not to disappoint those who have been kind enough to think and speak well of Jane Eyre; at any rate, I will take pains.  But still, whenever I hear my one book praised, the pleasure I feel is chastened by a mixture of doubt and fear; and, in truth, I hardly wish it to be otherwise: it is much too early for me to feel safe, or to take as my due the commendation bestowed.

‘I have received the Morning Chronicle, and I was both surprised and pleased to see the passage you mentioned in one of its leading articles. An allusion like that seems to convey more than a standard review. I do hope I can write in the future in a way that won't disappoint those who have been kind enough to think and speak well of Jane Eyre; at the very least, I will make an effort. But still, whenever I hear my one book praised, the pleasure I feel is mixed with doubt and fear; and honestly, I barely want it to be any different: it’s far too soon for me to feel secure or to take the praise for granted.

‘Some remarks in your last letter on teaching commanded my attention.  I suppose you never were engaged in tuition yourself; but if you had been, you could not have more exactly hit on the great qualification—I had almost said the one great qualification—necessary to the task: the faculty, not merely of acquiring but of imparting knowledge—the power of influencing young minds—that natural fondness for, that innate sympathy with, children, which, you say, Mrs. Williams is so happy as to possess.  He or she who possesses this faculty, this sympathy—though perhaps not otherwise highly accomplished—need never fear failure in the career of instruction.  Children will be docile with them, will improve under them; parents will consequently repose in them confidence.  Their task will be comparatively light, their path comparatively smooth.  If the faculty be absent, the life of a teacher will be a struggle from beginning to end.  No matter how amiable the disposition, how strong the sense of duty, how active the desire to please; no matter how brilliant and varied the accomplishments; if the governess has not the power to win her young charge, the secret to instil gently and surely her own knowledge into the growing mind intrusted to her, she will have a wearing, wasting existence of it.  To educate a child, as I daresay Mrs. Williams has educated her children, probably with as much pleasure to herself as profit to them, will indeed be impossible to the teacher who lacks this qualification.  But, I conceive, should circumstances—as in the case of your daughters—compel a young girl notwithstanding to adopt a governess’s profession, she may contrive to instruct and even to instruct well.  That is, though she cannot form the child’s mind, mould its character, influence its disposition, and guide its conduct as she would wish, she may give p. 377lessons—even good, clear, clever lessons in the various branches of knowledge.  She may earn and doubly earn her scanty salary as a daily governess.  As a school-teacher she may succeed; but as a resident governess she will never (except under peculiar and exceptional circumstances) be happy.  Her deficiency will harass her not so much in school-time as in play-hours; the moments that would be rest and recreation to the governess who understood and could adapt herself to children, will be almost torture to her who has not that power.  Many a time, when her charge turns unruly on her hands, when the responsibility which she would wish to discharge faithfully and perfectly, becomes unmanageable to her, she will wish herself a housemaid or kitchen girl, rather than a baited, trampled, desolate, distracted governess.

Some points from your last letter about teaching caught my attention. I guess you’ve never been a teacher yourself; but if you had, you couldn't have more accurately identified the key qualification—I almost want to say the only key qualification—needed for the job: the ability not just to learn but to share knowledge—the power to influence young minds—that natural love for, that innate connection with, children, which, as you say, Mrs. Williams is fortunate enough to have. Someone with this ability, this connection—though maybe not otherwise highly skilled—will never have to worry about failing in teaching. Kids will be receptive to them, will thrive with them; parents will trust them. Their job will be relatively easy, and their path relatively smooth. If this ability is missing, a teacher's life will be a struggle from start to finish. No matter how kind-hearted they are, how strong their sense of duty, how eager they are to please; no matter how talented and diverse their skills; if a governess can't win over her young student, if she doesn’t possess the secret to gently and reliably sharing her knowledge with the growing mind entrusted to her, she will face a tiring, exhausting existence. To educate a child, as I believe Mrs. Williams has educated her children—with as much joy for herself as benefit to them—will be impossible for a teacher who lacks this qualification. However, I think if circumstances—like those for your daughters—force a young girl to take on the role of a governess, she can manage to instruct and even do it well. That is, even though she can't shape the child’s mind, mold its character, influence its behavior, and guide its actions as she would like, she can still provide p. 377lessons—even good, clear, effective lessons in different subjects. She may earn her modest salary as a daily governess and might do well as a school teacher; but as a live-in governess, she will rarely (except in unusual and exceptional situations) be happy. Her lack of ability will trouble her more during playtime than school hours; the moments that would be rest and relaxation for a governess who understands and can connect with children will feel like torture for her without that skill. Many times, when her student becomes unruly, and the responsibility she wants to handle faithfully and perfectly becomes overwhelming, she will wish she were a housemaid or kitchen girl instead of a frustrated, trampled, miserable governess.

‘The Governesses’ Institution may be an excellent thing in some points of view, but it is both absurd and cruel to attempt to raise still higher the standard of acquirements.  Already governesses are not half nor a quarter paid for what they teach, nor in most instances is half or a quarter of their attainments required by their pupils.  The young teacher’s chief anxiety, when she sets out in life, always is to know a great deal; her chief fear that she should not know enough.  Brief experience will, in most instances, show her that this anxiety has been misdirected.  She will rarely be found too ignorant for her pupils; the demand on her knowledge will not often be larger than she can answer.  But on her patience—on her self-control, the requirement will be enormous; on her animal spirits (and woe be to her if these fail!) the pressure will be immense.

‘The Governesses’ Institution might be great in some ways, but it's both ridiculous and harsh to try to raise the standard of qualifications even higher. Governesses are already not paid enough for what they teach, nor do most of their students require even half of what they know. The young teacher’s main worry when starting her career is to know a lot; her biggest fear is that she won’t know enough. However, with a bit of experience, she will often realize that her worry is misplaced. She will rarely be underqualified for her students; the demand for her knowledge isn’t usually more than she can handle. But the expectations on her patience—on her self-control—will be enormous; the pressure on her energy (and heaven help her if that runs out!) will be immense.

‘I have seen an ignorant nursery-maid who could scarcely read or write, by dint of an excellent, serviceable, sanguine, phlegmatic temperament, which made her at once cheerful and unmoveable; of a robust constitution and steady, unimpassionable nerves, which kept her firm under shocks and unharassed under annoyances—manage with comparative ease a large family of spoilt children, while their governess lived amongst them a life of inexpressible misery: tyrannised over, finding p. 378her efforts to please and teach utterly vain, chagrined, distressed, worried—so badgered, so trodden on, that she ceased almost at last to know herself, and wondered in what despicable, trembling frame her oppressed mind was prisoned, and could not realise the idea of ever more being treated with respect and regarded with affection—till she finally resigned her situation and went away quite broken in spirit and reduced to the verge of decline in health.

‘I’ve seen a clueless nanny who could barely read or write, yet through her cheerful and resilient nature—balanced and easygoing—she managed to handle a large family of spoiled kids with relative ease. Meanwhile, their governess lived a life of pure misery: dominated, finding her efforts to please and teach completely pointless, frustrated, distressed, and worn out—so overwhelmed and pushed around that she nearly lost her sense of self, wondering what pitiful, trembling state her beaten-down mind was trapped in, unable to comprehend ever being treated with respect and receiving affection again—until she finally quit her job and left, utterly defeated and on the brink of health decline.

‘Those who would urge on governesses more acquirements, do not know the origin of their chief sufferings.  It is more physical and mental strength, denser moral impassibility that they require, rather than additional skill in arts or sciences.  As to the forcing system, whether applied to teachers or taught, I hold it to be a cruel system.

‘Those who push governesses to gain more qualifications don’t understand the source of their main struggles. They need more physical and mental strength, a thicker skin when it comes to moral challenges, rather than just more skills in arts or sciences. As for the pressure system, whether it's directed at teachers or students, I believe it to be a harsh system.

‘It is true the world demands a brilliant list of accomplishments.  For £20 per annum, it expects in one woman the attainments of several professors—but the demand is insensate, and I think should rather be resisted than complied with.  If I might plead with you in behalf of your daughters, I should say, “Do not let them waste their young lives in trying to attain manifold accomplishments.  Let them try rather to possess thoroughly, fully, one or two talents; then let them endeavour to lay in a stock of health, strength, cheerfulness.  Let them labour to attain self-control, endurance, fortitude, firmness; if possible, let them learn from their mother something of the precious art she possesses—these things, together with sound principles, will be their best supports, their best aids through a governess’s life.

‘It’s true that the world expects an impressive list of achievements. For £20 a year, it wants one woman to have the skills of several professors—but that expectation is unreasonable, and I think it should be resisted rather than accepted. If I could speak on behalf of your daughters, I would say, “Don’t let them waste their youth trying to acquire numerous skills. Instead, let them focus on mastering one or two talents; then let them work on building their health, strength, and happiness. Let them strive for self-control, endurance, courage, and determination; and if possible, let them learn from their mother some of the valuable skills she has—these qualities, along with strong principles, will be their best support and greatest help throughout a governess’s life.

‘As for that one who, you say, has a nervous horror of exhibition, I need not beg you to be gentle with her; I am sure you will not be harsh, but she must be firm with herself, or she will repent it in after life.  She should begin by degrees to endeavour to overcome her diffidence.  Were she destined to enjoy an independent, easy existence, she might respect her natural disposition to seek retirement, and even cherish it as a shade-loving virtue; but since that is not her lot, since she is fated to make her way in the crowd, and to depend on herself, p. 379she should say: I will try and learn the art of self-possession, not that I may display my accomplishments, but that I may have the satisfaction of feeling that I am my own mistress, and can move and speak undaunted by the fear of man.  While, however, I pen this piece of advice, I confess that it is much easier to give than to follow.  What the sensations of the nervous are under the gaze of publicity none but the nervous know; and how powerless reason and resolution are to control them would sound incredible except to the actual sufferers.

‘Regarding the person you mentioned who has a nervous fear of being in the spotlight, I don't need to ask you to be kind to her; I'm sure you won't be harsh. However, she must be firm with herself, or she will regret it later in life. She should gradually work on overcoming her shyness. If she were meant to lead an independent, carefree life, she might admire her natural tendency to seek solitude and even view it as a modest virtue. But since that's not her fate—since she has to navigate through the crowd and rely on herself—p. 379she should tell herself: I will try to learn how to be self-assured, not to show off my skills, but for the satisfaction of feeling that I am in control of myself and can express myself without fear of judgment. However, as I write this advice, I must admit that it's much easier to give than to follow. Only those who experience nerves know what it's like to be under the public's gaze, and how powerless reason and willpower can be in that situation would seem unbelievable to anyone who hasn't experienced it themselves.

‘The rumours you mention respecting the authorship of Jane Eyre amused me inexpressibly.  The gossips are, on this subject, just where I should wish them to be, i.e., as far from the truth as possible; and as they have not a grain of fact to found their fictions upon, they fabricate pure inventions.  Judge Erle must, I think, have made up his story expressly for a hoax; the other fib is amazing—so circumstantial! called on the author, forsooth!  Where did he live, I wonder?  In what purlieu of Cockayne?  Here I must stop, lest if I run on further I should fill another sheet.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘The rumors you mentioned about who wrote Jane Eyre really amused me. The gossipers are exactly where I’d want them to be, i.e., as far from the truth as possible; and since they don’t have a single fact to support their stories, they just make up complete fabrications. I think Judge Erle made up his story just for a joke; the other lie is incredible—so detailed! He supposedly visited the author, really! I wonder where he lived? In what part of Cockayne? I have to stop here, or if I keep going, I’ll fill up another page.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Currer Bell.

‘Currer Bell.

‘P.S.—I must, after all, add a morsel of paper, for I find, on glancing over yours, that I have forgotten to answer a question you ask respecting my next work.  I have not therein so far treated of governesses, as I do not wish it to resemble its predecessor.  I often wish to say something about the “condition of women” question, but it is one respecting which so much “cant” has been talked, that one feels a sort of repugnance to approach it.  It is true enough that the present market for female labour is quite overstocked, but where or how could another be opened?  Many say that the professions now filled only by men should be open to women also; but are not their present occupants and candidates more than numerous enough to answer every demand?  Is there any room for female lawyers, female doctors, female engravers, for more female artists, more authoresses?  One can see where the evil lies, but who can point out the remedy?  When a woman has p. 380a little family to rear and educate and a household to conduct, her hands are full, her vocation is evident; when her destiny isolates her, I suppose she must do what she can, live as she can, complain as little, bear as much, work as well as possible.  This is not high theory, but I believe it is sound practice, good to put into execution while philosophers and legislators ponder over the better ordering of the social system.  At the same time, I conceive that when patience has done its utmost and industry its best, whether in the case of women or operatives, and when both are baffled, and pain and want triumph, the sufferer is free, is entitled, at last to send up to Heaven any piercing cry for relief, if by that cry he can hope to obtain succour.’

P.S.—I must add a quick note, as I realize, after looking over your message, that I forgot to respond to your question about my next project. I haven't addressed governesses in it so far because I don’t want it to be like the previous one. I often feel compelled to talk about the “condition of women” issue, but there's been so much pretentious talk about it that it feels uncomfortable to approach. It’s true that the current job market for women is really saturated, but how could we create more opportunities? Many argue that professions currently dominated by men should also be open to women; however, aren’t there already more than enough candidates for those positions? Is there really space for female lawyers, female doctors, female engravers, or more female artists and authors? The problem is clear, but who can suggest a solution? When a woman has a family to raise and a home to manage, her responsibilities are overwhelming, and her role is clear; when her situation isolates her, she must do what she can, live as best she can, complain little, endure much, and work as effectively as possible. This isn’t lofty theory, but I believe it’s practical advice worth following while thinkers and lawmakers consider how to better organize society. At the same time, I think that when patience has done everything it can and hard work has been exhausted, whether it involves women or workers, and when both face failure, and suffering and need prevail, the person in pain is justified in sending up a desperate plea for help—if that cry can bring relief.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘June 2, 1848.

‘June 2, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I snatch a moment to write a hasty line to you, for it makes me uneasy to think that your last kind letter should have remained so long unanswered.  A succession of little engagements, much more importunate than important, have quite engrossed my time lately, to the exclusion of more momentous and interesting occupations.  Interruption is a sad bore, and I believe there is hardly a spot on earth, certainly not in England, quite secure from its intrusion.  The fact is, you cannot live in this world entirely for one aim; you must take along with some single serious purpose a hundred little minor duties, cares, distractions; in short, you must take life as it is, and make the best of it.  Summer is decidedly a bad season for application, especially in the country; for the sunshine seems to set all your acquaintances astir, and, once bent on amusement, they will come to the ends of the earth in search thereof.  I was obliged to you for your suggestion about writing a letter to the Morning Chronicle, but I did not follow it up.  I think I would rather not venture on such a step at present.  Opinions I would not hesitate to express to you—because you are indulgent—are not mature or cool enough for the public; Currer Bell is not Carlyle, and must not imitate him.

‘My dear Sir,—I’m taking a quick moment to write you a brief note because it makes me uneasy to think that your last thoughtful letter has gone so long without a response. A series of small tasks, much more bothersome than important, have totally consumed my time lately, leaving little room for more significant and interesting pursuits. Interruptions are quite a drag, and I believe there’s hardly a place on Earth, especially not in England, that’s truly safe from them. The truth is, you can’t live in this world focused on just one goal; you have to juggle that serious purpose with a hundred smaller duties, worries, and distractions; in short, you have to accept life as it is and make the best of it. Summer is definitely a tough time for focus, especially in the countryside; the sunshine seems to get all your acquaintances moving, and once they set their minds on having fun, they’ll go anywhere to find it. I appreciated your suggestion about writing a letter to the Morning Chronicle, but I didn’t pursue it. I think I’d rather not take that step right now. The opinions I wouldn’t hesitate to share with you—because you’re understanding—aren’t fully developed or calm enough for the public; Currer Bell isn't Carlyle and shouldn’t try to be.

p. 381‘Whenever you can write to me without encroaching too much on your valuable time, remember I shall always be glad to hear from you.  Your last letter interested me fully as much as its two predecessors; what you said about your family pleased me; I think details of character always have a charm even when they relate to people we have never seen, nor expect to see.  With eight children you must have a busy life; but, from the manner in which you allude to your two eldest daughters, it is evident that they at least are a source of satisfaction to their parents; I hope this will be the case with the whole number, and then you will never feel as if you had too many.  A dozen children with sense and good conduct may be less burdensome than one who lacks these qualities.  It seems a long time since I heard from you.  I shall be glad to hear from you again.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

p. 381“Whenever you can write to me without taking up too much of your valuable time, remember I’ll always be happy to hear from you. Your last letter interested me just as much as the two before it; what you shared about your family was a pleasure to read. I think details about people's character always have a charm, even when they refer to those we’ve never met and don’t expect to meet. With eight kids, you must have a busy life; however, from the way you talk about your two eldest daughters, it’s clear they bring their parents joy. I hope this is true for all of them, and then you’ll never feel like you have too many. A dozen well-behaved kids can be less of a burden than one who doesn’t have those qualities. It feels like ages since I last heard from you. I look forward to your next letter.—Sincerely yours,”

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, June 15th, 1848.

‘Haworth, June 15th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—Thank you for your two last letters.  In reading the first I quite realised your May holiday; I enjoyed it with you.  I saw the pretty south-of-England village, so different from our northern congregations of smoke-dark houses clustered round their soot-vomiting mills.  I saw in your description, fertile, flowery Essex—a contrast indeed to the rough and rude, the mute and sombre yet well-beloved moors over-spreading this corner of Yorkshire.  I saw the white schoolhouse, the venerable school-master—I even thought I saw you and your daughters; and in your second letter I see you all distinctly, for, in describing your children, you unconsciously describe yourself.

My dear Sir,—Thank you for your last two letters. Reading the first one, I really felt your May holiday; I enjoyed it alongside you. I could picture the charming village in the south of England, so different from our northern clusters of dark, smoky houses surrounding their soot-spewing mills. I imagined your description of the lush, flowery Essex—what a contrast to the rough, stark, quiet yet dearly loved moors that stretch across this corner of Yorkshire. I visualized the white schoolhouse, the esteemed schoolmaster—I even imagined you and your daughters; and in your second letter, I can clearly see you all, because in describing your children, you unintentionally describe yourself.

‘I may well say that your letters are of value to me, for I seldom receive one but I find something in it which makes me reflect, and reflect on new themes.  Your town life is somewhat different from any I have known, and your allusions to its advantages, troubles, pleasures, and struggles are often full of significance to me.

‘I can honestly say that your letters are valuable to me, as I rarely receive one without discovering something that makes me think, and think about new ideas. Your life in the city is quite different from any I’ve experienced, and your references to its benefits, challenges, joys, and hardships often hold great meaning for me.

‘I have always been accustomed to think that the necessity of p. 382earning one’s subsistence is not in itself an evil, but I feel it may become a heavy evil if health fails, if employment lacks, if the demand upon our efforts made by the weakness of others dependent upon us becomes greater than our strength suffices to answer.  In such a case I can imagine that the married man may wish himself single again, and that the married woman, when she sees her husband over-exerting himself to maintain her and her children, may almost wish—out of the very force of her affection for him—that it had never been her lot to add to the weight of his responsibilities.  Most desirable then is it that all, both men and women, should have the power and the will to work for themselves—most advisable that both sons and daughters should early be inured to habits of independence and industry.  Birds teach their nestlings to fly as soon as their wings are strong enough, they even oblige them to quit the nest if they seem too unwilling to trust their pinions of their own accord.  Do not the swallow and the starling thus give a lesson by which man might profit?

‘I have always thought that needing to earn a living isn't a bad thing in itself, but it can become a heavy burden if health declines, if there's a lack of employment, or if the demands on us from those who depend on us become greater than we can handle. In such situations, I can imagine that a married man might wish he were single again, and that a married woman, seeing her husband overwork himself to support her and their children, might almost wish—out of love for him—that she hadn’t added to his responsibilities. It's really important that everyone, both men and women, has the ability and desire to support themselves—it's wise for both sons and daughters to learn habits of independence and hard work early on. Birds teach their chicks to fly as soon as their wings are strong enough, even pushing them out of the nest if they seem too hesitant to leave on their own. Don’t the swallow and the starling offer a lesson from which humans could benefit?'

‘It seems to me that your kind heart is pained by the thought of what your daughter may suffer if transplanted from a free and indulged home existence to a life of constraint and labour amongst strangers.  Suffer she probably will; but take both comfort and courage, my dear sir, try to soothe your anxiety by this thought, which is not a fallacious one.  Hers will not be a barren suffering; she will gain by it largely; she will “sow in tears to reap in joy.”  A governess’s experience is frequently indeed bitter, but its results are precious: the mind, feeling, temper are there subjected to a discipline equally painful and priceless.  I have known many who were unhappy as governesses, but not one who regretted having undergone the ordeal, and scarcely one whose character was not improved—at once strengthened and purified, fortified and softened, made more enduring for her own afflictions, more considerate for the afflictions of others, by passing through it.

It seems to me that your kind heart is troubled by the thought of what your daughter might go through if she’s moved from a free and pampered home life to one of limitation and hard work among strangers. She probably will suffer; but take comfort and courage, my dear sir. Try to ease your worries with this thought: her suffering won’t be pointless; she will gain a lot from it; she will “sow in tears to reap in joy.” A governess’s experience can be quite tough, but the outcomes are valuable: her mind, feelings, and temperament will go through a process that is both painful and precious. I’ve known many who were unhappy as governesses, but not one has regretted going through the experience, and hardly anyone hasn’t had their character improved—strengthened and purified, made more resilient to her struggles and more empathetic to the struggles of others by going through it.

‘Should your daughter, however, go out as governess, she should first take a firm resolution not to be too soon daunted by difficulties, too soon disgusted by disagreeables; and if she p. 383has a high spirit, sensitive feelings, she should tutor the one to submit, the other to endure, for the sake of those at home.  That is the governess’s best talisman of patience, it is the best balm for wounded susceptibility.  When tried hard she must say, “I will be patient, not out of servility, but because I love my parents, and wish through my perseverance, diligence, and success, to repay their anxieties and tenderness for me.”  With this aid the least-deserved insult may often be swallowed quite calmly, like a bitter pill with a draught of fair water.

If your daughter decides to become a governess, she should first resolve not to be easily discouraged by challenges or turned off by unpleasant situations. If she has a strong spirit and sensitive feelings, she should train herself to accept the first and endure the second, for the sake of those at home. That is the governess’s best tool for patience and the best remedy for hurt feelings. When faced with difficulties, she should remind herself, “I will be patient, not out of weakness, but because I love my parents and want to repay their worries and kindness with my perseverance, hard work, and success.” With this mindset, even the most undeserved insult can often be taken in stride, like a bitter pill chased down with a refreshing drink of water.

‘I think you speak excellent sense when you say that girls without fortune should be brought up and accustomed to support themselves; and that if they marry poor men, it should be with a prospect of being able to help their partners.  If all parents thought so, girls would not be reared on speculation with a view to their making mercenary marriages; and, consequently, women would not be so piteously degraded as they now too often are.

‘I think you make a lot of sense when you say that girls without wealth should be raised to be self-sufficient, and that if they marry men with limited means, it should be with the intention of being able to support their partners. If all parents believed this, girls wouldn’t be raised with the expectation of marrying for money; and, as a result, women wouldn't be as degraded as they often are now.’

‘Fortuneless people may certainly marry, provided they previously resolve never to let the consequences of their marriage throw them as burdens on the hands of their relatives.  But as life is full of unforeseen contingencies, and as a woman may be so placed that she cannot possibly both “guide the house” and earn her livelihood (what leisure, for instance, could Mrs. Williams have with her eight children?), young artists and young governesses should think twice before they unite their destinies.

‘People without fortune can definitely get married, as long as they promise not to be a burden on their relatives because of their marriage. But since life is full of unexpected events, and a woman may find herself in a situation where she can't both “manage the household” and earn a living (for example, what free time could Mrs. Williams have with her eight children?), young artists and young governesses should reconsider before tying their fates together.

‘You speak sense again when you express a wish that Fanny were placed in a position where active duties would engage her attention, where her faculties would be exercised and her mind occupied, and where, I will add, not doubting that my addition merely completes your half-approved idea, the image of the young artist would for the present recede into the background and remain for a few years to come in modest perspective, the finishing point of a vista stretching a considerable distance into futurity.  Fanny may feel sure of this: if she intends to be an artist’s wife she had better try an apprenticeship with Fortune as a governess first; she cannot undergo a better p. 384preparation for that honourable (honourable if rightly considered) but certainly not luxurious destiny.

‘You make a good point again when you say that Fanny should be in a role where active responsibilities would keep her busy, where she could use her talents and stay mentally engaged. I’ll add that the image of the young artist would for now fade into the background and remain in modest view for a few years ahead, the final touch of a scene stretching far into the future. Fanny can be sure of this: if she aims to be an artist’s wife, she’d be better off starting with an apprenticeship with Fortune as a governess; there’s no better preparation for that honorable (honorable if viewed correctly) but certainly not glamorous path.

‘I should say then—judging as well as I can from the materials for forming an opinion your letter affords, and from what I can thence conjecture of Fanny’s actual and prospective position—that you would do well and wisely to put your daughter out.  The experiment might do good and could not do harm, because even if she failed at the first trial (which is not unlikely) she would still be in some measure benefited by the effort.

'Based on what your letter provides and what I can infer about Fanny's current and future situation, I think it would be a good idea to send your daughter away. This experience might be beneficial and wouldn’t hurt her, because even if she doesn’t succeed the first time (which is possible), she would still gain something from the attempt.'

‘I duly received Mirabeau from Mr. Smith.  I must repeat, it is really too kind.  When I have read the book, I will tell you what I think of it—its subject is interesting.  One thing a little annoyed me—as I glanced over the pages I fancied I detected a savour of Carlyle’s peculiarities of style.  Now Carlyle is a great man, but I always wish he would write plain English; and to imitate his Germanisms is, I think, to imitate his faults.  Is the author of this work a Manchester man?  I must not ask his name, I suppose.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘I’ve received Mirabeau from Mr. Smith. I have to say, it’s really too kind. Once I read the book, I’ll let you know what I think of it—its subject is interesting. One thing that annoyed me a bit—while I skimmed through the pages, I thought I noticed a hint of Carlyle’s unique style. Now, Carlyle is a great man, but I always wish he would just write in plain English; imitating his German-style quirks, I believe, just mimics his flaws. Is the author of this work from Manchester? I suppose I shouldn’t ask his name.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Currer Bell.’

‘Currer Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘June 22nd, 1848.

‘June 22nd, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—After reading a book which has both interested and informed you, you like to be able, on laying it down, to speak of it with unqualified approbation—to praise it cordially; you do not like to stint your panegyric, to counteract its effect with blame.

My dear Sir,—After finishing a book that has captured your interest and provided valuable insights, you want to be able to express your admiration for it without hesitation—to enthusiastically praise it; you don’t want to hold back your compliments or undermine its impact with criticism.

‘For this reason I feel a little difficulty in telling you what I think of The Life of Mirabeau.  It has interested me much, and I have derived from it additional information.  In the course of reading it, I have often felt called upon to approve the ability and tact of the writer, to admire the skill with which he conducts the narrative, enchains the reader’s attention, and keeps it fixed upon his hero; but I have also been moved frequently to disapprobation.  It is not the political principles of the writer with which I find fault, nor is it his talents I feel p. 385inclined to disparage; to speak truth, it is his manner of treating Mirabeau’s errors that offends—then, I think, he is neither wise nor right—there, I think, he betrays a little of crudeness, a little of presumption, not a little of indiscretion.

For this reason, I find it a bit challenging to express my thoughts on The Life of Mirabeau. I’ve found it very interesting and have gained additional insights from it. While reading, I often felt compelled to praise the writer's skill and diplomacy, admiring how he tells the story, captures the reader's attention, and keeps it focused on his subject. However, I’ve also frequently felt disapproval. It’s not the writer’s political beliefs that bother me, nor am I questioning his talents; to be honest, it’s his way of addressing Mirabeau’s mistakes that irritates me—there, I believe he is neither wise nor correct—there, I think he shows a bit of naivety and arrogance, and a fair amount of thoughtlessness.

‘Could you with confidence put this work into the hands of your son, secure that its perusal would not harm him, that it would not leave on his mind some vague impression that there is a grandeur in vice committed on a colossal scale?  Whereas, the fact is, that in vice there is no grandeur, that it is, on whichever side you view it, and in whatever accumulation, only a foul, sordid, and degrading thing.  The fact is, that this great Mirabeau was a mixture of divinity and dirt; that there was no divinity whatever in his errors, they were all sullying dirt; that they ruined him, brought down his genius to the kennel, deadened his fine nature and generous sentiments, made all his greatness as nothing; that they cut him off in his prime, obviated all his aims, and struck him dead in the hour when France most needed him.

‘Would you confidently give this work to your son, knowing that reading it wouldn’t harm him and that it wouldn’t leave him with the impression that there’s something majestic about large-scale wrongdoing? The truth is that there’s no grandeur in vice; no matter how you look at it or how much it builds up, it’s simply foul, disgusting, and degrading. The reality is that this great Mirabeau was a mix of divine and base elements; there was nothing divine about his mistakes—they were all just filthy and corrupting. They destroyed him, dragged his genius down to the gutter, numbed his fine nature and noble feelings, rendered all his greatness insignificant; they cut him off in his prime, thwarted all his ambitions, and took him away just when France needed him the most.’

‘Mirabeau’s life and fate teach, to my perception, the most depressing lesson I have read for years.  One would fain have hoped that so many noble qualities must have made a noble character and achieved noble ends.  No—the mighty genius lived a miserable and degraded life, and died a dog’s death, for want of self-control, for want of morality, for lack of religion.  One’s heart is wrung for Mirabeau after reading his life; and it is not of his greatness we think, when we close the volume, so much as of his hopeless recklessness, and of the sufferings, degradation, and untimely end in which it issued.  It appears to me that the biographer errs also in being too solicitous to present his hero always in a striking point of view—too negligent of the exact truth.  He eulogises him too much; he subdues all the other characters mentioned and keeps them in the shade that Mirabeau may stand out more conspicuously.  This, no doubt, is right in art, and admissible in fiction; but in history (and biography is the history of an individual) it tends to weaken the force of a narrative by weakening your faith in its accuracy.

‘Mirabeau’s life and fate teach, in my view, the most depressing lesson I’ve encountered in years. One would have hoped that so many noble qualities would lead to a noble character and noble outcomes. No—the great genius lived a miserable and degraded life, dying a dog's death due to a lack of self-control, morality, and religion. It’s heartbreaking to think of Mirabeau after reading his life; and when we close the book, we don’t primarily reflect on his greatness, but rather on his reckless abandon and the suffering, degradation, and premature end that resulted. It seems to me that the biographer also makes the mistake of being too eager to present his hero in a striking light—neglecting the precise truth. He praises him too much; he downplays all the other characters mentioned to make Mirabeau stand out more. This might be fine in art and acceptable in fiction, but in history (and biography is the history of an individual), it tends to weaken the impact of the narrative by undermining your trust in its accuracy.’

p. 386TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 386TO W. S. WILLIAMS

Chapter Coffee-House, Ivy Lane,
‘July 8th, 1848.

Chapter Coffee-House, Ivy Lane,
‘July 8th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—Your invitation is too welcome not to be at once accepted.  I should much like to see Mrs. Williams and her children, and very much like to have a quiet chat with yourself.  Would it suit you if we came to-morrow, after dinner—say about seven o’clock, and spent Sunday evening with you?

'My dear Sir,—Your invitation is too welcoming not to accept right away. I would really like to see Mrs. Williams and her kids, and I’d love to have a quiet chat with you. Would it work for you if we came tomorrow after dinner—around seven o’clock—and spent Sunday evening with you?'

‘We shall be truly glad to see you whenever it is convenient to you to call.—I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘We will be really happy to see you whenever it's convenient for you to visit.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, July 13th, 1848.

‘Haworth, July 13th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—We reached home safely yesterday, and in a day or two I doubt not we shall get the better of the fatigues of our journey.

‘My dear Sir,—We got home safely yesterday, and in a day or two, I have no doubt we will recover from the tiredness of our trip.

‘It was a somewhat hasty step to hurry up to town as we did, but I do not regret having taken it.  In the first place, mystery is irksome, and I was glad to shake it off with you and Mr. Smith, and to show myself to you for what I am, neither more nor less—thus removing any false expectations that may have arisen under the idea that Currer Bell had a just claim to the masculine cognomen he, perhaps somewhat presumptuously, adopted—that he was, in short, of the nobler sex.

‘It was a bit of a rush to head into town like we did, but I don’t regret it. First of all, mystery is annoying, and I was happy to get rid of it with you and Mr. Smith, and show you who I really am—no more, no less—thus clearing up any false expectations that might have come from the idea that Currer Bell had a legitimate claim to the male name he, perhaps a bit arrogantly, took on—that he was, in short, of the better sex.

‘I was glad also to see you and Mr. Smith, and am very happy now to have such pleasant recollections of you both, and of your respective families.  My satisfaction would have been complete could I have seen Mrs. Williams.  The appearance of your children tallied on the whole accurately with the description you had given of them.  Fanny was the one I saw least distinctly; I tried to get a clear view of her countenance, but her position in the room did not favour my efforts.

‘I was also glad to see you and Mr. Smith, and I'm really happy now to have such nice memories of both of you and your families. My happiness would have been complete if I could have seen Mrs. Williams. The appearance of your children mostly matched the description you gave of them. Fanny was the one I saw the least clearly; I tried to get a good look at her face, but her position in the room didn't help my efforts.

‘I had just read your article in the John Bull; it very clearly and fully explains the cause of the difference obvious between ancient and modern paintings.  I wish you had been with us p. 387when we went over the Exhibition and the National Gallery; a little explanation from a judge of art would doubtless have enabled us to understand better what we saw; perhaps, one day, we may have this pleasure.

‘I just read your article in the John Bull; it clearly and thoroughly explains the reason for the difference between ancient and modern paintings. I wish you could have joined us p. 387 when we visited the Exhibition and the National Gallery; a bit of insight from an art expert would definitely have helped us appreciate what we were seeing better; maybe one day we’ll have that pleasure.’

‘Accept my own thanks and my sister’s for your kind attention to us while in town, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Please accept my thanks and my sister’s for the kind attention you showed us while we were in town, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Charlotte Brontë.

‘Charlotte Brontë.

‘I trust Mrs. Williams is quite recovered from her indisposition.’

‘I hope Mrs. Williams has fully recovered from her illness.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, July 31st, 1848.

‘Haworth, July 31st, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I have lately been reading Modern Painters, and I have derived from the work much genuine pleasure and, I hope, some edification; at any rate, it made me feel how ignorant I had previously been on the subject which it treats.  Hitherto I have only had instinct to guide me in judging of art; I feel more as if I had been walking blindfold—this book seems to give me eyes.  I do wish I had pictures within reach by which to test the new sense.  Who can read these glowing descriptions of Turner’s works without longing to see them?  However eloquent and convincing the language in which another’s opinion is placed before you, you still wish to judge for yourself.  I like this author’s style much: there is both energy and beauty in it; I like himself too, because he is such a hearty admirer.  He does not give Turner half-measure of praise or veneration, he eulogises, he reverences him (or rather his genius) with his whole soul.  One can sympathise with that sort of devout, serious admiration (for he is no rhapsodist)—one can respect it; and yet possibly many people would laugh at it.  I am truly obliged to Mr. Smith for giving me this book, not having often met with one that has pleased me more.

My dear Sir,—I have recently been reading Modern Painters, and I’ve gained a lot of genuine enjoyment and, hopefully, some insight from it; at least, it made me realize how clueless I was about the topic it covers. Until now, I’ve only had my instincts to rely on when judging art; it feels like I’ve been walking around blindfolded—this book seems to give me sight. I really wish I had some paintings nearby to test this new understanding. Who can read these passionate descriptions of Turner’s work without wanting to see them? No matter how eloquently someone else presents their opinion, you still want to judge for yourself. I really like this author's style: it's both powerful and beautiful; I also like him because he’s such a genuine admirer. He doesn't hold back in his praise or respect for Turner; he wholeheartedly glorifies and venerates him (or rather his genius). One can relate to that kind of sincere, serious admiration (since he’s not a rhapsodist)—one can respect it; yet, many might mock it. I’m truly grateful to Mr. Smith for giving me this book, as I haven’t often come across one that has pleased me more.

‘You will have seen some of the notices of Wildfell Hall.  I wish my sister felt the unfavourable ones less keenly.  She does not say much, for she is of a remarkably taciturn, still, thoughtful nature, reserved even with her nearest of kin, but I cannot avoid seeing that her spirits are depressed sometimes.  The fact p. 388is, neither she nor any of us expected that view to be taken of the book which has been taken by some critics.  That it had faults of execution, faults of art, was obvious, but faults of intention or feeling could be suspected by none who knew the writer.  For my own part, I consider the subject unfortunately chosen—it was one the author was not qualified to handle at once vigorously and truthfully.  The simple and natural—quiet description and simple pathos are, I think, Acton Bell’s forte.  I liked Agnes Grey better than the present work.

‘You may have seen some of the notices for Wildfell Hall. I wish my sister took the negative ones less to heart. She doesn’t say much because she has a very quiet, reflective, and reserved nature, even with her closest family, but I can tell that her spirits are low sometimes. The truth is, neither she nor any of us anticipated that some critics would view the book the way they have. It was clear that there were execution and artistic flaws, but no one who knew the writer could suspect flaws in intention or feeling. As for me, I think the subject was unfortunately chosen—it was something the author wasn’t capable of addressing both vigorously and truthfully. The simple and natural—quiet description and straightforward emotion—are, I believe, Acton Bell’s strengths. I preferred Agnes Grey to this current work.

‘Permit me to caution you not to speak of my sisters when you write to me.  I mean, do not use the word in the plural.  Ellis Bell will not endure to be alluded to under any other appellation than the nom de plume.  I committed a grand error in betraying his identity to you and Mr. Smith.  It was inadvertent—the words, “we are three sisters” escaped me before I was aware.  I regretted the avowal the moment I had made it; I regret it bitterly now, for I find it is against every feeling and intention of Ellis Bell.

“Please let me warn you not to mention my sisters when you write to me. I mean, don’t use the plural form. Ellis Bell cannot stand to be referred to by any name other than the nom de plume. I made a serious mistake by revealing his identity to you and Mr. Smith. It was unintentional—the words, “we are three sisters” slipped out before I realized it. I regretted saying it the moment I did; I feel terrible about it now, because I see it goes against everything Ellis Bell believes and wants.”

‘I was greatly amused to see in the Examiner of this week one of Newby’s little cobwebs neatly swept away by some dexterous brush.  If Newby is not too old to profit by experience, such an exposure ought to teach him that “Honesty is indeed the best policy.”

‘I was really amused to see in the Examiner this week one of Newby’s little traps skillfully cleaned up by some clever touch. If Newby isn’t too old to learn from experience, this exposure should teach him that “Honesty is really the best policy.”’

‘Your letter has just been brought to me.  I must not pause to thank you, I should say too much.  Our life is, and always has been, one of few pleasures, as you seem in part to guess, and for that reason we feel what passages of enjoyment come in our way very keenly; and I think if you knew how pleased I am to get a long letter from you, you would laugh at me.

‘Your letter has just been delivered to me. I shouldn’t take too much time to thank you, or I'd end up saying too much. Our life is, and always has been, filled with few pleasures, as you seem to realize to some extent, and because of that, we genuinely appreciate any moments of joy that come our way; and I think if you knew how happy I am to receive such a long letter from you, you would laugh at me.

‘In return, however, I smile at you for the earnestness with which you urge on us the propriety of seeing something of London society.  There would be an advantage in it—a great advantage; yet it is one that no power on earth could induce Ellis Bell, for instance, to avail himself of.  And even for Acton and Currer, the experiment of an introduction to society would be more formidable than you, probably, can well imagine.  An existence of absolute seclusion and unvarying monotony, such p. 389as we have long—I may say, indeed, ever—been habituated to, tends, I fear, to unfit the mind for lively and exciting scenes, to destroy the capacity for social enjoyment.

‘In return, though, I smile at you for how earnestly you push us to experience some of London society. There would be a benefit to it—a huge benefit; yet there’s no way on earth that someone like Ellis Bell would agree to it. And even for Acton and Currer, the thought of being introduced to society would be more daunting than you probably realize. A life of complete seclusion and constant monotony, such p. 389as we've long—I might even say always—been used to, tends, I fear, to make the mind less suitable for lively and exciting experiences, and diminishes the ability to enjoy social interactions.

‘The only glimpses of society I have ever had were obtained in my vocation of governess, and some of the most miserable moments I can recall were passed in drawing-rooms full of strange faces.  At such times, my animal spirits would ebb gradually till they sank quite away, and when I could endure the sense of exhaustion and solitude no longer, I used to steal off, too glad to find any corner where I could really be alone.  Still, I know very well, that though that experiment of seeing the world might give acute pain for the time, it would do good afterwards; and as I have never, that I remember, gained any important good without incurring proportionate suffering, I mean to try to take your advice some day, in part at least—to put off, if possible, that troublesome egotism which is always judging and blaming itself, and to try, country spinster as I am, to get a view of some sphere where civilised humanity is to be contemplated.

‘The only glimpses of society I've ever had were from my job as a governess, and some of the most miserable moments I remember were spent in drawing rooms filled with unfamiliar faces. During those times, my energy would slowly drain away until I felt completely depleted. When I could no longer handle the exhaustion and loneliness, I would sneak off, grateful to find a quiet spot where I could truly be alone. Still, I know that even though the experience of seeing the world might cause immediate pain, it would ultimately be beneficial. Since I’ve never really gained anything important without experiencing a fair amount of suffering, I intend to take your advice someday, at least partially—putting aside that annoying tendency to constantly judge and blame myself, and trying, as a country spinster, to find a perspective where I can observe civilized humanity.’

‘I smile at you again for supposing that I could be annoyed by what you say respecting your religious and philosophical views; that I could blame you for not being able, when you look amongst sects and creeds, to discover any one which you can exclusively and implicitly adopt as yours.  I perceive myself that some light falls on earth from Heaven—that some rays from the shrine of truth pierce the darkness of this life and world; but they are few, faint, and scattered, and who without presumption can assert that he has found the only true path upwards?

‘I smile at you again for thinking that I could be bothered by what you say about your religious and philosophical views; that I could fault you for not finding a sect or belief that you can fully and completely embrace as your own. I realize that some light reaches the earth from Heaven—that some beams from the sanctuary of truth break through the darkness of this life and world; but they are few, weak, and scattered, and who without arrogance can claim that he has discovered the only true path upwards?

‘Yet ignorance, weakness, or indiscretion, must have their creeds and forms; they must have their props—they cannot walk alone.  Let them hold by what is purest in doctrine and simplest in ritual; something, they must have.

‘Yet ignorance, weakness, or poor judgment must have their beliefs and structures; they need their support—they can't stand on their own. Let them cling to what is purest in principles and simplest in practices; something, they must have.

‘I never read Emerson; but the book which has had so healing an effect on your mind must be a good one.  Very enviable is the writer whose words have fallen like a gentle rain on a soil that so needed and merited refreshment, whose p. 390influence has come like a genial breeze to lift a spirit which circumstances seem so harshly to have trampled.  Emerson, if he has cheered you, has not written in vain.

‘I never read Emerson; but the book that has had such a healing effect on your mind must be a good one. The writer whose words have fallen like a gentle rain on soil that needed and deserved refreshment is truly enviable, whose influence has come like a warm breeze to uplift a spirit that circumstances seem to have trampled so harshly. If Emerson has brought you joy, then he has not written in vain.'

‘May this feeling of self-reconcilement, of inward peace and strength, continue!  May you still be lenient with, be just to, yourself!  I will not praise nor flatter you, I should hate to pay those enervating compliments which tend to check the exertions of a mind that aspires after excellence; but I must permit myself to remark that if you had not something good and superior in you, something better, whether more showy or not, than is often met with, the assurance of your friendship would not make one so happy as it does; nor would the advantage of your correspondence be felt as such a privilege.

‘May this feeling of self-reconciliation, of inner peace and strength, continue! May you continue to be kind to yourself and fair to yourself! I won’t praise or flatter you; I’d hate to give those draining compliments that tend to hold back a mind that strives for excellence. But I have to say that if you didn’t have something good and exceptional in you, something better, whether more flashy or not, than what’s often found, the assurance of your friendship wouldn’t make me as happy as it does; nor would the benefit of your correspondence feel like such a privilege.

‘I hope Mrs. Williams’s state of health may soon improve and her anxieties lessen.  Blameable indeed are those who sow division where there ought to be peace, and especially deserving of the ban of society.

‘I hope Mrs. Williams's health gets better soon and her worries ease up. Those who create conflict where there should be harmony are truly to blame, and they especially deserve to be shunned by society.

‘I thank both you and your family for keeping our secret.  It will indeed be a kindness to us to persevere in doing so; and I own I have a certain confidence in the honourable discretion of a household of which you are the head.—Believe me, yours very sincerely,

‘I appreciate both you and your family for keeping our secret. It would truly be a kindness to us to continue doing so; and I must admit I have a strong belief in the honorable discretion of a household that you lead.—Sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 18th, 1848.

‘October 18th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—Not feeling competent this evening either for study or serious composition, I will console myself with writing to you.  My malady, which the doctors call a bilious fever, lingers, or rather it returns with each sudden change of weather, though I am thankful to say that the relapses have hitherto been much milder than the first attack; but they keep me weak and reduced, especially as I am obliged to observe a very low spare diet.

‘My dear Sir,—Not feeling up to studying or serious writing this evening, I’ll comfort myself by writing to you. My illness, which the doctors refer to as a bilious fever, hangs on, or rather it comes back with each sudden weather change, though I’m grateful to say that the relapses have been much milder than the initial attack; however, they still leave me weak and diminished, especially since I have to stick to a very low and restricted diet.

‘My book, alas! is laid aside for the present; both head and hand seem to have lost their cunning; imagination is pale, stagnant, mute.  This incapacity chagrins me; sometimes I have a feeling of cankering care on the subject, but I combat it as well as I can; it does no good.

‘My book, unfortunately, is put away for now; both my mind and hands seem to have lost their skill; my imagination feels dull, inactive, and silent. This inability frustrates me; sometimes I feel a gnawing worry about it, but I fight against it as best as I can; it doesn’t help.

p. 391‘I am afraid I shall not write a cheerful letter to you.  A letter, however, of some kind I am determined to write, for I should be sorry to appear a neglectful correspondent to one from whose communications I have derived, and still derive, so much pleasure.  Do not talk about not being on a level with Currer Bell, or regard him as “an awful person”; if you saw him now, sitting muffled at the fireside, shrinking before the east wind (which for some days has been blowing wild and keen over our cold hills), and incapable of lifting a pen for any less formidable task than that of writing a few lines to an indulgent friend, you would be sorry not to deem yourself greatly his superior, for you would feel him to be a poor creature.

p. 391‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to write you a cheerful letter. However, I'm determined to write you something because I’d feel bad for coming off as a neglectful friend to someone whose messages have brought me so much joy. Please don’t talk about not measuring up to Currer Bell or think of him as “an awful person”; if you could see him now, bundled up by the fireplace, recoiling from the east wind (which has been blowing fiercely across our chilly hills for the past few days), unable to lift a pen for anything less daunting than scribbling a few lines to a patient friend, you’d regret not thinking of yourself as so much better than him because you’d see him as a pitiful figure.

‘You may be sure I read your views on the providence of God and the nature of man with interest.  You are already aware that in much of what you say my opinions coincide with those you express, and where they differ I shall not attempt to bias you.  Thought and conscience are, or ought to be, free; and, at any rate, if your views were universally adopted there would be no persecution, no bigotry.  But never try to proselytise, the world is not yet fit to receive what you and Emerson say: man, as he now is, can no more do without creeds and forms in religion than he can do without laws and rules in social intercourse.  You and Emerson judge others by yourselves; all mankind are not like you, any more than every Israelite was like Nathaniel.

‘You can be sure I read your thoughts on God's providence and human nature with interest. You already know that my opinions align with many of yours, and where they differ, I won’t try to influence you. Thought and conscience should be free; anyway, if everyone adopted your views, there would be no persecution or bigotry. But never try to convert others; the world isn't ready for what you and Emerson propose. Humans, as they currently are, can't do without beliefs and rituals in religion any more than they can do without laws and rules in social interactions. You and Emerson judge others based on your own standards; not everyone is like you, just as not every Israelite was like Nathaniel.

‘“Is there a human being,” you ask, “so depraved that an act of kindness will not touch—nay, a word melt him?”  There are hundreds of human beings who trample on acts of kindness and mock at words of affection.  I know this though I have seen but little of the world.  I suppose I have something harsher in my nature than you have, something which every now and then tells me dreary secrets about my race, and I cannot believe the voice of the Optimist, charm he never so wisely.  On the other hand, I feel forced to listen when a Thackeray speaks.  I know truth is delivering her oracles by his lips.

‘“Is there a person,” you ask, “so wicked that an act of kindness won’t affect them—let alone a kind word?” There are countless people who ignore kindness and laugh at words of love. I know this even though I’ve seen little of the world. I think I have something harsher in me than you do, something that occasionally reveals grim truths about humanity, and I can’t trust the voice of the Optimist, no matter how wisely they speak. On the other hand, I feel compelled to listen when someone like Thackeray speaks. I know that truth is speaking through him.’

‘As to the great, good, magnanimous acts which have been p. 392performed by some men, we trace them up to motives and then estimate their value; a few, perhaps, would gain and many lose by this test.  The study of motives is a strange one, not to be pursued too far by one fallible human being in reference to his fellows.

‘When it comes to the incredible, generous, and noble actions done by certain individuals, we analyze the reasons behind them and then assess their worth; maybe a few would benefit and many would suffer from this evaluation. Understanding motives is a complex matter, and it's not wise for one imperfect person to dig too deeply into the motivations of others.

‘Do not condemn me as uncharitable.  I have no wish to urge my convictions on you, but I know that while there are many good, sincere, gentle people in the world, with whom kindness is all-powerful, there are also not a few like that false friend (I had almost written fiend) whom you so well and vividly described in one of your late letters, and who, in acting out his part of domestic traitor, must often have turned benefits into weapons wherewith to wound his benefactors.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Please don’t judge me as unkind. I don’t mean to push my beliefs on you, but I understand that while there are many good, sincere, gentle people in the world, who can make kindness go a long way, there are also quite a few like that false friend (I nearly wrote fiend) you described so vividly in one of your recent letters, who, by playing the role of a domestic traitor, must often have turned acts of kindness into weapons to hurt those who helped him.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘April 2nd, 1849.

‘April 2nd, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—My critics truly deserve and have my genuine thanks for the friendly candour with which they have declared their opinions on my book.  Both Mr. Williams and Mr. Taylor express and support their opinions in a manner calculated to command careful consideration.  In my turn I have a word to say.  You both of you dwell too much on what you regard as the artistic treatment of a subject.  Say what you will, gentlemen—say it as ably as you will—truth is better than art.  Burns’ Songs are better than Bulwer’s Epics.  Thackeray’s rude, careless sketches are preferable to thousands of carefully finished paintings.  Ignorant as I am, I dare to hold and maintain that doctrine.

‘My dear Sir,—I truly appreciate my critics and their honesty in sharing their thoughts on my book. Both Mr. Williams and Mr. Taylor express and defend their opinions in a way that deserves careful attention. Now, I have something to add. You both focus too much on what you see as the artistic approach to a subject. No matter how well you say it, gentlemen—no matter how skillfully you argue—truth is greater than art. Burns’ songs are superior to Bulwer’s epics. Thackeray’s rough, unpolished sketches are better than countless meticulously crafted paintings. Though I’m no expert, I dare to hold and assert that belief.

‘You must not expect me to give up Malone and Donne too suddenly—the pair are favourites with me; they shine with a chastened and pleasing lustre in that first chapter, and it is a pity you do not take pleasure in their modest twinkle.  Neither is that opening scene irrelevant to the rest of the book, there are other touches in store which will harmonise with it.

‘You shouldn’t expect me to give up Malone and Donne too quickly—the two are favorites of mine; they glow with a subdued and enjoyable shine in that first chapter, and it’s a shame you don’t enjoy their subtle sparkle. Also, that opening scene isn’t irrelevant to the rest of the book; there are other elements coming that will connect with it.

‘No doubt this handling of the surplice will stir up such p. 393publications as the Christian Remembrancer and the Quarterly—those heavy Goliaths of the periodical press; and if I alone were concerned, this possibility would not trouble me a second.  Full welcome would the giants be to stand in their greaves of brass, poising their ponderous spears, cursing their prey by their gods, and thundering invitations to the intended victim to “come forth” and have his flesh given to the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field.  Currer Bell, without pretending to be a David, feels no awe of the unwieldy Anakim; but—comprehend me rightly, gentlemen—it would grieve him to involve others in blame: any censure that would really injure and annoy his publishers would wound himself.  Therefore believe that he will not act rashly—trust his discretion.

‘No doubt this handling of the surplice will provoke publications like the Christian Remembrancer and the Quarterly—those heavyweight giants of the periodical press; and if I were the only one affected, this prospect wouldn’t bother me at all. I would fully welcome the giants to stand in their brass armor, brandishing their heavy spears, cursing their target by their gods, and shouting challenges to their intended victim to “come out” and have his flesh offered to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. Currer Bell, without claiming to be a David, feels no fear of the cumbersome giants; however—please understand me correctly, gentlemen—it would upset him to drag others into blame: any criticism that would truly hurt and annoy his publishers would hurt him too. So trust that he won’t act recklessly—believe in his judgment.

‘Mr. Taylor is right about the bad taste of the opening apostrophe—that I had already condemned in my own mind.  Enough said of a work in embryo.  Permit me to request in conclusion that the MS. may now be returned as soon as convenient.

‘Mr. Taylor is right about the awkwardness of the opening address—I had already criticized it in my own mind. That’s enough said about a work still in progress. Please allow me to request that the manuscript be returned as soon as it’s convenient.’

‘The letter you inclosed is from Mary Howitt.  It contained a proposal for an engagement as contributor to an American periodical.  Of course I have negatived it.  When I can write, the book I have in hand must claim all my attention.  Oh! if Anne were well, if the void Death has left were a little closed up, if the dreary word nevermore would cease sounding in my ears, I think I could yet do something.

‘The letter you included is from Mary Howitt. It had a suggestion for a writing role with an American magazine. Of course, I’ve rejected it. When I can write, the book I'm working on has to take all my focus. Oh! if Anne were well, if the emptiness that Death has caused could be filled a little, if the miserable word nevermore would stop echoing in my ears, I believe I could still create something.

‘It is a long time since you mentioned your own family affairs.  I trust Mrs. Williams continues well, and that Fanny and your other children prosper.—Yours sincerely,

‘It’s been a while since you brought up your family matters. I hope Mrs. Williams is doing well, and that Fanny and your other kids are thriving.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘July 3rd, 1849.

‘July 3rd, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—You do right to address me on subjects which compel me, in order to give a coherent answer, to quit for a moment my habitual train of thought.  The mention of your healthy-living daughters reminds me of the world where other people live—where I lived once.  Theirs are cheerful p. 394images as you present them—I have no wish to shut them out.

Dear Sir,—You’re right to bring up topics that make me pause and shift my usual thinking. When you talk about your health-conscious daughters, it brings to mind the world where others reside—where I once lived. Their lives seem full of joy, just as you describe—I don’t want to exclude them from my thoughts. p. 394

‘From all you say of Ellen, the eldest, I am inclined to respect her much.  I like practical sense which works to the good of others.  I esteem a dutiful daughter who makes her parents happy.

‘From everything you’ve said about Ellen, the eldest, I really admire her. I appreciate practical intelligence that benefits others. I value a devoted daughter who brings joy to her parents.’

‘Fanny’s character I would take on second hand from nobody, least of all from her kind father, whose estimate of human nature in general inclines rather to what ought to be than to what is.  Of Fanny I would judge for myself, and that not hastily nor on first impressions.

‘Fanny’s character, I wouldn’t take secondhand from anyone, especially not from her kind father, whose view of human nature tends to lean more towards what ought to be rather than what is. I would judge Fanny for myself, and I wouldn’t do that quickly or based on first impressions.

‘I am glad to hear that Louisa has a chance of a presentation to Queen’s College.  I hope she will succeed.  Do not, my dear sir, be indifferent—be earnest about it.  Come what may afterwards, an education secured is an advantage gained—a priceless advantage.  Come what may, it is a step towards independency, and one great curse of a single female life is its dependency.  It does credit both to Louisa’s heart and head that she herself wishes to get this presentation.  Encourage her in the wish.  Your daughters—no more than your sons—should be a burden on your hands.  Your daughters—as much as your sons—should aim at making their way honourably through life.  Do not wish to keep them at home.  Believe me, teachers may be hard-worked, ill-paid, and despised, but the girl who stays at home doing nothing is worse off than the hardest-wrought and worst-paid drudge of a school.  Whenever I have seen, not merely in humble, but in affluent homes, families of daughters sitting waiting to be married, I have pitied them from my heart.  It is doubtless well—very well—if Fate decrees them a happy marriage; but, if otherwise, give their existence some object, their time some occupation, or the peevishness of disappointment and the listlessness of idleness will infallibly degrade their nature.

‘I’m glad to hear that Louisa has a chance to present at Queen’s College. I hope she succeeds. Please, my dear sir, don’t be indifferent—take it seriously. No matter what happens afterward, a secured education is a valuable advantage—a priceless one. Regardless of the outcome, it’s a step towards independence, and one of the biggest challenges of being a single girl is the dependency it brings. It reflects well on Louisa’s character and intellect that she wants this opportunity for herself. Support her in that desire. Your daughters—just like your sons—should not be a burden on you. Your daughters, just as much as your sons, should strive to make their way honorably in life. Don’t wish to keep them at home. Believe me, teachers may be overworked, underpaid, and undervalued, but a girl who stays home doing nothing is worse off than the most overworked and poorly paid worker in a school. Whenever I’ve seen families with daughters sitting around waiting to get married, not just in modest homes but in wealthy ones too, I’ve felt genuine sympathy for them. It’s certainly wonderful—very wonderful—if fate brings them a happy marriage; but if not, give their lives some purpose, their time some activity, or the bitterness of disappointment and the dullness of idleness will surely degrade their spirit.

‘Should Louisa eventually go out as a governess, do not be uneasy respecting her lot.  The sketch you give of her character leads me to think she has a better chance of happiness than one in a hundred of her sisterhood.  Of pleasing exterior (that is always an advantage—children like it), good p. 395sense, obliging disposition, cheerful, healthy, possessing a good average capacity, but no prominent master talent to make her miserable by its cravings for exercise, by its mutiny under restraint—Louisa thus endowed will find the post of governess comparatively easy.  If she be like her mother—as you say she is—and if, consequently, she is fond of children, and possesses tact for managing them, their care is her natural vocation—she ought to be a governess.

‘If Louisa eventually becomes a governess, don’t worry about her situation. The description you give of her character makes me believe she has a better chance of happiness than most of her peers. She has a pleasing appearance (which is always a plus—kids respond well to that), good common sense, a helpful nature, and she’s cheerful and healthy. She has an average level of ability, but no standout talent that would cause her unhappiness by demanding too much attention or rebelling against limitations. With these qualities, Louisa will find the role of a governess relatively easy. If she is anything like her mother—as you say she is—and enjoys being around kids, with a knack for managing them, then caring for them is a natural fit for her—she should definitely be a governess.

‘Your sketch of Braxborne, as it is and as it was, is sadly pleasing.  I remember your first picture of it in a letter written a year ago—only a year ago.  I was in this room—where I now am—when I received it.  I was not alone then.  In those days your letters often served as a text for comment—a theme for talk; now, I read them, return them to their covers and put them away.  Johnson, I think, makes mournful mention somewhere of the pleasure that accrues when we are “solitary and cannot impart it.”  Thoughts, under such circumstances, cannot grow to words, impulses fail to ripen to actions.

‘Your description of Braxborne, as it is and as it was, is sadly enjoyable. I remember your first depiction of it in a letter you wrote a year ago—just a year ago. I was in this room—where I am now—when I got it. I wasn't alone back then. In those days, your letters often sparked comments—a topic for conversation; now, I read them, put them back in their envelopes, and store them away. Johnson, I think, makes a sad reference somewhere about the pleasure that comes when we are “alone and can't share it.” Thoughts, in such situations, can’t turn into words, and feelings don’t mature into actions.

‘Lonely as I am, how should I be if Providence had never given me courage to adopt a career—perseverance to plead through two long, weary years with publishers till they admitted me?  How should I be with youth past, sisters lost, a resident in a moorland parish where there is not a single educated family?  In that case I should have no world at all: the raven, weary of surveying the deluge, and without an ark to return to, would be my type.  As it is, something like a hope and motive sustains me still.  I wish all your daughters—I wish every woman in England, had also a hope and motive.  Alas! there are many old maids who have neither.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘As lonely as I am, how would I feel if fate hadn't given me the courage to choose a career and the perseverance to spend two long, exhausting years trying to get publishers to accept me? How would I feel with my youth gone, sisters lost, living in a remote area with no educated families around? In that case, I would have no connection to the world at all; I would be like the raven, tired of searching through the flood, with no ark to return to. As it is, I still have a glimmer of hope and purpose that keeps me going. I wish all your daughters—I wish every woman in England—had the same hope and purpose. Sadly, there are many old maids who have neither.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘July 26th, 1849.

‘July 26th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I must rouse myself to write a line to you, lest a more protracted silence should seem strange.

‘My dear Sir,—I need to get myself together and write a quick note to you, so that a longer silence doesn’t seem odd.

‘Truly glad was I to hear of your daughter’s success.  I trust its results may conduce to the permanent advantage both of herself and her parents.

I was truly happy to hear about your daughter's success. I hope it leads to lasting benefits for both her and her parents.

p. 396‘Of still more importance than your children’s education is your wife’s health, and therefore it is still more gratifying to learn that your anxiety on that account is likely to be alleviated.  For her own sake, no less than for that of others, it is to be hoped that she is now secured from a recurrence of her painful and dangerous attacks.  It was pleasing, too, to hear of good qualities being developed in the daughters by the mother’s danger.  May your girls always so act as to justify their father’s kind estimate of their characters; may they never do what might disappoint or grieve him.

p. 396‘More important than your children's education is your wife's health, so it's even more reassuring to know that your worries about her are likely to ease. For her own well-being, as well as for others, we can only hope she is now protected from recurring painful and dangerous episodes. It was also uplifting to hear about the positive qualities developing in the daughters due to their mother's struggles. I hope your girls always behave in a way that makes their father proud; may they never do anything that could disappoint or upset him.

‘Your suggestion relative to myself is a good one in some respects, but there are two persons whom it would not suit; and not the least incommoded of these would be the young person whom I might request to come and bury herself in the hills of Haworth, to take a church and stony churchyard for her prospect, the dead silence of a village parsonage—in which the tick of the clock is heard all day long—for her atmosphere, and a grave, silent spinster for her companion.  I should not like to see youth thus immured.  The hush and gloom of our house would be more oppressive to a buoyant than to a subdued spirit.  The fact is, my work is my best companion; hereafter I look for no great earthly comfort except what congenial occupation can give.  For society, long seclusion has in a great measure unfitted me, I doubt whether I should enjoy it if I might have it.  Sometimes I think I should, and I thirst for it; but at other times I doubt my capability of pleasing or deriving pleasure.  The prisoner in solitary confinement, the toad in the block of marble, all in time shape themselves to their lot.—Yours sincerely,

‘Your suggestion about me is good in some ways, but it wouldn't work for two people, one of whom is the young person I might ask to come and bury herself in the hills of Haworth. She would have a church and a stony graveyard as her view, the dead silence of a village parsonage—where the clock ticks all day long—as her atmosphere, and a grave, silent spinster as her companion. I wouldn’t want to see youth trapped like that. The hush and gloom of our house would weigh more heavily on an energetic spirit than a subdued one. The truth is, my work is my best companion; I don’t expect any great comfort from life except what I can find in meaningful work. As for socializing, long solitude has mostly unprepared me for it, and I wonder if I would enjoy it if I had the chance. Sometimes I think I would, and I crave it, but at other times, I doubt my ability to please or find enjoyment. Like a prisoner in solitary confinement or a toad encased in a block of marble, we all eventually adapt to our circumstances.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘September 13th, 1849.

‘September 13th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I want to know your opinion of the subject of this proof-sheet.  Mr. Taylor censured it; he considers as defective all that portion which relates to Shirley’s nervousness—the bite of the dog, etc.  How did it strike you on reading it?

My dear Sir,—I want to know what you think about this proof-sheet. Mr. Taylor criticized it; he finds all the parts about Shirley’s nervousness—the dog bite, etc.—to be flawed. What was your impression when you read it?

p. 397‘I ask this though I well know it cannot now be altered.  I can work indefatigably at the correction of a work before it leaves my hands, but when once I have looked on it as completed and submitted to the inspection of others, it becomes next to impossible to alter or amend.  With the heavy suspicion on my mind that all may not be right, I yet feel forced to put up with the inevitably wrong.

p. 397‘I ask this even though I know it can't be changed now. I can tirelessly work on fixing something before it goes out, but once I see it as finished and let others review it, it’s almost impossible to change or fix. With the nagging worry that something might be off, I still feel compelled to accept the inevitable mistakes.’

‘Reading has, of late, been my great solace and recreation.  I have read J. C. Hare’s Guesses at Truth, a book containing things that in depth and far-sought wisdom sometimes recall the Thoughts of Pascal, only it is as the light of the moon recalls that of the sun.

‘Reading has recently become my greatest comfort and entertainment. I have read J. C. Hare’s Guesses at Truth, a book that offers insights so profound and well-considered that they sometimes remind me of the Thoughts of Pascal, but it’s more like the moon’s light echoes that of the sun.

‘I have read with pleasure a little book on English Social Life by the wife of Archbishop Whately.  Good and intelligent women write well on such subjects.  This lady speaks of governesses.  I was struck by the contrast offered in her manner of treating the topic to that of Miss Rigby in the Quarterly.  How much finer the feeling—how much truer the feeling—how much more delicate the mind here revealed!

‘I have enjoyed reading a little book on English Social Life by the wife of Archbishop Whately. Smart and capable women write well on these topics. This woman discusses governesses. I was impressed by how differently she approaches the subject compared to Miss Rigby in the Quarterly. The sensitivity here is so much finer—so much more genuine—and the intellect shown is so much more refined!’

‘I have read David Copperfield; it seems to me very good—admirable in some parts.  You said it had affinity to Jane Eyre.  It has, now and then—only what an advantage has Dickens in his varied knowledge of men and things!  I am beginning to read Eckermann’s Goethe—it promises to be a most interesting work.  Honest, simple, single-minded Eckermann!  Great, powerful, giant-souled, but also profoundly egotistical, old Johann Wolfgang von Goethe!  He was a mighty egotist—I see he was: he thought no more of swallowing up poor Eckermann’s existence in his own than the whale thought of swallowing Jonah.

‘I have read David Copperfield; I think it’s really good—excellent in some parts. You mentioned it has similarities to Jane Eyre. It does, occasionally—only Dickens really has the advantage with his diverse knowledge of people and things! I’m starting to read Eckermann’s Goethe—it looks like it’s going to be a very interesting read. Honest, straightforward, single-minded Eckermann! Great, powerful, giant-hearted, but also deeply egotistical, old Johann Wolfgang von Goethe! He was a huge egotist—I can see he was: he didn’t care any more about absorbing poor Eckermann’s existence into his own than the whale cared about swallowing Jonah.

‘The worst of reading graphic accounts of such men, of seeing graphic pictures of the scenes, the society, in which they moved, is that it excites a too tormenting longing to look on the reality.  But does such reality now exist?  Amidst all the troubled waters of European society does such a vast, strong, selfish, old Leviathan now roll ponderous!  I suppose not.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘The worst part about reading detailed accounts of such people and seeing vivid pictures of the scenes and society they were part of is that it creates an unbearable desire to witness the reality. But does that reality even exist anymore? In the middle of all the chaos in European society, does a massive, powerful, selfish beast like the old Leviathan still exist? I doubt it.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 398TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 398TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 19th, 1850.

‘March 19th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—The books came yesterday evening just as I was wishing for them very much.  There is much interest for me in opening the Cornhill parcel.  I wish there was not pain too—but so it is.  As I untie the cords and take out the volumes, I am reminded of those who once on similar occasions looked on eagerly; I miss familiar voices commenting mirthfully and pleasantly; the room seems very still, very empty; but yet there is consolation in remembering that papa will take pleasure in some of the books.  Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness—it has no taste.

My dear Sir,—The books arrived yesterday evening just when I was really wanting them. I feel a lot of excitement as I open the Cornhill package. I wish there wasn't any pain involved—but that's just how it is. As I untie the strings and pull out the volumes, I think of those who used to watch eagerly during similar moments; I miss the familiar voices making joyful and pleasant comments; the room feels very quiet, very empty; but still, there's some comfort in knowing that Dad will enjoy some of the books. Happiness that's not shared hardly feels like happiness at all—it doesn't have any flavor.

‘I hope Mrs. Williams continues well, and that she is beginning to regain composure after the shock of her recent bereavement.  She has indeed sustained a loss for which there is no substitute.  But rich as she still is in objects for her best affections, I trust the void will not be long or severely felt.  She must think, not of what she has lost, but of what she possesses.  With eight fine children, how can she ever be poor or solitary!—Believe me, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘I hope Mrs. Williams is doing well and that she is starting to regain her composure after the shock of her recent loss. She has experienced a loss that cannot be replaced. However, since she still has many beloved things in her life, I hope the emptiness doesn't last too long or feel too overwhelming. She should focus not on what she has lost, but on what she still has. With eight wonderful children, how can she ever feel poor or alone!—Believe me, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘April 12th, 1850.

‘April 12th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I own I was glad to receive your assurance that the Calcutta paper’s surmise was unfounded. [398]  It is said that when we wish a thing to be true, we are prone to believe it true; but I think (judging from myself) we adopt with a still prompter credulity the rumour which shocks.

My dear Sir,—I have to admit I was pleased to get your confirmation that the Calcutta paper’s speculation was off base. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ It’s often said that when we want something to be true, we tend to believe it is; but I believe (based on my own experience) that we more quickly accept the rumors that disturb us.

‘It is very kind in Dr. Forbes to give me his book.  I hope Mr. Smith will have the goodness to convey my thanks for the present.  You can keep it to send with the next parcel, or perhaps I may be in London myself before May is over.  That invitation I mentioned in a previous letter is still urged upon me, and well as I know what penance its acceptance would entail in some points, I also know the advantage it would bring in others.  My conscience tells me it would be p. 399the act of a moral poltroon to let the fear of suffering stand in the way of improvement.  But suffer I shall.  No matter.

‘It's really generous of Dr. Forbes to give me his book. I hope Mr. Smith will kindly pass on my thanks for the gift. You can keep it to send with the next parcel, or maybe I’ll be in London myself before May ends. That invitation I mentioned in a previous letter is still being pushed on me, and while I know that accepting it would involve some challenges, I also recognize the benefits it could bring in other ways. My conscience tells me it would be cowardly to let the fear of suffering block the path to personal growth. But I will suffer. It doesn’t matter.

‘The perusal of Southey’s Life has lately afforded me much pleasure.  The autobiography with which it commences is deeply interesting, and the letters which follow are scarcely less so, disclosing as they do a character most estimable in its integrity and a nature most amiable in its benevolence, as well as a mind admirable in its talent.  Some people assert that genius is inconsistent with domestic happiness, and yet Southey was happy at home and made his home happy; he not only loved his wife and children though he was a poet, but he loved them the better because he was a poet.  He seems to have been without taint of worldliness.  London with its pomps and vanities, learned coteries with their dry pedantry, rather scared than attracted him.  He found his prime glory in his genius, and his chief felicity in home affections.  I like Southey.

I recently found a lot of joy in reading Southey’s Life. The autobiography at the beginning is really fascinating, and the letters that follow are just as engaging, revealing a character with admirable integrity, a wonderfully kind nature, and impressive talent. Some people claim that genius doesn't go hand in hand with a happy home life, yet Southey managed to be content at home and create a happy environment there; he not only loved his wife and children despite being a poet, but he loved them even more because he was a poet. He seemed to be free from any worldly taint. The allure of London with its superficiality and the learned circles with their dull pedantry seemed to repel him rather than attract him. He found his greatest pride in his genius and his main happiness in his family relationships. I like Southey.

‘I have likewise read one of Miss Austen’s works—Emma—read it with interest and with just the degree of admiration which Miss Austen herself would have thought sensible and suitable.  Anything like warmth or enthusiasm—anything energetic, poignant, heart-felt is utterly out of place in commending these works: all such demonstration the authoress would have met with a well-bred sneer, would have calmly scorned as outré and extravagant.  She does her business of delineating the surface of the lives of genteel English people curiously well.  There is a Chinese fidelity, a miniature delicacy in the painting.  She ruffles her reader by nothing vehement, disturbs him by nothing profound.  The passions are perfectly unknown to her; she rejects even a speaking acquaintance with that stormy sisterhood.  Even to the feelings she vouchsafes no more than an occasional graceful but distant recognition—too frequent converse with them would ruffle the smooth elegance of her progress.  Her business is not half so much with the human heart as with the human eyes, mouth, hands, and feet.  What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study; but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen p. 400seat of life and the sentient target of death—this Miss Austen ignores.  She no more, with her mind’s eye, beholds the heart of her race than each man, with bodily vision, sees the heart in his heaving breast.  Jane Austen was a complete and most sensible lady, but a very incomplete and rather insensible (not senseless) woman.  If this is heresy, I cannot help it.  If I said it to some people (Lewes for instance) they would directly accuse me of advocating exaggerated heroics, but I am not afraid of your falling into any such vulgar error.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I have also read one of Miss Austen’s works—Emma—and I found it interesting and admired it just enough for Miss Austen to consider sensible and appropriate. Any hint of warmth or enthusiasm—anything energetic, intense, or heartfelt—would be completely inappropriate for praising these works: the author would have met such displays with a cultured sneer and would have dismissed them as outré and excessive. She skillfully depicts the surface of the lives of genteel English people. There’s a Chinese precision, a delicate detail in her writing. She doesn’t agitate her reader with anything extreme, nor does she disturb them with anything too deep. The passions are completely foreign to her; she avoids even a casual familiarity with that tumultuous realm. She acknowledges feelings only occasionally, with a graceful but detached nod—too much interaction with them would disrupt the smooth elegance of her narrative. Her focus is less on the human heart and more on the human eyes, mouth, hands, and feet. She studies what sees clearly, speaks effectively, and moves gracefully; but what beats rapidly and strongly, though hidden, what flows through the blood, the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death—this Miss Austen overlooks. She doesn’t perceive the heart of her kind any more than a person, with their physical vision, sees the heart in their own chest. Jane Austen was a complete and very sensible lady, but a rather incomplete and somewhat insensible (not senseless) woman. If that’s considered heresy, so be it. If I mentioned this to some people (like Lewes, for example), they would quickly accuse me of promoting exaggerated heroics, but I’m not worried about you making that kind of simple mistake.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 9th, 1850.

‘November 9th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I have read Lord John Russell’s letter with very great zest and relish, and think him a spirited sensible little man for writing it.  He makes no old-womanish outcry of alarm and expresses no exaggerated wrath.  One of the best paragraphs is that which refers to the Bishop of London and the Puseyites.  Oh! I wish Dr. Arnold were yet living, or that a second Dr. Arnold could be found!  Were there but ten such men amongst the hierarchs of the Church of England she might bid defiance to all the scarlet hats and stockings in the Pope’s gift.  Her sanctuaries would be purified, her rites reformed, her withered veins would swell again with vital sap; but it is not so.

‘My dear Sir,—I have read Lord John Russell’s letter with great enthusiasm and enjoyment, and I think he’s a spirited, sensible little man for writing it. He doesn’t make a fuss or show exaggerated anger. One of the best parts is the section about the Bishop of London and the Puseyites. Oh! I wish Dr. Arnold were still alive, or that we could find another Dr. Arnold! If there were just ten such men among the leaders of the Church of England, she could stand up to all the scarlet hats and stockings that the Pope can offer. Her sanctuaries would be cleaned up, her rituals updated, and her withered veins would once again flow with life; but it isn’t so.

‘It is well that truth is indestructible—that ruin cannot crush nor fire annihilate her divine essence.  While forms change and institutions perish, “truth is great and shall prevail.”

‘It’s good that truth is indestructible—that ruin can’t crush it nor fire destroy its divine essence. While forms change and institutions fade away, “truth is great and shall prevail.”

‘I am truly glad to hear that Miss Kavanagh’s health is improved.  You can send her book whenever it is most convenient.  I received from Cornhill the other day a periodical containing a portrait of Jenny Lind—a sweet, natural, innocent peasant-girl face, curiously contrasted with an artificial fine-lady dress.  I do like and esteem Jenny’s character.  Yet not long since I heard her torn to pieces by the tongue of detraction—scarcely a virtue left—twenty odious defects imputed.

‘I’m really glad to hear that Miss Kavanagh is feeling better. You can send her book whenever it’s convenient for you. The other day, I got a magazine from Cornhill that had a portrait of Jenny Lind—a lovely, down-to-earth, innocent peasant girl's face, which was oddly contrasted with a fancy lady's dress. I genuinely like and respect Jenny’s character. However, not long ago, I heard her being harshly criticized—almost every virtue was stripped away—twenty unpleasant flaws were attributed to her.

‘There was likewise a most faithful portrait of R. H. Home, with his imaginative forehead and somewhat foolish-looking p. 401mouth and chin, indicating that mixed character which I should think he owns.  Mr. Home writes well.  That tragedy on the Death of Marlowe reminds me of some of the best of Dumas’ dramatic pieces.—Yours very sincerely,

‘There was also a very accurate portrait of R. H. Home, with his imaginative forehead and somewhat silly-looking mouth and chin, showing that mixed character that I assume he has. Mr. Home writes well. That tragedy about the Death of Marlowe reminds me of some of the best work by Dumas.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January, 1851.

‘January, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen,—I sent yesterday the Leader newspaper, which you must always send to Hunsworth as soon as you have done with it.  I will continue to forward it as long as I get it.

Dear Ellen,—I sent the Leader newspaper yesterday, which you should always send to Hunsworth as soon as you’re done with it. I’ll keep forwarding it as long as I receive it.

‘I am trying a little Hydropathic treatment; I like it, and I think it has done me good.  Inclosed is a letter received a few days since.  I wish you to read it because it gives a very fair notion both of the disposition and mind; read, return, and tell me what you think of it.

‘I’m trying out a little hydrotherapy; I like it, and I think it’s been helpful. Enclosed is a letter I got a few days ago. I want you to read it because it gives a pretty good idea of the person's character and thoughts; read it, return it, and let me know what you think of it.

‘Thackeray has given dreadful trouble by his want of punctuality.  Mr. Williams says if he had not been helped out with the vigour, energy, and method of Mr. Smith, he must have sunk under the day and night labour of the last few weeks.

‘Thackeray has caused a lot of trouble with his lack of punctuality. Mr. Williams says that if he hadn’t been supported by the strength, enthusiasm, and organization of Mr. Smith, he would have been overwhelmed by the day and night work of the past few weeks.

‘Write soon.

‘Write soon.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘July 21st, 1851.

‘July 21st, 1851.

‘My dear Sir,—I delayed answering your very interesting letter until the box should have reached me; and now that it is come I can only acknowledge its arrival: I cannot say at all what I felt as I unpacked its contents.  These Cornhill parcels have something of the magic charm of a fairy gift about them, as well as of the less poetical but more substantial pleasure of a box from home received at school.  You have sent me this time even more books than usual, and all good.

My dear Sir,—I waited to reply to your fascinating letter until the box arrived; and now that it has, I can only confirm that I received it. I can't fully express what I felt while unpacking it. These Cornhill packages have a bit of the magical charm of a fairy gift, along with the more practical but equally enjoyable feeling of getting a care package from home during school. You've sent me even more books than usual this time, and they're all excellent.

‘What shall I say about the twenty numbers of splendid engravings laid cozily at the bottom?  The whole Vernon Gallery brought to one’s fireside!  Indeed, indeed I can say nothing, except that I will take care, and keep them clean, and send them back uninjured.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘What can I say about the twenty gorgeous engravings nestled at the bottom? The entire Vernon Gallery brought right to your living room! Honestly, I can't say much at all, except that I will be sure to take care of them, keep them clean, and return them in perfect condition.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 402TO W. S. WILLIAMS

p. 402TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 6th, 1851.

‘November 6th, 1851.

‘My dear Sir,—I have true pleasure in inclosing for your son Frank a letter of introduction to Mrs. Gaskell, and earnestly do I trust the acquaintance may tend to his good.  To make all sure—for I dislike to go on doubtful grounds—I wrote to ask her if she would permit the introduction.  Her frank, kind answer pleased me greatly.

Dear Sir,—I’m happy to enclose a letter of introduction for your son Frank to Mrs. Gaskell, and I sincerely hope that this connection will benefit him. To be certain—since I don't like to take chances—I wrote to ask her if she would agree to the introduction. Her honest and kind response pleased me very much.

‘I have received the books.  I hope to write again when I have read The Fair Carew.  The very title augurs well—it has no hackneyed sound.—Believe me, sincerely yours,

‘I have received the books. I hope to write again when I have read The Fair Carew. The title sounds promising—it doesn't feel cliché. —Believe me, sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, May 28th, 1853.

‘Haworth, May 28th, 1853.

‘My dear Sir,—The box of books arrived safely yesterday evening, and I feel especially obliged for the selection, as it includes several that will be acceptable and interesting to my father.

My dear Sir,—The box of books arrived safely yesterday evening, and I feel particularly grateful for the selection, as it includes several that will be enjoyable and interesting to my father.

‘I despatch to-day a box of return books.  Among them will be found two or three of those just sent, being such as I had read before—i.e., Moore’s Life and Correspondence, 1st and 2nd vols.; Lamartine’s Restoration of the Monarchy, etc.  I have thought of you more than once during the late bright weather, knowing how genial you find warmth and sunshine.  I trust it has brought this season its usual cheering and beneficial effect.  Remember me kindly to Mrs. Williams and her daughters, and,—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I’m sending a box of return books today. Among them, you’ll find two or three that were just sent, as they are ones I’ve read before—like Moore’s Life and Correspondence, volumes 1 and 2; Lamartine’s Restoration of the Monarchy, etc. I’ve thought about you more than once during the recent nice weather, knowing how much you enjoy warmth and sunshine. I hope it has brought its usual cheerful and positive effects this season. Please send my best to Mrs. Williams and her daughters, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 6th, 1853.

‘December 6th, 1853.

‘My dear Sir,—I forwarded last week a box of return books to Cornhill, which I trust arrived safely.  To-day I received the Edinburgh Guardian, [402] for which I thank you.

Dear Sir,—I sent a box of return books to Cornhill last week, and I hope it arrived safely. Today, I received the Edinburgh Guardian, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__ for which I thank you.

‘Do not trouble yourself to select or send any more books.  These courtesies must cease some day, and I would rather give them up than wear them out.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Don’t worry about choosing or sending any more books. These kind gestures will have to stop eventually, and I’d rather stop now than wear them out.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 403CHAPTER XV: WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, October 28th, 1847.

‘Haworth, October 28th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—Your last letter was very pleasant to me to read, and is very cheering to reflect on.  I feel honoured in being approved by Mr. Thackeray, because I approve Mr. Thackeray.  This may sound presumptuous perhaps, but I mean that I have long recognised in his writings genuine talent, such as I admired, such as I wondered at and delighted in.  No author seems to distinguish so exquisitely as he does dross from ore, the real from the counterfeit.  I believed too he had deep and true feelings under his seeming sternness.  Now I am sure he has.  One good word from such a man is worth pages of praise from ordinary judges.

Dear Sir,—I really enjoyed your last letter, and it lifted my spirits. I feel honored to have Mr. Thackeray's approval because I have a great admiration for him. This may sound a bit bold, but I genuinely see real talent in his work, the kind I respect and enjoy. No other writer seems to differentiate between what’s valuable and what’s not, between the genuine and the fake, as he does. I also believed that beneath his apparent sternness, he had deep and real feelings, and now I'm confident of that. A kind word from someone like him is worth volumes of praise from others.

‘You are right in having faith in the reality of Helen Burns’s character; she was real enough.  I have exaggerated nothing there.  I abstained from recording much that I remember respecting her, lest the narrative should sound incredible.  Knowing this, I could not but smile at the quiet self-complacent dogmatism with which one of the journals lays it down that “such creations as Helen Burns are very beautiful but very untrue.”

‘You’re right to recognize the reality of Helen Burns’s character; she was completely real. I didn’t exaggerate anything about her. I chose not to include a lot of what I remember about her to keep the story believable. Knowing this, I couldn’t help but smile at the calm, self-satisfied certainty with which one of the journals claims that “characters like Helen Burns are very beautiful but very untrue.”

‘The plot of Jane Eyre may be a hackneyed one.  Mr. Thackeray remarks that it is familiar to him.  But having read comparatively few novels, I never chanced to meet with it, and I thought it original.  The work referred to by the critic of the Athenæum, I had not had the good fortune to hear of.

‘The plot of Jane Eyre might be predictable. Mr. Thackeray says it's familiar to him. However, since I've read relatively few novels, I had never encountered it before and thought it was original. The work mentioned by the critic from the Athenæum is something I hadn’t had the chance to hear about.

‘The Weekly Chronicle seems inclined to identify me with Mrs. Marsh.  I never had the pleasure of perusing a line of Mrs. Marsh’s in my life, but I wish very much to read her works, and shall profit by the first opportunity of doing so.  I hope I shall not find I have been an unconscious imitator.

‘The Weekly Chronicle seems eager to link me with Mrs. Marsh. I’ve never read a single line of her work, but I really want to check it out and will do so at the first opportunity. I hope I won’t find that I’ve been an unintentional imitator.’

p. 405‘I would still endeavour to keep my expectations low respecting the ultimate success of Jane Eyre.  But my desire that it should succeed augments, for you have taken much trouble about the work, and it would grieve me seriously if your active efforts should be baffled and your sanguine hopes disappointed.  Excuse me if I again remark that I fear they are rather too sanguine; it would be better to moderate them.  What will the critics of the monthly reviews and magazines be likely to see in Jane Eyre (if indeed they deign to read it), which will win from them even a stinted modicum of approbation?  It has no learning, no research, it discusses no subject of public interest.  A mere domestic novel will, I fear, seem trivial to men of large views and solid attainments.

p. 405‘I still intend to keep my expectations low regarding the ultimate success of Jane Eyre. However, my hope for its success is growing because you have devoted so much effort to it, and it would truly upset me if your hard work goes unrecognized and your hopes are dashed. Please forgive me for mentioning again that I worry your expectations might be a bit too high; it might be wise to adjust them. What are the critics in the monthly reviews and magazines likely to find in Jane Eyre (if they even bother to read it) that would earn it any praise? It lacks academic depth, research, and doesn't address any current issues. I fear a simple domestic novel will come across as trivial to those with broader views and significant achievements.

‘Still, efforts so energetic and indefatigable as yours ought to realise a result in some degree favourable, and I trust they will.—I remain, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘Still, your hard work and determination should lead to a positive outcome, and I hope they do.—I remain, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.

‘C. Bell.

‘October 28th, 1847.

‘October 28th, 1847.

‘I have just received the Tablet and the Morning Advertiser.  Neither paper seems inimical to the book, but I see it produces a very different effect on different natures.  I was amused at the analysis in the Tablet, it is oddly expressed in some parts.  I think the critic did not always seize my meaning; he speaks, for instance, of “Jane’s inconceivable alarm at Mr. Rochester’s repelling manner.”  I do not remember that.’

‘I just received the Tablet and the Morning Advertiser. Neither paper seems to oppose the book, but I noticed it affects people in very different ways. I found the analysis in the Tablet amusing; it's expressed oddly in some parts. I don’t think the critic fully understood my intent; for example, he mentions “Jane’s inconceivable fear of Mr. Rochester’s repulsive manner.” I don’t remember that.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘December 11th, 1847.

‘December 11th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I have delayed writing to you in the hope that the parcel you sent would reach me; but after making due inquiries at the Keighley, Bradford, and Leeds Stations and obtaining no news of it, I must conclude that it has been lost.

‘Dear Sir,—I’ve been delaying writing to you, hoping that the package you sent would arrive; however, after checking with the Keighley, Bradford, and Leeds Stations and getting no updates, I have to assume it’s lost.

‘However, I have contrived to get a sight of Fraser’s Magazine from another quarter, so that I have only to regret Mr. Home’s kind present.  Will you thank that gentleman for me when you see him, and tell him that the railroad is to blame for my not having acknowledged his courtesy before?

‘However, I managed to get a copy of Fraser’s Magazine from another source, so I just regret Mr. Home’s kind gift. Please thank him for me when you see him and let him know that the delay is because of the railroad.

p. 406‘Mr. Lewes is very lenient: I anticipated a degree of severity which he has spared me.  This notice differs from all the other notices.  He must be a man of no ordinary mind: there is a strange sagacity evinced in some of his remarks; yet he is not always right.  I am afraid if he knew how much I write from intuition, how little from actual knowledge, he would think me presumptuous ever to have written at all.  I am sure such would be his opinion if he knew the narrow bounds of my attainments, the limited scope of my reading.

p. 406‘Mr. Lewes is quite understanding: I expected him to be much harsher than he is. This feedback is different from what I've received from others. He must have a unique perspective; some of his insights reflect remarkable intelligence, though he isn't always correct. I worry that if he realized how much I rely on my instincts and how little I base my writing on actual knowledge, he would think it arrogant of me to have written anything at all. I’m sure that’s what he would believe if he fully understood my limited knowledge and narrow reading range.

‘There are moments when I can hardly credit that anything I have done should be found worthy to give even transitory pleasure to such men as Mr. Thackeray, Sir John Herschel, Mr. Fonblanque, Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Lewes—that my humble efforts should have had such a result is a noble reward.

‘There are times when I can hardly believe that anything I have done could even provide temporary enjoyment to such remarkable people as Mr. Thackeray, Sir John Herschel, Mr. Fonblanque, Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Lewes—that my modest efforts could lead to such an outcome is a wonderful reward.

‘I was glad and proud to get the bank bill Mr. Smith sent me yesterday, but I hardly ever felt delight equal to that which cheered me when I received your letter containing an extract from a note by Mr. Thackeray, in which he expressed himself gratified with the perusal of Jane Eyre.  Mr. Thackeray is a keen ruthless satirist.  I had never perused his writings but with blended feelings of admiration and indignation.  Critics, it appears to me, do not know what an intellectual boa-constrictor he is.  They call him “humorous,” “brilliant”—his is a most scalping humour, a most deadly brilliancy: he does not play with his prey, he coils round it and crushes it in his rings.  He seems terribly in earnest in his war against the falsehood and follies of “the world.”  I often wonder what that “world” thinks of him.  I should think the faults of such a man would be distrust of anything good in human nature—galling suspicion of bad motives lurking behind good actions.  Are these his failings?

‘I was delighted and proud to receive the bank bill Mr. Smith sent me yesterday, but I have rarely felt as much joy as when I got your letter with an excerpt from Mr. Thackeray's note, where he mentioned he was pleased with Jane Eyre. Mr. Thackeray is a sharp and ruthless satirist. I've always read his work with mixed feelings of admiration and indignation. Critics, it seems to me, don’t recognize what an intellectual powerhouse he is. They describe him as “humorous,” “brilliant”—but his humor is sharp and his brilliance is deadly: he doesn’t play with his prey, he constricts and crushes it in his grasp. He appears utterly serious in his fight against the falsehoods and follies of “the world.” I often wonder what that “world” thinks of him. I would guess his flaws include a distrust of anything good in human nature—a biting suspicion of bad motives hiding behind good actions. Are these his shortcomings?

‘They are, at any rate, the failings of his written sentiments, for he cannot find in his heart to represent either man or woman as at once good and wise.  Does he not too much confound benevolence with weakness and wisdom with mere craft?

‘They are, in any case, the shortcomings of his written thoughts, for he can't seem to portray either man or woman as both good and wise simultaneously. Does he not often confuse kindness with weakness and wisdom with mere cunning?’

‘But I must not intrude on your time by too long a letter.—Believe me, yours respectfully,

‘But I shouldn't take up too much of your time with a long letter.—Trust me, yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.

‘C. Bell.

p. 407‘I have received the Sheffield Iris, the Bradford Observer, the Guardian, the Newcastle Guardian, and the Sunday Times since you wrote.  The contrast between the notices in the two last named papers made me smile.  The Sunday Times almost denounces Jane Eyre as something very reprehensible and obnoxious, whereas the Newcastle Guardian seems to think it a mild potion which may be “safely administered to the most delicate invalid.”  I suppose the public must decide when critics disagree.’

p. 407‘I’ve received the Sheffield Iris, the Bradford Observer, the Guardian, the Newcastle Guardian, and the Sunday Times since you wrote. The difference between the reviews in the last two papers made me smile. The Sunday Times nearly condemns Jane Eyre as very offensive and unacceptable, while the Newcastle Guardian seems to see it as a gentle remedy that can be “safely given to the most sensitive patient.” I suppose the public has to decide when critics disagree.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, December 23rd, 1847.

‘Haworth, December 23rd, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I am glad that you and Messrs. Smith & Elder approve the second preface.

'Dear Sir,—I'm glad that you and Messrs. Smith & Elder appreciate the second preface.

‘I send an errata of the first volume, and part of the second.  I will send the rest of the corrections as soon as possible.

‘I’m sending a list of corrections for the first volume and part of the second. I’ll send the rest of the corrections as soon as I can.

‘Will the inclosed dedication suffice?  I have made it brief, because I wished to avoid any appearance of pomposity or pretension.

‘Will the included dedication be sufficient? I’ve kept it brief to avoid appearing showy or trying too hard.

‘The notice in the Church of England Journal gratified me much, and chiefly because it was the Church of England Journal.  Whatever such critics as he of the Mirror may say, I love the Church of England.  Her ministers, indeed, I do not regard as infallible personages, I have seen too much of them for that, but to the Establishment, with all her faults—the profane Athanasian creed excluded—I am sincerely attached.

‘The notice in the Church of England Journal made me very happy, especially because it was from the Church of England Journal. No matter what critics like the one from the Mirror might say, I love the Church of England. I don’t see her ministers as perfect; I’ve seen too much of them for that, but I am genuinely attached to the Establishment, despite all its flaws—the profane Athanasian creed excluded.

‘Is the forthcoming critique on Mr. Thackeray’s writings in the Edinburgh Review written by Mr. Lewes?  I hope it is.  Mr. Lewes, with his penetrating sagacity and fine acumen, ought to be able to do the author of Vanity Fair justice.  Only he must not bring him down to the level of Fielding—he is far, far above Fielding.  It appears to me that Fielding’s style is arid, and his views of life and human nature coarse, compared with Thackeray’s.

‘Is the upcoming critique of Mr. Thackeray’s writings in the Edinburgh Review authored by Mr. Lewes? I hope so. Mr. Lewes, with his sharp insight and keen intellect, should be able to do justice to the author of Vanity Fair. He just shouldn’t compare him to Fielding—Thackeray is far superior to Fielding. To me, Fielding’s style feels dry, and his views on life and human nature are simplistic compared to Thackeray’s.’

‘With many thanks for your kind wishes, and a cordial reciprocation of them,—I remain, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘Thank you so much for your kind wishes, and I sincerely wish you well in return. I remain, dear sir, respectfully yours,

‘C. Bell.

‘C. Bell.

p. 408‘On glancing over this scrawl, I find it so illegibly written that I fear you will hardly be able to decipher it; but the cold is partly to blame for this—my fingers are numb.’

p. 408“Looking over this messy writing, I see it’s so poorly written that I worry you won’t be able to read it; but the cold is partly responsible for this—my fingers are numb.”

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, January 28th, 1848.

‘Haworth, January 28th, 1848.

‘Dear Sir,—I need not tell you that when I saw Mr. Thackeray’s letter inclosed under your cover, the sight made me very happy.  It was some time before I dared open it, lest my pleasure in receiving it should be mixed with pain on learning its contents—lest, in short, the dedication should have been, in some way, unacceptable to him.

Dear Sir,—I can't express how thrilled I was to find Mr. Thackeray’s letter in your envelope. I hesitated to open it because I was worried that the joy of receiving it might be ruined by disappointment over what it said—concerned that, for some reason, the dedication might not sit well with him.

‘And, to tell you the truth, I fear this must have been the case; he does not say so, his letter is most friendly in its noble simplicity, but he apprises me, at the commencement, of a circumstance which both surprised and dismayed me.

‘Honestly, I’m afraid this might be the case; he doesn’t say it directly, and his letter is very friendly and kind, but he starts by mentioning something that both surprised and disturbed me.

‘I suppose it is no indiscretion to tell you this circumstance, p. 409for you doubtless know it already.  It appears that his private position is in some points similar to that I have ascribed to Mr. Rochester; that thence arose a report that Jane Eyre had been written by a governess in his family, and that the dedication coming now has confirmed everybody in the surmise.

‘I suppose it’s no secret to share this with you, p. 409since you probably already know about it. It seems that his personal situation is somewhat similar to what I described for Mr. Rochester; from that, a rumor began that Jane Eyre was written by a governess in his household, and the upcoming dedication has only confirmed people’s suspicions.

‘Well may it be said that fact is often stranger than fiction!  The coincidence struck me as equally unfortunate and extraordinary.  Of course I knew nothing whatever of Mr. Thackeray’s domestic concerns, he existed for me only as an author.  Of all regarding his personality, station, connections, private history, I was, and am still in a great measure, totally in the dark; but I am very very sorry that my inadvertent blunder should have made his name and affairs a subject for common gossip.

‘They often say that reality is stranger than fiction! The coincidence struck me as both unfortunate and remarkable. Of course, I knew nothing about Mr. Thackeray’s personal life; he was just an author to me. I was, and still am in many ways, completely unaware of his personality, status, connections, and private life. But I am very very sorry that my accidental mistake turned his name and personal issues into gossip.

‘The very fact of his not complaining at all and addressing me with such kindness, notwithstanding the pain and annoyance I must have caused him, increases my chagrin.  I could not half express my regret to him in my answer, for I was restrained by the consciousness that that regret was just worth nothing at all—quite valueless for healing the mischief I had done.

‘The fact that he didn’t complain and spoke to me with such kindness, despite the distress and frustration I must have caused him, makes me feel even worse. I could hardly convey my regret in my reply because I knew it would be completely useless—totally worthless for mending the harm I had caused.

‘Can you tell me anything more on this subject? or can you guess in what degree the unlucky coincidence would affect him—whether it would pain him much and deeply; for he says so little himself on the topic, I am at a loss to divine the exact truth—but I fear.

'Can you tell me anything more about this? Or can you guess how much this unfortunate coincidence would affect him—whether it would deeply hurt him? He says so little about it that I'm struggling to grasp the exact truth—but I’m worried.'

‘Do not think, my dear sir, from my silence respecting the advice you have, at different times, given me for my future literary guidance, that I am heedless of, or indifferent to, your kindness.  I keep your letters and not unfrequently refer to them.  Circumstances may render it impracticable for me to act up to the letter of what you counsel, but I think I comprehend the spirit of your precepts, and trust I shall be able to profit thereby.  Details, situations which I do not understand and cannot personally inspect, I would not for the world meddle with, lest I should make even a more ridiculous mess of the matter than Mrs. Trollope did in her Factory Boy.  Besides, not one feeling on any subject, public or private, will I ever p. 410affect that I do not really experience.  Yet though I must limit my sympathies; though my observation cannot penetrate where the very deepest political and social truths are to be learnt; though many doors of knowledge which are open for you are for ever shut for me; though I must guess and calculate and grope my way in the dark, and come to uncertain conclusions unaided and alone where such writers as Dickens and Thackeray, having access to the shrine and image of Truth, have only to go into the temple, lift the veil a moment, and come out and say what they have seen—yet with every disadvantage, I mean still, in my own contracted way, to do my best.  Imperfect my best will be, and poor, and compared with the works of the true masters—of that greatest modern master Thackeray in especial (for it is him I at heart reverence with all my strength)—it will be trifling, but I trust not affected or counterfeit.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours with regard and respect,

‘Please don’t think, my dear sir, that my silence regarding your advice at different times for my future writing means that I don’t value your kindness or that I’m indifferent to it. I keep your letters and often refer to them. Circumstances may make it impractical for me to follow your advice precisely, but I believe I understand the essence of your guidance and hope to benefit from it. I wouldn’t want to dive into details or situations I don’t understand and can’t personally inspect, as I might create an even bigger mess than Mrs. Trollope did in her Factory Boy. Also, I will never pretend to feel something on any topic, public or private, that I don’t genuinely experience. While I must limit my sympathies; while my perspective can’t reach the deepest political and social truths; while many doors of knowledge open to you remain closed to me; while I have to guess, calculate, and stumble through uncertainty without help, where writers like Dickens and Thackeray simply enter the temple of Truth, lift the veil for a moment, and share what they see—despite all these disadvantages, I still intend to do my best in my own limited way. My best will be imperfect and meager, and compared to the works of true masters—especially that greatest modern master Thackeray, whom I truly admire with all my strength—it will seem trivial, but I hope it won’t feel forced or fake.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours with regard and respect,

‘Currer Bell.’

‘Currer Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 29th, 1848.

‘March 29th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—The notice from the Church of England Quarterly Review is not on the whole a bad one.  True, it condemns the tendency of Jane Eyre, and seems to think Mr. Rochester should have been represented as going through the mystic process of “regeneration” before any respectable person could have consented to believe his contrition for his past errors sincere; true, also, that it casts a doubt on Jane’s creed, and leaves it doubtful whether she was Hindoo, Mahommedan, or infidel.  But notwithstanding these eccentricities, it is a conscientious notice, very unlike that in the Mirror, for instance, which seemed the result of a feeble sort of spite, whereas this is the critic’s real opinion: some of the ethical and theological notions are not according to his system, and he disapproves of them.

‘My dear Sir,—The review from the Church of England Quarterly Review isn’t entirely negative. True, it criticizes the direction of Jane Eyre and suggests that Mr. Rochester should have been portrayed as going through a “regeneration” process before any respectable person could truly believe he was sincere in his remorse for past mistakes. It also questions Jane’s beliefs, leaving it unclear if she was Hindu, Muslim, or an infidel. However, despite these oddities, it is a sincere review, very different from the one in the Mirror, which seemed driven by a weak kind of spite. This, on the other hand, reflects the critic’s genuine opinions: he finds some of the ethical and theological ideas not in line with his beliefs and disagrees with them.

‘I am glad to hear that Mr. Lewes’s new work is soon to appear, and pleased also to learn that Messrs. Smith & Elder are the publishers.  Mr. Lewes mentioned in the last note I received from him that he had just finished writing his p. 411new novel, and I have been on the look out for the advertisement of its appearance ever since.  I shall long to read it, if it were only to get a further insight into the author’s character.  I read Ranthorpe with lively interest—there was much true talent in its pages.  Two thirds of it I thought excellent, the latter part seemed more hastily and sketchily written.

‘I’m glad to hear that Mr. Lewes’s new work is coming out soon, and I'm also pleased to learn that Messrs. Smith & Elder are publishing it. Mr. Lewes mentioned in the last note I got from him that he had just finished his p. 411new novel, and I’ve been eagerly waiting for the announcement of its release ever since. I can’t wait to read it, even if it's just to gain more insight into the author’s character. I read Ranthorpe with great interest—there was a lot of genuine talent in it. Two-thirds of it I thought were excellent, but the later part seemed more rushed and incomplete.’

‘I trust Miss Kavanagh’s work will meet with the success that, from your account, I am certain she and it deserve.  I think I have met with an outline of the facts on which her tale is founded in some periodical, Chambers’ Journal I believe.  No critic, however rigid, will find fault with “the tendency” of her work, I should think.

‘I trust Miss Kavanagh’s work will be successful, as I’m sure she and it deserve, based on what you’ve told me. I believe I saw a summary of the facts her story is based on in some magazine; I think it was Chambers’ Journal. I doubt any critic, no matter how strict, will find an issue with “the tendency” of her work.'

‘I will tell you why you cannot fully sympathise with the French, or feel any firm confidence in their future movements: because too few of them are Lamartines, too many Ledru Rollins.  That, at least, is my reason for watching their proceedings with more dread than hope.  With the Germans it is different: to their rational and justifiable efforts for liberty one can heartily wish well.

‘I will explain why you can’t fully empathize with the French or have any real trust in their future actions: there are too few like Lamartine and too many like Ledru Rollin. That’s my reason for watching their actions with more fear than hope. With the Germans, it’s different: you can genuinely support their rational and justified fight for freedom.

‘It seems, as you say, as if change drew near England too.  She is divided by the sea from the lands where it is making thrones rock, but earthquakes roll lower than the ocean, and we know neither the day nor the hour when the tremor and heat, passing beneath our island, may unsettle and dissolve its foundations.  Meantime, one thing is certain, all will in the end work together for good.

‘It seems, as you say, that change is on the horizon for England too. It’s separated by the sea from the lands where it’s causing thrones to shake, but earthquakes occur deeper than the ocean, and we can’t predict the day or the hour when the tremors and heat passing beneath our island might unsettle and undermine its foundations. In the meantime, one thing is certain: everything will ultimately come together for good.

‘You mention Thackeray and the last number of Vanity Fair.  The more I read Thackeray’s works the more certain I am that he stands alone—alone in his sagacity, alone in his truth, alone in his feeling (his feeling, though he makes no noise about it, is about the most genuine that ever lived on a printed page), alone in his power, alone in his simplicity, alone in his self-control.  Thackeray is a Titan, so strong that he can afford to perform with calm the most herculean feats; there is the charm and majesty of repose in his greatest efforts; he borrows nothing from fever, his is never the energy of delirium—his energy is sane p. 412energy, deliberate energy, thoughtful energy.  The last number of Vanity Fair proves this peculiarly.  Forcible, exciting in its force, still more impressive than exciting, carrying on the interest of the narrative in a flow, deep, full, resistless, it is still quiet—as quiet as reflection, as quiet as memory; and to me there are parts of it that sound as solemn as an oracle.  Thackeray is never borne away by his own ardour—he has it under control.  His genius obeys him—it is his servant, it works no fantastic changes at its own wild will, it must still achieve the task which reason and sense assign it, and none other.  Thackeray is unique.  I can say no more, I will say no less.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘You mention Thackeray and the latest issue of Vanity Fair. The more I read Thackeray’s works, the more I believe he is unparalleled—unique in his insight, unique in his honesty, unique in his emotion (his emotion, while not overt, is among the most genuine ever captured in print), unique in his strength, unique in his simplicity, unique in his self-control. Thackeray is a Titan, so powerful that he can calmly undertake the most monumental tasks; his greatest efforts possess an allure and grace of stillness; he takes nothing from madness; his energy is never a frenzied surge—his energy is sane p. 412 energy, measured energy, thoughtful energy. The latest issue of Vanity Fair particularly demonstrates this. It is forceful, exciting in its strength, even more striking than thrilling, maintaining the narrative's interest in a deep, full, unstoppable flow, yet it remains calm—calm like reflection, calm like memory; to me, parts of it sound as profound as a prophecy. Thackeray is never overwhelmed by his own passion—he keeps it in check. His genius is his servant—it doesn’t create wild fantasies on its own; it must fulfill the tasks that reason and logic assign to it, and none other. Thackeray is one of a kind. I can say no more; I will say no less.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 2nd, 1849.

‘March 2nd, 1849.

‘Your generous indignation against the Quarterly touched me.  But do not trouble yourself to be angry on Currer Bell’s account; except where the May-Fair gossip and Mr. Thackeray’s name were brought in he was never stung at all, but he certainly thought that passage and one or two others quite unwarrantable.  However, slander without a germ of truth is seldom injurious: it resembles a rootless plant and must soon wither away.

‘Your generous outrage against the Quarterly really touched me. But don't worry about getting angry on behalf of Currer Bell; aside from the May-Fair rumors and Mr. Thackeray’s name being mentioned, he wasn't affected at all. However, he did find a particular passage and a couple of others quite unjustified. That said, slander without any truth to it is rarely harmful: it’s like a plant without roots and will soon die away.

‘The critic would certainly be a little ashamed of herself if she knew what foolish blunders she had committed, if she were aware how completely Mr. Thackeray and Currer Bell are strangers to each other, that Jane Eyre was written before the author had seen one line of Vanity Fair, or that if C. Bell had known that there existed in Mr. Thackeray’s private circumstances the shadow of a reason for fancying personal allusion, so far from dedicating the book to that gentleman, he would have regarded such a step as ill-judged, insolent, and indefensible, and would have shunned it accordingly.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘The critic would definitely feel a bit embarrassed if she knew the silly mistakes she made, if she realized how completely Mr. Thackeray and Currer Bell are strangers to one another, that Jane Eyre was written before the author had seen a single line of Vanity Fair, or that if C. Bell had known there was a reason in Mr. Thackeray’s personal life to think there was a personal reference, rather than dedicating the book to that gentleman, he would have deemed such a move unwise, rude, and unjustifiable, and would have avoided it altogether.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘August 14th, 1848.

‘August 14th, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—My sister Anne thanks you, as well as myself, for your just critique on Wildfell Hall.  It appears to me p. 413that your observations exactly hit both the strong and weak points of the book, and the advice which accompanies them is worthy of, and shall receive, our most careful attention.

‘Dear Sir,—My sister Anne and I both appreciate your thoughtful critique of Wildfell Hall. It seems to me p. 413 that your comments pinpoint both the strengths and weaknesses of the book, and the advice you provided is valuable and will receive our serious consideration.

‘The first duty of an author is, I conceive, a faithful allegiance to Truth and Nature; his second, such a conscientious study of Art as shall enable him to interpret eloquently and effectively the oracles delivered by those two great deities.  The Bells are very sincere in their worship of Truth, and they hope to apply themselves to the consideration of Art, so as to attain one day the power of speaking the language of conviction in the accents of persuasion; though they rather apprehend that whatever pains they take to modify and soften, an abrupt word or vehement tone will now and then occur to startle ears polite, whenever the subject shall chance to be such as moves their spirits within them.

‘The primary responsibility of an author, I believe, is to remain faithfully devoted to Truth and Nature; the secondary duty is to thoughtfully study Art in a way that allows them to express the insights from those two great influences with eloquence and impact. The Bells are very genuine in their commitment to Truth, and they aspire to engage with Art so that one day they can communicate with the authority of conviction in a persuasive way; although they are somewhat concerned that no matter how much they work to modify and soften their words, a blunt remark or intense tone might occasionally surprise refined ears, especially when the topic sparks their inner feelings.’

‘I have already told you, I believe, that I regard Mr. Thackeray as the first of modern masters, and as the legitimate high priest of Truth; I study him accordingly with reverence.  He, I see, keeps the mermaid’s tail below water, and only hints at the dead men’s bones and noxious slime amidst which it wriggles; but, his hint is more vivid than other men’s elaborate explanations, and never is his satire whetted to so keen an edge as when with quiet mocking irony he modestly recommends to the approbation of the public his own exemplary discretion and forbearance.  The world begins to know Thackeray rather better than it did two years or even a year ago, but as yet it only half knows him.  His mind seems to me a fabric as simple and unpretending as it is deep-founded and enduring—there is no meretricious ornament to attract or fix a superficial glance; his great distinction of the genuine is one that can only be fully appreciated with time.  There is something, a sort of “still profound,” revealed in the concluding part of Vanity Fair which the discernment of one generation will not suffice to fathom.  A hundred years hence, if he only lives to do justice to himself, he will be better known than he is now.  A hundred years hence, some thoughtful critic, standing and looking down on the deep waters, will see shining through them the pearl without p. 414price of a purely original mind—such a mind as the Bulwers, etc., his contemporaries have not,—not acquirements gained from study, but the thing that came into the world with him—his inherent genius: the thing that made him, I doubt not, different as a child from other children, that caused him, perhaps, peculiar griefs and struggles in life, and that now makes him as a writer unlike other writers.  Excuse me for recurring to this theme, I do not wish to bore you.

‘I have already mentioned that I consider Mr. Thackeray to be the greatest of modern writers and the true high priest of Truth; I study him with respect. He keeps the mermaid’s tail underwater and only hints at the dead men’s bones and poisonous slime that it swims in; but, his hints are more vivid than other people's long explanations, and his satire is never sharper than when he quietly mocks while humbly demonstrating his own admirable discretion and restraint. The world is starting to understand Thackeray better than it did two years ago, or even a year ago, but it still only knows him halfway. To me, his mind is as simple and unpretentious as it is deeply rooted and lasting—there's no flashy ornamentation to catch a casual glance; his great distinction of being genuine is one that can only be fully appreciated over time. There’s something, a sort of “still profound,” revealed in the final part of Vanity Fair that the insight of one generation alone cannot fully grasp. A hundred years from now, if he receives the recognition he deserves, he will be better known than he is today. A hundred years from now, some thoughtful critic, looking down into the deep waters, will see the priceless pearl of a completely original mind—one that his contemporaries like the Bulwers do not possess—not skills gained from study, but the natural brilliance that he was born with: the very quality that made him different from other children, that perhaps brought him unique sorrows and challenges in life, and that now makes him as a writer distinct from others. I apologize for bringing this up again; I don't mean to bore you.

‘You say Mr. Huntingdon reminds you of Mr. Rochester.  Does he?  Yet there is no likeness between the two; the foundation of each character is entirely different.  Huntingdon is a specimen of the naturally selfish, sensual, superficial man, whose one merit of a joyous temperament only avails him while he is young and healthy, whose best days are his earliest, who never profits by experience, who is sure to grow worse the older he grows.  Mr. Rochester has a thoughtful nature and a very feeling heart; he is neither selfish nor self-indulgent; he is ill-educated, misguided; errs, when he does err, through rashness and inexperience: he lives for a time as too many other men live, but being radically better than most men, he does not like that degraded life, and is never happy in it.  He is taught the severe lessons of experience and has sense to learn wisdom from them.  Years improve him; the effervescence of youth foamed away, what is really good in him still remains.  His nature is like wine of a good vintage: time cannot sour, but only mellows him.  Such at least was the character I meant to pourtray.

‘You say Mr. Huntingdon reminds you of Mr. Rochester. Does he? Yet there’s no similarity between the two; the foundation of each character is completely different. Huntingdon is a prime example of a naturally selfish, pleasure-seeking, superficial man, whose only redeeming quality—his cheerful disposition—only serves him while he’s young and healthy. His best days are his earliest; he never learns from experience and is bound to deteriorate as he ages. Mr. Rochester, on the other hand, has a thoughtful nature and a very sensitive heart; he is neither selfish nor indulgent. He’s poorly educated and misguided; when he makes mistakes, it’s due to rashness and inexperience. He lives for a time like too many other men do, but because he is fundamentally better than most, he doesn't enjoy that degraded life and is never truly happy in it. He learns important lessons from experience and has the sense to draw wisdom from them. The years improve him; as the excitement of youth fades, what is genuinely good in him remains. His nature is like fine wine: time doesn’t spoil it, it only enriches him. Such at least was the character I intended to portray.

‘Heathcliffe, again, of Wuthering Heights is quite another creation.  He exemplifies the effects which a life of continued injustice and hard usage may produce on a naturally perverse, vindictive, and inexorable disposition.  Carefully trained and kindly treated, the black gipsy-cub might possibly have been reared into a human being, but tyranny and ignorance made of him a mere demon.  The worst of it is, some of his spirit seems breathed through the whole narrative in which he figures: it haunts every moor and glen, and beckons in every fir-tree of the Heights.

‘Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights, is a completely different character. He shows how a life filled with constant injustice and cruelty can mold a naturally twisted, vengeful, and unforgiving personality. If he had been raised with care and kindness, this dark, gypsy boy might have developed into a decent person, but oppression and ignorance turned him into a monster. The worst part is that some of his spirit seems to pervade the entire story he’s a part of: it haunts every moor and valley, and beckons from every fir tree on the Heights.

‘I must not forget to thank you for the Examiner and Atlas p. 415newspapers.  Poor Mr. Newby!  It is not enough that the Examiner nails him by both ears to the pillory, but the Atlas brands a token of disgrace on his forehead.  This is a deplorable plight, and he makes all matters worse by his foolish little answers to his assailants.  It is a pity that he has no kind friend to suggest to him that he had better not bandy words with the Examiner.  His plea about the “printer” was too ludicrous, and his second note is pitiable.  I only regret that the names of Ellis and Acton Bell should perforce be mixed up with his proceedings.  My sister Anne wishes me to say that should she ever write another work, Mr. Smith will certainly have the first offer of the copyright.

‘I must not forget to thank you for the Examiner and Atlas p. 415 newspapers. Poor Mr. Newby! It’s not enough that the Examiner has him nailed by both ears to the pillory, but the Atlas brands a mark of disgrace on his forehead. This is a terrible situation, and he only worsens it with his silly little replies to his critics. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a kind friend to tell him that he should really avoid arguing with the Examiner. His excuse about the “printer” was too ridiculous, and his second note is disheartening. I only regret that the names of Ellis and Acton Bell have to be associated with his actions. My sister Anne wants me to mention that if she ever writes another piece, Mr. Smith will certainly get the first offer for the copyright.

‘I hope Mrs. Williams’s health is more satisfactory than when you last wrote.  With every good wish to yourself and your family,—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘I hope Mrs. Williams’s health is better than it was when you last wrote. With best wishes to you and your family,—Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 19th, 1849.

‘October 19th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I am again at home; and after the first sensations consequent on returning to a place more dumb and vacant than it once was, I am beginning to feel settled.  I think the contrast with London does not make Haworth more desolate; on the contrary, I have gleaned ideas, images, pleasant feelings, such as may perhaps cheer many a long winter evening.

My dear Sir,—I’m back home; and after the initial feelings of returning to a place that seemed emptier and quieter than before, I’m starting to feel settled in again. I believe the contrast with London doesn’t make Haworth feel more desolate; actually, I’ve gathered ideas, images, and pleasant feelings that might brighten many long winter evenings.

‘You ask my opinion of your daughters.  I wish I could give you one worth acceptance.  A single evening’s acquaintance does not suffice with me to form an opinion, it only leaves on my mind an impression.  They impressed me, then, as pleasing in manners and appearance: Ellen’s is a character to which I could soon attach myself, and Fanny and Louisa have each their separate advantages.  I can, however, read more in a face like Mrs. Williams’s than in the smooth young features of her daughters—time, trial, and exertion write a distinct hand, more legible than smile or dimple.  I was told you had once some thoughts of bringing out Fanny as a professional singer, and it was added Fanny did not like the project.  I p. 416thought to myself, if she does not like it, it can never be successfully executed.  It seems to me that to achieve triumph in a career so arduous, the artist’s own bent to the course must be inborn, decided, resistless.  There should be no urging, no goading; native genius and vigorous will should lend their wings to the aspirant—nothing less can lift her to real fame, and who would rise feebly only to fall ignobly?  An inferior artist, I am sure, you would not wish your daughter to be, and if she is to stand in the foremost rank, only her own courage and resolve can place her there; so, at least, the case appears to me.  Fanny probably looks on publicity as degrading, and I believe that for a woman it is degrading if it is not glorious.  If I could not be a Lind, I would not be a singer.

‘You asked for my opinion on your daughters. I wish I could give you one worth considering. A single evening’s meeting isn’t enough for me to form a solid opinion; it only leaves me with an impression. They seemed pleasant in manners and appearance: Ellen has a personality I could easily connect with, and Fanny and Louisa each have their own special qualities. However, I can read more in a face like Mrs. Williams’s than in the youthful features of her daughters—time, experience, and effort leave clearer marks than any smile or dimple. I heard you once considered having Fanny pursue a career as a professional singer, and it was said that Fanny wasn’t keen on the idea. I thought to myself, if she doesn’t want it, it can’t be done successfully. To achieve success in such a difficult field, an artist must have a strong, inherent, and unwavering desire for it. There shouldn’t be any pushing or prodding; natural talent and a strong will should elevate the aspiring artist—nothing less can lead to true fame, and who would want to rise only to fall in disgrace? I’m sure you wouldn’t want your daughter to be an inferior artist, and if she’s to be among the best, only her own bravery and determination can get her there; at least, that’s how it seems to me. Fanny probably sees public exposure as degrading, and I believe it can be degrading for a woman if it isn’t glorious. If I couldn’t be a Lind, I wouldn’t want to be a singer.’

‘Brief as my visit to London was, it must for me be memorable.  I sometimes fancied myself in a dream—I could scarcely credit the reality of what passed.  For instance, when I walked into the room and put my hand into Miss Martineau’s, the action of saluting her and the fact of her presence seemed visionary.  Again, when Mr. Thackeray was announced, and I saw him enter, looked up at his tall figure, heard his voice, the whole incident was truly dream-like, I was only certain it was true because I became miserably destitute of self-possession.  Amour propre suffers terribly under such circumstances: woe to him that thinks of himself in the presence of intellectual greatness!  Had I not been obliged to speak, I could have managed well, but it behoved me to answer when addressed, and the effort was torture—I spoke stupidly.

‘Even though my visit to London was short, it will always be memorable for me. At times, it felt like I was in a dream—I could hardly believe what was happening. For instance, when I walked into the room and shook Miss Martineau’s hand, greeting her felt surreal because her presence seemed almost unreal. Then, when Mr. Thackeray was announced and I saw him enter, looked up at his tall figure, and heard his voice, the whole experience felt dream-like. The only reason I knew it was real was that I felt completely out of my depth. Self-esteem suffers greatly in such situations: woe to anyone who sees themselves in the presence of intellectual greatness! If I hadn’t had to speak, I might have managed better, but I had to respond when addressed, and that effort was painful—I spoke foolishly.

‘As to the band of critics, I cannot say they overawed me much; I enjoyed the spectacle of them greatly.  The two contrasts, Forster and Chorley, have each a certain edifying carriage and conversation good to contemplate.  I by no means dislike Mr. Forster—quite the contrary, but the distance from his loud swagger to Thackeray’s simple port is as the distance from Shakespeare’s writing to Macready’s acting.

‘As for the group of critics, they didn’t intimidate me much; I really enjoyed observing them. The contrasts between Forster and Chorley, each possess a certain enlightening demeanor and conversation that’s pleasing to ponder. I certainly don’t dislike Mr. Forster—quite the opposite, but the gap between his loud swagger and Thackeray’s direct presence is like the distance between Shakespeare’s writing and Macready’s acting.

‘Mr. Chorley tantalised me.  He is a peculiar specimen—one whom you could set yourself to examine, uncertain whether, when you had probed all the small recesses of his character, p. 417the result would be utter contempt and aversion, or whether for the sake of latent good you would forgive obvious evil.  One could well pardon his unpleasant features, his strange voice, even his very foppery and grimace, if one found these disadvantages connected with living talent and any spark of genuine goodness.  If there is nothing more than acquirement, smartness, and the affectation of philanthropy, Chorley is a fine creature.

‘Mr. Chorley intrigued me. He is a unique character—someone you could study, unsure whether, after delving into all the hidden corners of his personality, the outcome would be total disdain and dislike or if, for the sake of any hidden goodness, you would overlook his clear flaws. One could easily excuse his unpleasant features, odd voice, and even his vanity and expressions, if those drawbacks were balanced by genuine talent and a hint of real kindness. If all he brings is skills, cleverness, and pretense of generosity, then Chorley is quite an impressive individual.

‘Remember me kindly to your wife and daughters, and—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘Please give my best to your wife and daughters, and—Truly yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, December 19th, 1849.

‘Haworth, December 19th, 1849.

‘Dear Ellen,—Here I am at Haworth once more.  I feel as if I had come out of an exciting whirl.  Not that the hurry or stimulus would have seemed much to one accustomed to society and change, but to me they were very marked.  My strength and spirits too often proved quite insufficient for the demand on their exertions.  I used to bear up as well and as long as I possibly could, for, whenever I flagged, I could see Mr. Smith became disturbed; he always thought that something had been said or done to annoy me, which never once happened, for I met with perfect good breeding even from antagonists—men who had done their best or worst to write me down.  I explained to him, over and over again, that my occasional silence was only failure of the power to talk, never of the will, but still he always seemed to fear there was another cause underneath.

Dear Ellen,—I’m back in Haworth. I feel like I just stepped out of a whirlwind. It might not seem intense to someone used to socializing and change, but it felt pretty significant to me. My strength and spirits often weren’t enough to meet the demands placed on them. I tried to hold on for as long as I could because whenever I started to fade, I noticed Mr. Smith getting worried; he always assumed something had been said or done to upset me, which never actually happened. I was treated with complete courtesy, even by those who tried to undermine me—men who did their best or worst to discredit me. I explained to him repeatedly that my occasional silence was just a lack of ability to talk, never a lack of willingness, but he still seemed to worry that there was another reason behind it all.

‘Mrs. Smith is rather stern, but she has sense and discrimination; she watched me very narrowly.  When surrounded by gentlemen she never took her eye from me.  I liked the surveillance, both when it kept guard over me amongst many, or only with her cherished one.  She soon, I am convinced, saw in what light I received all, Thackeray included.  Her “George” is a very fine specimen of a young English man of business; so I regard him, and I am proud to be one of his props.

‘Mrs. Smith is quite strict, but she’s sensible and discerning; she observed me closely. When she was around gentlemen, she never took her eyes off me. I liked being watched, whether among a crowd or just with her favorite. I’m sure she quickly realized how I viewed everything, including Thackeray. Her “George” is an excellent example of a young English businessman; I see him that way, and I’m proud to be one of his supporters.

p. 418‘Thackeray is a Titan of mind.  His presence and powers impress me deeply in an intellectual sense; I do not see him or know him as a man.  All the others are subordinate to these.  I have esteem for some, and, I trust, courtesy for all.  I do not, of course, know what they thought of me, but I believe most of them expected me to come out in a more marked eccentric, striking light.  I believe they desired more to admire and more to blame.  I felt sufficiently at my ease with all except Thackeray, and with him I was painfully stupid.

p. 418‘Thackeray is a giant of intellect. His presence and abilities impress me on an intellectual level; I don’t see him or know him personally. Everyone else seems secondary to this. I respect some and, I hope, am polite to all. I don’t really know what they thought of me, but I believe most of them expected me to show up as a more noticeable, striking character. I think they wanted more to admire and more to criticize. I felt fairly comfortable with everyone except Thackeray, and I felt painfully awkward around him.’

‘Now, dear Nell, when can you come to Haworth?  Settle, and let me know as soon as you can.  Give my best love to all.—Yours,

‘Now, dear Nell, when can you come to Haworth? Arrange it and let me know as soon as you can. Give my love to everyone.—Yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘January 10th, 1850.

‘January 10th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—Mrs. Ellis has made her “morning call.”  I rather relished her chat about Shirley and Jane Eyre.  She praises reluctantly and blames too often affectedly.  But whenever a reviewer betrays that he has been thoroughly influenced and stirred by the work he criticises, it is easy to forgive the rest—hate and personality excepted.

‘My dear Sir,—Mrs. Ellis has made her “morning call.” I enjoyed her conversation about Shirley and Jane Eyre. She is hesitant to praise and tends to criticize in a somewhat pretentious manner. However, whenever a reviewer shows that they have been truly impacted and affected by the work they are critiquing, it's easy to overlook the rest—except for hate and personal bias.

‘I have received and perused the Edinburgh Review—it is very brutal and savage.  I am not angry with Lewes, but I wish in future he would let me alone, and not write again what makes me feel so cold and sick as I am feeling just now.

‘I have received and read the Edinburgh Review—it is really harsh and brutal. I’m not upset with Lewes, but I wish he would just leave me alone from now on and stop writing things that make me feel so cold and sick like I do right now.

‘Thackeray’s Christmas Book at once grieved and pleased me, as most of his writings do.  I have come to the conclusion that whenever he writes, Mephistopheles stands on his right hand and Raphael on his left; the great doubter and sneerer usually guides the pen, the Angel, noble and gentle, interlines letters of light here and there.  Alas! Thackeray, I wish your strong wings would lift you oftener above the smoke of cities into the pure region nearer heaven!

‘Thackeray’s Christmas Book both saddened and delighted me, as most of his works do. I’ve come to the conclusion that whenever he writes, Mephistopheles is on his right and Raphael on his left; the great skeptic and cynic usually drives the pen, while the noble and gentle Angel occasionally adds touches of light. Alas! Thackeray, I wish your strong wings would lift you more often above the city’s smog into the clear space closer to heaven!

‘Good-bye for the present.—Yours sincerely,

‘Goodbye for now.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 419TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 419TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 25th, 1850.

‘January 25th, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—Your indisposition was, I have no doubt, in a great measure owing to the change in the weather from frost to thaw.  I had one sick-headachy day; but, for me, only a slight attack.  You must be careful of cold.  I have just written to Amelia a brief note thanking her for the cuffs, etc.  It was a burning shame I did not write sooner.  Herewith are inclosed three letters for your perusal, the first from Mary Taylor.  There is also one from Lewes and one from Sir J. K. Shuttleworth, both which peruse and return.  I have also, since you went, had a remarkable epistle from Thackeray, long, interesting, characteristic, but it unfortunately concludes with the strict injunction, show this letter to no one, adding that if he thought his letters were seen by others, he should either cease to write or write only what was conventional; but for this circumstance I should have sent it with the others.  I answered it at length.  Whether my reply will give satisfaction or displeasure remains yet to be ascertained.  Thackeray’s feelings are not such as can be gauged by ordinary calculation: variable weather is what I should ever expect from that quarter, yet in correspondence as in verbal intercourse, this would torment me.—Yours faithfully,

Dear Ellen,—I’m sure your feeling unwell is largely due to the shift in weather from frost to thaw. I had one day with a bad headache, but it was just a minor issue for me. You need to be careful about getting cold. I just wrote a quick note to Amelia thanking her for the cuffs, etc. It’s really embarrassing I didn’t write sooner. I’m enclosing three letters for you to read; the first is from Mary Taylor. There’s also one from Lewes and another from Sir J. K. Shuttleworth—please read those and return them. Since you left, I’ve also received a notable letter from Thackeray; it’s long, interesting, and characteristic, but it unfortunately ends with a strict instruction, show this letter to no one, and he added that if he thought his letters were seen by others, he’d either stop writing or only write conventional things. Otherwise, I would have sent it with the others. I replied to it in detail. I still don’t know if my response will please or upset him. Thackeray's feelings aren’t easy to read—just like unpredictable weather. I always expect that from him. Still, this kind of uncertainty would annoy me in both letters and face-to-face conversations.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘76 Gloucester Terrace, Hyde Park,
‘London, Thursday Morning.

‘76 Gloucester Terrace, Hyde Park,
‘London, Thursday Morning.

‘Dear Papa,—I write one hasty line just to tell you that I got here quite safely at ten o’clock last night without any damage or smash in tunnels or cuttings.  Mr. and Mrs. Smith met me at the station and gave me a kind and cordial welcome.  The weather was beautiful the whole way, and warm; it is the same to-day.  I have not yet been out, but this afternoon, if all be well, I shall go to Mr. Thackeray’s lecture.  I don’t know when I shall see the Exhibition, but when I do, I shall write and tell you all about it.  I hope you are well, and will continue p. 420well and cheerful.  Give my kind regards to Tabby and Martha, and—Believe me, your affectionate daughter,

Dear Dad,—I’m just writing a quick note to let you know I arrived safely last night at ten o’clock without any issues in the tunnels or cuts. Mr. and Mrs. Smith greeted me at the station and gave me a warm welcome. The weather was lovely and warm the whole journey, and it’s still nice today. I haven’t gone out yet, but I plan to attend Mr. Thackeray’s lecture this afternoon if everything goes well. I’m not sure when I’ll see the Exhibition, but I’ll write to tell you all about it once I do. I hope you’re doing well and staying positive. Please send my best to Tabby and Martha, and—Love, your devoted daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘One of the most notable persons who ever came into our bow-windowed drawing-room in Young Street is a guest never to be forgotten by me—a tiny, delicate, little person, whose small hand nevertheless grasped a mighty lever which set all the literary world of that day vibrating.  I can still see the scene quite plainly—the hot summer evening, the open windows, the carriage driving to the door as we all sat silent and expectant; my father, who rarely waited, waiting with us; our governess and my sister and I all in a row, and prepared for the great event.  We saw the carriage stop, and out of it sprang the active well-knit figure of Mr. George Smith, who was bringing Miss Brontë to see our father.  My father, who had been walking up and down the room, goes out into the hall to meet his guests, and then, after a moment’s delay, the door opens wide, and the two gentlemen come in, leading a tiny, delicate, serious, little lady, pale, with fair straight hair, and steady p. 421eyes.  She may be a little over thirty; she is dressed in a little barège dress, with a pattern of faint green moss.  She enters in mittens, in silence, in seriousness; our hearts are beating with wild excitement.  This, then, is the authoress, the unknown power whose books have set all London talking, reading, speculating; some people even say our father wrote the books—the wonderful books.  To say that we little girls had been given Jane Eyre to read scarcely represents the facts of the case; to say that we had taken it without leave, read bits here and read bits there, been carried away by an undreamed-of and hitherto unimagined whirlwind into things, times, places, all utterly absorbing, and at the same time absolutely unintelligible to us, would more accurately describe our state of mind on that summer’s evening as we look at Jane Eyre—the great Jane Eyre—the tiny little lady.  The moment is so breathless that dinner comes as a relief to the solemnity of the occasion, and we all smile as my father stoops to offer his arm; for, though genius she may be, Miss Brontë can barely reach his elbow.  My own personal impressions are that she is somewhat grave and stern, especially to forward little girls who wish to chatter.  Mr. George Smith has since told me how she afterwards remarked upon my father’s wonderful forbearance and gentleness with our uncalled-for incursions into the conversation.  She sat gazing at him with kindling eyes of interest, lighting up with a sort of illumination every now and then as she answered him.  I can see her bending forward over the table, not eating, but listening to what he said as he carved the dish before him.

One of the most unforgettable visitors to our bay-windowed living room in Young Street was a guest I’ll always remember—a small, delicate person whose tiny hand held a powerful influence that shook the entire literary world of her time. I can still clearly picture that hot summer evening, with the windows open, and the carriage arriving as we sat quietly, filled with anticipation; my father, who rarely waited for anyone, was with us; our governess, my sister, and I all seated in a row, ready for the big moment. When the carriage stopped, out jumped the active, well-built figure of Mr. George Smith, who was bringing Miss Brontë to meet my father. With my dad pacing the room, he stepped into the hall to greet his guests, and then, after a brief pause, the door swung wide open, and the two gentlemen entered, leading a tiny, delicate, serious-looking lady—pale, with straight light hair and steady eyes. She might have been just over thirty; she wore a small barège dress with a pattern of light green moss. She walked in gloved hands, silently and seriously, and our hearts raced with wild excitement. This was the author, the mysterious force behind books that had the whole of London buzzing, reading, and speculating; some even claimed that our father wrote those extraordinary books. To say that my sister and I had been given Jane Eyre to read barely captures the reality; we had taken it without permission, read snippets here and there, and were swept away into an unimaginable whirlwind of intriguing things, times, and places—all utterly captivating yet completely incomprehensible to us—as we looked at Jane Eyre—the great Jane Eyre—the tiny little lady. The moment was so electrifying that dinner felt like a relief, breaking the solemnity of the occasion, and we all smiled as my father bent down to offer his arm; for although she may be a genius, Miss Brontë could barely reach his elbow. My impression was that she seemed rather serious and stern, especially towards forward little girls eager to chat. Mr. George Smith later mentioned how she commented on my father's remarkable patience and kindness with our uninvited interruptions. She sat there, gazing at him with bright eyes, lighting up occasionally as she answered him. I can see her leaning forward over the table, not eating, but listening intently as he carved the dish in front of him.

‘I think it must have been on this very occasion that my father invited some of his friends in the evening to meet Miss Brontë—for everybody was interested and anxious to see her.  Mrs. Crowe, the reciter of ghost-stories, was there.  Mrs. Brookfield, Mrs. Carlyle, Mr. Carlyle himself was present, so I am told, railing at the appearance of cockneys upon Scotch mountain sides; there were also too many Americans for his taste, “but the Americans were as gods compared to the cockneys,” says the philosopher.  Besides the Carlyles, there p. 422were Mrs. Elliott and Miss Perry, Mrs. Procter and her daughter, most of my father’s habitual friends and companions.  In the recent life of Lord Houghton I was amused to see a note quoted in which Lord Houghton also was convened.  Would that he had been present—perhaps the party would have gone off better.  It was a gloomy and a silent evening.  Every one waited for the brilliant conversation which never began at all.  Miss Brontë retired to the sofa in the study, and murmured a low word now and then to our kind governess, Miss Truelock.  The room looked very dark, the lamp began to smoke a little, the conversation grew dimmer and more dim, the ladies sat round still expectant, my father was too much perturbed by the gloom and the silence to be able to cope with it at all.  Mrs. Brookfield, who was in the doorway by the study, near the corner in which Miss Brontë was sitting, leant forward with a little commonplace, since brilliance was not to be the order of the evening.  “Do you like London, Miss Brontë?” she said; another silence, a pause, then Miss Brontë answers, “Yes and No,” very gravely.  Mrs. Brookfield has herself reported the conversation.  My sister and I were much too young to be bored in those days; alarmed, impressed we might be, but not yet bored.  A party was a party, a lioness was a lioness; and—shall I confess it?—at that time an extra dish of biscuits was enough to mark the evening.  We felt all the importance of the occasion: tea spread in the dining-room, ladies in the drawing-room.  We roamed about inconveniently, no doubt, and excitedly, and in one of my incursions crossing the hall, after Miss Brontë had left, I was surprised to see my father opening the front door with his hat on.  He put his fingers to his lips, walked out into the darkness, and shut the door quietly behind him.  When I went back to the drawing-room again, the ladies asked me where he was.  I vaguely answered that I thought he was coming back.  I was puzzled at the time, nor was it all made clear to me till long years afterwards, when one day Mrs. Procter asked me if I knew what had happened once when my father had invited a party to meet Jane Eyre at his house.  It was one of the p. 423dullest evenings she had ever spent in her life, she said.  And then with a good deal of humour she described the situation—the ladies who had all come expecting so much delightful conversation, and the gloom and the constraint, and how, finally, overwhelmed by the situation, my father had quietly left the room, left the house, and gone off to his club.  The ladies waited, wondered, and finally departed also; and as we were going up to bed with our candles after everybody was gone, I remember two pretty Miss L---s, in shiny silk dresses, arriving, full of expectation. . . . We still said we thought our father would soon be back, but the Miss L---s declined to wait upon the chance, laughed, and drove away again almost immediately.’ [423]

I believe it was on this very occasion that my father invited some friends over in the evening to meet Miss Brontë—everyone was curious and excited to see her. Mrs. Crowe, who tells ghost stories, was present. Mrs. Brookfield, Mrs. Carlyle, and Mr. Carlyle himself complained about seeing cockneys in Scottish mountains; there were even more Americans than he liked, “but the Americans were like gods compared to the cockneys,” the philosopher noted. Alongside the Carlyles were Mrs. Elliott, Miss Perry, Mrs. Procter and her daughter, and most of my father's usual friends and companions. In a recent biography of Lord Houghton, I found a humorous reference to him being invited as well. I wish he had shown up—maybe the gathering would have gone better. It was a gloomy, quiet evening. Everyone was waiting for the brilliant conversation that never started. Miss Brontë retreated to the sofa in the study, murmuring a few words now and then to our kind governess, Miss Truelock. The room felt dark, the lamp began to smoke, and the conversation grew quieter; the ladies sat around still waiting expectantly, while my father, distressed by the gloom and silence, struggled to manage the situation. Mrs. Brookfield, standing in the doorway by the study near where Miss Brontë sat, leaned forward to make small talk, since brilliance was clearly absent that evening. “Do you like London, Miss Brontë?” she asked; another silence followed, then Miss Brontë replied, “Yes and No,” very seriously. Mrs. Brookfield later reported this exchange. My sister and I were too young to be bored at that age; we might have been alarmed or impressed, but not bored. A party was a party, and a lioness was a lioness; and—should I confess?—at that time, an extra plate of biscuits was enough to make the evening special. We felt the significance of the occasion: tea set up in the dining room, ladies gathered in the drawing room. We wandered around, probably causing a bit of a ruckus, and during one of my trips through the hall, after Miss Brontë had left, I was surprised to see my father opening the front door with his hat on. He put a finger to his lips, stepped out into the darkness, and quietly shut the door behind him. When I returned to the drawing room, the ladies asked me where he had gone. I vaguely answered that I thought he would be back soon. I was puzzled at the time and didn’t fully understand it until many years later when one day Mrs. Procter asked me if I knew what had happened once when my father invited a group over to meet Jane Eyre at our house. She said it was one of the dullest evenings she’d ever spent. Then, with great humor, she described how the ladies had all come expecting lively conversation, only to face gloom and awkwardness, and how my father had quietly left the room, exited the house, and gone off to his club, overwhelmed by the situation. The ladies waited, wondered, and eventually left too; and as we were going to bed with our candles after everyone had gone, I remember two pretty Miss L---s in shiny silk dresses arriving full of anticipation... We still said we thought our father would be back soon, but the Miss L---s chose not to wait for the possibility, laughed, and drove away almost immediately. [423]

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘May 28th, 1851.

May 28th, 1851.

‘Dear Papa,—I must write another line to you to tell you how I am getting on.  I have seen a great many things since I left home about which I hope to talk to you at future tea-times at home.  I have been to the theatre and seen Macready in Macbeth.  I have seen the pictures in the National Gallery.  I have seen a beautiful exhibition of Turner’s paintings, and yesterday I saw Mr. Thackeray.  He dined here with some other gentlemen.  He is a very tall man—above six feet high, with a peculiar face—not handsome, very ugly indeed, generally somewhat stern and satirical in expression, but capable also of a kind look.  He was not told who I was, he was not introduced to me, but I soon saw him looking at me through his spectacles; and when we all rose to go down to dinner he just stepped quietly up and said, “Shake hands”; so I shook hands.  He spoke very few words to me, but when he went away he shook hands again in a very kind way.  It is better, I should think, to have him for a friend than an enemy, for he is a most formidable-looking personage.  I listened to him as he conversed with the p. 424other gentlemen.  All he says is most simple, but often cynical, harsh, and contradictory.  I get on quietly.  Most people know me I think, but they are far too well bred to show that they know me, so that there is none of that bustle or that sense of publicity I dislike.

Dear Papa,—I need to write you another note to update you on how I'm doing. I've seen a lot since I left home, and I hope to talk to you about it during our future tea times. I went to the theater and saw Macready in Macbeth. I visited the National Gallery and saw a stunning exhibition of Turner's paintings. Just yesterday, I met Mr. Thackeray. He dined here with some other gentlemen. He's very tall—over six feet—with a unique face—not handsome, honestly quite ugly, and usually has a serious and sarcastic look, but can also appear kind. He wasn't told who I was, and we weren't introduced, but I noticed him looking at me through his glasses. When we all got up to go to dinner, he came over and said, “Shake hands”; so I did. He didn’t say much to me, but when he left, he kindly shook my hand again. I think having him as a friend is better than as an enemy because he looks quite intimidating. I listened to him talk with the other gentlemen. Everything he says is very straightforward, but often cynical, harsh, and contradictory. I'm doing well. I think most people recognize me, but they're too polite to show it, so there's none of that fuss or feeling of being in the spotlight that I dislike.

‘I hope you continue pretty well; be sure to take care of yourself.  The weather here is exceedingly changeful, and often damp and misty, so that it is necessary to guard against taking cold.  I do not mean to stay in London above a week longer, but I shall write again two or three days before I return.  You need not give yourself the trouble of answering this letter unless you have something particular to say.  Remember me to Tabby and Martha.—I remain, dear papa, your affectionate daughter,

I hope you’re doing well; please take care of yourself. The weather here is really unpredictable, often damp and foggy, so it's important to watch out for catching a cold. I don’t plan on staying in London for more than another week, but I’ll write again two or three days before I come back. You don’t need to bother replying unless you have something specific to say. Say hi to Tabby and Martha for me.—I remain, dear Dad, your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

C. Brontë.

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘76 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park, London, May 30th, 1851.

76 Gloucester Terrace,
Hyde Park, London, May 30th, 1851.

‘Dear Papa,—I have now heard one of Mr. Thackeray’s lectures and seen the great Exhibition.  On Thursday afternoon I went to hear the lecture.  It was delivered in a large and splendid kind of saloon—that in which the great balls of Almacks are given.  The walls were all painted and gilded, the benches were sofas stuffed and cushioned and covered with blue damask.  The audience was composed of the élite of London society.  Duchesses were there by the score, and amongst them the great and beautiful Duchess of Sutherland, the Queen’s Mistress of the Robes.  Amidst all this Thackeray just got up and spoke with as much simplicity and ease as if he had been speaking to a few friends by his own fireside.  The lecture was truly good: he has taken pains with the composition.  It was finished without being in the least studied; a quiet humour and graphic force enlivened it throughout.  He saw me as I entered the room, and came straight up and spoke very kindly.  He then took me to his mother, a fine, handsome old lady, and introduced me to her.  After the lecture somebody came behind me, leaned over the bench, and said, “Will you permit me, as a Yorkshireman, p. 425to introduce myself to you?”  I turned round, was puzzled at first by the strange face I met, but in a minute I recognised the features.  “You are the Earl of Carlisle,” I said.  He smiled and assented.  He went on to talk for some time in a courteous, kind fashion.  He asked after you, recalled the platform electioneering scene at Haworth, and begged to be remembered to you.  Dr. Forbes came up afterwards, and Mr. Monckton Milnes, a Yorkshire Member of Parliament, who introduced himself on the same plea as Lord Carlisle.

Dear Papa,—I have now heard one of Mr. Thackeray’s lectures and seen the grand Exhibition. On Thursday afternoon, I went to hear the lecture. It took place in a large, beautiful hall—the same one where the grand balls of Almacks are held. The walls were painted and gilded, the benches were upholstered sofas covered in blue damask. The audience was made up of the elite of London society. There were plenty of duchesses, including the great and stunning Duchess of Sutherland, the Queen’s Mistress of the Robes. Amid all this, Thackeray simply stood up and spoke as casually and comfortably as if he were chatting with friends in his own living room. The lecture was excellent; he clearly put a lot of effort into it. It was polished yet felt completely effortless; a gentle humor and vivid energy filled it. He spotted me as I entered the room and walked right over to greet me kindly. He then took me to meet his mother, a lovely, dignified older lady, and introduced me to her. After the lecture, someone came up behind me, leaned over the bench, and said, “As a Yorkshireman, may I introduce myself to you?” I turned around, initially puzzled by the unfamiliar face but soon recognized him. “You’re the Earl of Carlisle,” I said. He smiled and confirmed it. He talked to me for a while in a polite, friendly manner, asking about you, recalling the platform electioneering scene at Haworth, and sending you his regards. Dr. Forbes came up afterwards, along with Mr. Monckton Milnes, a Yorkshire MP, who introduced himself similarly to Lord Carlisle.

‘Yesterday we went to the Crystal Palace.  The exterior has a strange and elegant but somewhat unsubstantial effect.  The interior is like a mighty Vanity Fair.  The brightest colours blaze on all sides; and ware of all kinds, from diamonds to spinning jennies and printing presses, are there to be seen.  It was very fine, gorgeous, animated, bewildering, but I liked Thackeray’s lecture better.

Yesterday we visited the Crystal Palace. The outside has a strange yet elegant vibe, but it feels a bit insubstantial. The inside resembles a gigantic Vanity Fair. Bright colors shine everywhere, and you can find all sorts of goods, from diamonds to spinning jennies and printing presses. It was impressive, beautiful, lively, and a bit overwhelming, but I preferred Thackeray’s lecture more.

‘I hope, dear papa, that you are keeping well.  With kind regards to Tabby and Martha, and hopes that they are well too,—I am, your affectionate daughter,

I hope you are doing well, dear Dad. Please give warm regards to Tabby and Martha, hoping they are well too,—I am, your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

C. Brontë.

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘112 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park, June 7th, 1851.

112 Gloucester Terrace,
Hyde Park, June 7th, 1851.

‘Dear Papa,—I was very glad to hear that you continued in pretty good health, and that Mr. Cartman came to help you on Sunday.  I fear you will not have had a very comfortable week in the dining-room; but by this time I suppose the parlour reformation will be nearly completed, and you will soon be able to return to your old quarters.  The letter you sent me this morning was from Mary Taylor.  She continues well and happy in New Zealand, and her shop seems to answer well.  The French newspaper duly arrived.  Yesterday I went for the second time to the Crystal Palace.  We remained in it about three hours, and I must say I was more struck with it on this occasion than at my first visit.  It is a wonderful place—vast, strange, new, and impossible to describe.  Its grandeur does not consist in one thing, but in the unique assemblage of all things.  p. 426Whatever human industry has created, you find there, from the great compartments filled with railway engines and boilers, with mill-machinery in full work, with splendid carriages of all kinds, with harness of every description—to the glass-covered and velvet-spread stands loaded with the most gorgeous work of the goldsmith and silversmith, and the carefully guarded caskets full of real diamonds and pearls worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.  It may be called a bazaar or a fair, but it is such a bazaar or fair as Eastern genii might have created.  It seems as if magic only could have gathered this mass of wealth from all the ends of the earth—as if none but supernatural hands could have arranged it thus, with such a blaze and contrast of colours and marvellous power of effect.  The multitude filling the great aisles seems ruled and subdued by some invisible influence.  Amongst the thirty thousand souls that peopled it the day I was there, not one loud noise was to be heard, not one irregular movement seen—the living tide rolls on quietly, with a deep hum like the sea heard from the distance.

Dear Dad,—I was really happy to hear that you're doing pretty well, and that Mr. Cartman came to help you on Sunday. I worry that you haven't had a comfortable week in the dining room; but by now, I bet the parlor renovation is almost finished, and you'll soon return to your usual spot. The letter you sent me this morning was from Mary Taylor. She's doing well and happy in New Zealand, and her shop seems to be thriving. The French newspaper arrived as expected. Yesterday, I visited the Crystal Palace for the second time. We spent about three hours there, and I must say I was even more impressed this time than on my first visit. It's an amazing place—huge, strange, new, and hard to describe. Its grandeur comes not from one thing but from the incredible mix of everything. Everything human ingenuity has created is there, from large sections filled with railway engines and boilers, and working mill machinery, to stunning carriages of all kinds and various types of harness, and the glass-covered, velvet-draped displays overflowing with exquisite works of jewelers, along with carefully guarded cases full of diamonds and pearls worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. You could call it a bazaar or a fair, but it’s the kind that Eastern genies might have created. It feels like only magic could have gathered this wealth from all corners of the earth—as if only supernatural hands could have arranged it all, with its dazzling contrast of colors and incredible visual impact. The crowd filling the great aisles seems composed and calm under some unseen force. Among the thirty thousand people who were there the day I visited, not a single loud sound was heard, nor was there chaotic movement observed—the living tide moved quietly, with a soft hum like the distant sea.

‘Mr. Thackeray is in high spirits about the success of his lectures.  It is likely to add largely both to his fame and purse.  He has, however, deferred this week’s lecture till next Thursday, at the earnest petition of the duchesses and marchionesses, who, on the day it should have been delivered, were necessitated to go down with the Queen and Court to Ascot Races.  I told him I thought he did wrong to put it off on their account—and I think so still.  The amateur performance of Bulwer’s play for the Guild of Literature has likewise been deferred on account of the races.  I hope, dear papa, that you, Mr. Nicholls, and all at home continue well.  Tell Martha to take her scrubbing and cleaning in moderation and not overwork herself.  With kind regards to her and Tabby,—I am, your affectionate daughter,

Mr. Thackeray is really thrilled with how well his lectures are going. It's likely to boost both his reputation and income. However, he has postponed this week’s lecture until next Thursday at the heartfelt request of the duchesses and marchionesses, who had to escort the Queen and Court to the Ascot Races on lecture day. I told him I thought it was wrong to reschedule just for them—and I still think so. The amateur performance of Bulwer’s play for the Guild of Literature has also been postponed because of the races. I hope, dear Dad, that you, Mr. Nicholls, and everyone at home are doing well. Please tell Martha to moderate her scrubbing and cleaning and not to overwork herself. Sending my best wishes to her and Tabby,—I am, your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

C. Brontë.

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘112 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park, June 14th, 1851.

112 Gloucester Terrace,
Hyde Park, June 14th, 1851.

‘Dear Papa,—If all be well, and if Martha can get the cleaning, etc., done by that time, I think I shall be coming p. 427home about the end of next week or the beginning of the week after.  I have been pretty well in London, only somewhat troubled with headaches, owing, I suppose, to the closeness and oppression of the air.  The weather has not been so favourable as when I was last here, and in wet and dark days this great Babylon is not so cheerful.  All the other sights seem to give way to the great Exhibition, into which thousands and tens of thousands continue to pour every day.  I was in it again yesterday afternoon, and saw the ex-royal family of France—the old Queen, the Duchess of Orleans, and her two sons, etc., pass down the transept.  I almost wonder the Londoners don’t tire a little of this vast Vanity Fair—and, indeed, a new toy has somewhat diverted the attention of the grandees lately, viz., a fancy ball given last night by the Queen.  The great lords and ladies have been quite wrapt up in preparations for this momentous event.  Their pet and darling, Mr. Thackeray, of course sympathises with them.  He was here yesterday to dinner, and left very early in the evening in order that he might visit respectively the Duchess of Norfolk, the Marchioness of Londonderry, Ladies Chesterfield and Clanricarde, and see them all in their fancy costumes of the reign of Charles II. before they set out for the Palace!  His lectures, it appears, are a triumphant success.  He says they will enable him to make a provision for his daughters; and Mr. Smith believes he will not get less than four thousand pounds by them.  He is going to give two courses, and then go to Edinburgh and perhaps America, but not under the auspices of Barnum.  Amongst others, the Lord Chancellor attended his last lecture, and Mr. Thackeray says he expects a place from him; but in this I think he was joking.  Of course Mr. T. is a good deal spoiled by all this, and indeed it cannot be otherwise.  He has offered two or three times to introduce me to some of his great friends, and says he knows many great ladies who would receive me with open arms if I would go to their houses; but, seriously, I cannot see that this sort of society produces so good an effect on him as to tempt me in the least to try the same experiment, so I remain obscure.

Dear Dad,—If everything goes well, and if Martha can finish the cleaning and other tasks by then, I think I’ll be coming home around the end of next week or the beginning of the following week. I’ve been managing pretty well in London, though I’ve had some headaches, probably due to the stuffy and oppressive air. The weather hasn’t been as pleasant as when I was here last, and on rainy, gray days, this huge city doesn’t seem very cheerful. All the other attractions fade in comparison to the Great Exhibition, where thousands keep coming every day. I went again yesterday afternoon and saw the former royal family of France—the old Queen, the Duchess of Orleans, and her two sons—walk down the transept. I almost wonder how Londoners don’t tire of this massive Vanity Fair—and, in fact, a new event has recently caught the elite's attention: a fancy ball hosted by the Queen last night. The top lords and ladies have been completely immersed in preparations for this grand event. Their favorite, Mr. Thackeray, was in on it too. He was here for dinner yesterday and left rather early in the evening so he could visit the Duchess of Norfolk, the Marchioness of Londonderry, and Ladies Chesterfield and Clanricarde to see them in their fancy Charles II costumes before heading off to the Palace! His lectures have become a roaring success. He says they'll enable him to provide for his daughters, and Mr. Smith believes he’ll make at least four thousand pounds from them. He plans to give two series of lectures and then go to Edinburgh and maybe America, but not under Barnum’s management. At his last lecture, among others, the Lord Chancellor attended, and Mr. Thackeray thinks he might land a position from him; although, I believe he was joking about that. It’s clear that Mr. T. has been quite spoiled by all this, and it’s hard to see how it couldn’t be that way. He’s asked a couple of times to introduce me to some of his influential friends, saying he knows many distinguished ladies who would welcome me warmly if I visited them; but honestly, I don’t think this type of society would positively influence him enough for me to want to try it too, so I prefer to stay in the background.

p. 428‘Hoping you are well, dear papa, and with kind regards to Mr. Nicholls, Tabby, and Martha, also poor old Keeper and Flossy,—I am, your affectionate daughter,

I hope you’re doing well, dear Dad. Please send my best to Mr. Nicholls, Tabby, and Martha, as well as our old friends Keeper and Flossy. I’m your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.

C. Brontë.

‘P.S.—I am glad the parlour is done and that you have got safely settled, but am quite shocked to hear of the piano being dragged up into the bedroom—there it must necessarily be absurd, and in the parlour it looked so well, besides being convenient for your books.  I wonder why you don’t like it.’

P.S.—I'm glad the living room is finished and that you’ve settled in comfortably, but I'm really surprised to hear the piano was moved into the bedroom—it must look ridiculous there, and it fit so nicely in the living room, plus it was convenient for your books. I wonder why you don’t like it.

p. 429CHAPTER XVI: LITERARY FRIENDSHIPS

p. 430TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 430TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘4 Westbourne Place,
‘Bishop’s Road, London.

‘4 Westbourne Place,
‘Bishop’s Road, London.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have just remembered that as you do not know my address you cannot write to me till you get it; it is as above.  I came to this big Babylon last Thursday, and have been in what seems to me a sort of whirl ever since; for changes, scenes, and stimulus which would be a trifle to others, are much to me.  I found when I mentioned to Mr. Smith my plan of going to Dr. Wheelwright’s it would not do at all—he would have been seriously hurt.  He made his mother write to me, and thus I was persuaded to make my principal stay at his house.  I have found no reason to regret this decision.  Mrs. Smith received me at first like one who had received the strictest orders to be scrupulously attentive.  I had fires in my bed-room evening and morning, wax candles, etc., etc.  Mrs. Smith and her daughters seemed to look upon me with a mixture of respect and alarm.  But all this is changed—that is to say, the attention and politeness continues as great as ever, but the alarm and estrangement are quite gone.  She treats me as if she liked me, and I begin to like her much; kindness is a potent heart-winner.  I had not judged too favourably of her son on a first impression; he pleases me much.  I like him better even as a son and brother than as a man of business.  Mr. Williams, too, is really most gentlemanly and well-informed.  His weak points he certainly has, but these are not seen in society.  Mr. Taylor—the little man—has again shown his parts; in fact, I suspect he is of the Helstone order of men—rigid, despotic, and self-willed.  He tries to be very kind and even to express sympathy sometimes, but he does not manage it.  He has a determined, dreadful nose in the middle of his face, which, when poked into my countenance, cuts into my soul like iron.  Still, he is horribly intelligent, quick, searching, sagacious, and with a memory of relentless tenacity.  To turn to Mr. Williams after him, or to Mr. Smith himself, is to turn from granite to easy down or warm fur.  I have seen Thackeray.

‘Dear Ellen,—I just realized that since you don’t know my address, you can't write to me until you have it; it's listed above. I got to this huge city last Thursday and have felt like I’m in a whirlwind ever since. The changes, sights, and excitement that might just be minor distractions for others are a lot for me. When I told Mr. Smith about my plan to visit Dr. Wheelwright, he seemed really upset—his feelings would have been deeply hurt. He had his mother write to me, and that’s how I ended up primarily staying at his house. I have no regrets about that choice. Mrs. Smith welcomed me as if she had been told to be especially attentive. I had fires in my bedroom every evening and morning, wax candles, and so on. Mrs. Smith and her daughters seemed to look at me with a mix of respect and concern. But all that has changed—the attention and politeness are just as strong as ever, but the concern and distance have completely vanished. She treats me like someone she truly cares about, and I’m starting to really like her; kindness is a powerful way to win someone over. I didn’t have the best first impression of her son, but he has grown on me quite a bit. I actually like him more as a son and brother than in his professional role. Mr. Williams is also genuinely gentlemanly and well-informed. He definitely has his flaws, but they don’t show in social situations. Mr. Taylor—the short man—has once again shown his true nature; I think he’s the kind of guy who’s strict, controlling, and stubborn. He tries hard to be friendly and even attempts to show some sympathy now and then, but he doesn't quite succeed. He has a strong, prominent nose that feels like it's cutting into my soul when it's in my face. Still, he’s incredibly sharp, quick-witted, perceptive, and has an impressive memory. Shifting focus from Mr. Williams back to him or even Mr. Smith feels like moving from solid rock to soft fabric or cozy fur. I’ve also seen Thackeray.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 431TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

p. 431TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

‘November 6th, 1849.

‘November 6th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—I am afraid Mr. Williams told you I was sadly “put out” about the Daily News, and I believe it is to that circumstance I owe your letters.  But I have now made good resolutions, which were tried this morning by another notice in the same style in the Observer.  The praise of such critics mortifies more than their blame; an author who becomes the object of it cannot help momentarily wishing he had never written.  And to speak of the press being still ignorant of my being a woman!  Why can they not be content to take Currer Bell for a man?

My dear Sir,—I’m afraid Mr. Williams told you I was really upset about the Daily News, and I think that’s why you’ve written to me. But I’ve made some resolutions, which were tested this morning by another similar notice in the Observer. The praise from such critics hurts more than their criticism; an author who becomes the target of it can’t help but wish, even briefly, that they had never written at all. And to think that the press still doesn’t know I’m a woman! Why can't they just accept that Currer Bell is a man?

‘I imagined, mistakenly it now appears, that Shirley bore fewer traces of a female hand than Jane Eyre; that I have misjudged disappoints me a little, though I cannot exactly see where the error lies.  You keep to your point about the curates.  Since you think me to blame, you do right to tell me so.  I rather fancy I shall be left in a minority of one on that subject.

‘I mistakenly imagined that Shirley shows fewer signs of a female influence than Jane Eyre; it disappoints me to realize I’ve misjudged, although I can't quite figure out where I went wrong. You stand firm on your view about the curates. Since you think I'm at fault, you’re right to say so. I suspect I’ll be alone in my opinion on that topic.

‘I was indeed very much interested in the books you sent.  Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe, Guesses at Truth, Friends in Council, and the little work on English social life pleased me particularly, and the last not least.  We sometimes take a partiality to books as to characters, not on account of any brilliant intellect or striking peculiarity they boast, but for the sake of something good, delicate, and genuine.  I thought that small book the production of a lady, and an amiable, sensible woman, and I like it.

‘I was really interested in the books you sent. Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe, Guesses at Truth, Friends in Council, and the little book on English social life particularly pleased me, with the last one being my favorite. We sometimes develop a fondness for books just like we do for people, not because of their brilliant intellect or striking uniqueness, but because of something good, subtle, and genuine. I thought that little book was written by a lady, an amiable and sensible woman, and I really like it.

‘You must not think of selecting any more works for me yet, my stock is still far from exhausted.

‘You shouldn’t think about picking any more works for me just yet; I still have plenty left.’

‘I accept your offer respecting the Athenæum; it is a paper I should like much to see, providing you can send it without trouble.  It shall be punctually returned.

‘I accept your offer regarding the Athenæum; it’s a paper I would really like to see, as long as you can send it without any inconvenience. It will be returned on time.

‘Papa’s health has, I am thankful to say, been very satisfactory of late.  The other day he walked to Keighley and back, and was very little fatigued.  I am myself pretty well.

‘Papa’s health has, I’m glad to say, been really good lately. The other day he walked to Keighley and back and was hardly tired at all. I’m doing pretty well myself.

p. 432‘With thanks for your kind letter and good wishes,—Believe me, yours sincerely,

p. 432‘Thank you for your thoughtful letter and well wishes,—Sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 12th, 1850.

‘June 12th, 1850.

‘I have seen Lewes.  He is a man with both weakness and sins, but unless I err greatly, the foundation of his nature is not bad; and were he almost a fiend in character I could not feel otherwise to him than half-sadly, half-tenderly.  A queer word that last, but I use it because the aspect of Lewes’s face almost moves me to tears, it is so wonderfully like Emily—her eyes, her features, the very nose, the somewhat prominent mouth, the forehead—even, at moments, the expression.  Whatever Lewes does or says, I believe I cannot hate him.  Another likeness I have seen, too, that touched me sorrowfully.  You remember my speaking of a Miss Kavanagh, a young authoress, who supported her mother by her writings.  Hearing from Mr. Williams that she had a longing to see me, I called on her yesterday.  I found a little, almost dwarfish figure, to which even I had to look down; not deformed—that is, not hunch-backed, but long-armed and with a large head, and (at first sight) a strange face.  She met me half-frankly, half-tremblingly; we sat down together, and when I had talked with her five minutes, p. 433her face was no longer strange, but mournfully familiar—it was Martha Taylor on every lineament.  I shall try to find a moment to see her again.  She lives in a poor but clean and neat little lodging.  Her mother seems a somewhat weak-minded woman, who can be no companion to her.  Her father has quite deserted his wife and child, and this poor little, feeble, intelligent, cordial thing wastes her brains to gain a living.  She is twenty-five years old.  I do not intend to stay here, at the furthest, more than a week longer; but at the end of that time I cannot go home, for the house at Haworth is just now unroofed; repairs were become necessary.

‘I’ve met Lewes. He has his weaknesses and flaws, but unless I'm completely off base, his character is fundamentally decent; and even if he were nearly villainous, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of sadness and tenderness for him. It sounds strange, but seeing his face almost makes me cry—it's strikingly similar to Emily's—her eyes, her features, her nose, her slightly prominent mouth, her forehead—even her expression at times. No matter what Lewes does or says, I doubt I could ever dislike him. I've also found another resemblance that touches me sadly. Do you remember me mentioning Miss Kavanagh, the young author who supports her mother with her writing? After hearing from Mr. Williams that she wanted to meet me, I visited her yesterday. I found a small, almost dwarfish figure that I had to look down at; not deformed—not hunchbacked, but long-armed with a large head, and (at first glance) a peculiar face. She greeted me half openly, half nervously; we sat down together, and after just five minutes of talking, her face no longer seemed strange, but mournfully familiar—it was Martha Taylor in every feature. I’ll try to find time to see her again. She lives in a small but clean and tidy little apartment. Her mother seems a bit simple-minded and isn’t much of a companion to her. Her father has completely left his wife and child, and this poor little, delicate, intelligent, friendly person is using her wits to make a living. She’s twenty-five years old. I don’t plan to stay here for more than another week at most, but by then, I can't go home because the house in Haworth is currently being repaired; the roof needed fixing.’

‘I should like to go for a week or two to the sea-side, in which case I wonder whether it would be possible for you to join me.  Meantime, with regards to all—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘I’d like to go to the beach for a week or two, and I wonder if you could join me. In the meantime, take care—Sincerely yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘November 6th, 1847.

‘November 6th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I should be obliged to you if you will direct the inclosed to be posted in London as I wish to avoid giving any clue to my place of residence, publicity not being my ambition.

Dear Sir,—I would appreciate it if you could send the enclosed letter to be posted in London. I want to keep my address private, as I’m not looking for any attention.

‘It is an answer to the letter I received yesterday, favoured by you.  This letter bore the signature G. H. Lewes, and the writer informs me that it is his intention to write a critique on Jane Eyre for the December number of Fraser’s Magazine, and possibly also, he intimates, a brief notice to the Westminster Review.  Upon the whole he seems favourably inclined to the work, though he hints disapprobation of the melodramatic portions.

‘This is in response to the letter I received yesterday, which you kindly forwarded. This letter was signed G. H. Lewes, and the writer mentions that he plans to review Jane Eyre for the December edition of Fraser’s Magazine, and possibly a short notice for the Westminster Review. Overall, he seems to have a positive view of the work, although he implies he isn’t a fan of the melodramatic elements.

‘Can you give me any information respecting Mr. Lewes? what station he occupies in the literary world and what works he has written?  He styles himself “a fellow novelist.”  There is something in the candid tone of his letter which inclines me to think well of him.

‘Can you tell me anything about Mr. Lewes? What role does he have in the literary world, and what has he written? He refers to himself as "a fellow novelist." There’s something in the straightforward tone of his letter that makes me feel positively about him.

p. 434‘I duly received your letter containing the notices from the Critic, and the two magazines, and also the Morning Post.  I hope all these notices will work together for good; they must at any rate give the book a certain publicity.—Yours sincerely,

p. 434‘I received your letter with the reviews from the Critic, the two magazines, and the Morning Post. I hope all these reviews will have a positive impact; they should at least give the book some visibility.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO R. H. HORNE

TO R. H. HORNE

‘December 15th, 1847.

‘December 15th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—You will have thought me strangely tardy in acknowledging your courteous present, but the fact is it never reached me till yesterday; the parcel containing it was missent—consequently it lingered a fortnight on its route.

Dear Sir,—You might have thought I was slow to thank you for your thoughtful gift, but the truth is it only arrived yesterday; the package was sent to the wrong address—so it took an extra two weeks to get here.

‘I have to thank you, not merely for the gift of a little book of 137 pages, but for that of a poem.  Very real, very sweet is the poetry of Orion; there are passages I shall recur to again and yet again—passages instinct both with power and beauty.  All through it is genuine—pure from one flaw of affectation, rich in noble imagery.  How far the applause of critics has rewarded the author of Orion I do not know, but I think the pleasure he enjoyed in its composition must have been a bounteous meed in itself.  You could not, I imagine, have written that epic without at times deriving deep happiness from your work.

‘I want to thank you, not just for the gift of a small book of 137 pages, but for a poem. The poetry in Orion is very genuine and very sweet; there are lines I’ll keep coming back to—lines filled with both power and beauty. It's authentic throughout—free from any pretentiousness and rich in noble imagery. I don't know how much praise critics have given the author of Orion, but I believe the joy he felt in writing it must have been a significant reward in itself. I can’t imagine you wrote that epic without occasionally experiencing deep happiness from your work.

‘With sincere thanks for the pleasure its perusal has afforded me,—I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘With sincere thanks for the pleasure it has given me to read it,—I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth, December 15th, 1847.

‘Haworth, December 15th, 1847.

‘Dear Sir,—I write a line in haste to apprise you that I have got the parcel.  It was sent, through the carelessness of the railroad people, to Bingley, where it lay a fortnight, till a Haworth carrier happening to pass that way brought it on to me.

Dear Sir,—I’m writing quickly to let you know that I received the parcel. Due to the carelessness of the railroad staff, it was sent to Bingley, where it sat for two weeks until a Haworth carrier happened to come by and brought it to me.

p. 435‘I was much pleased to find that you had been kind enough to forward the Mirror along with Fraser.  The article on “the last new novel” is in substance similar to the notice in the Sunday Times.  One passage only excited much interest in me; it was that where allusion is made to some former work which the author of Jane Eyre is supposed to have published—there, I own, my curiosity was a little stimulated.  The reviewer cannot mean the little book of rhymes to which Currer Bell contributed a third; but as that, and Jane Eyre, and a brief translation of some French verses sent anonymously to a magazine, are the sole productions of mine that have ever appeared in print, I am puzzled to know to what else he can refer.

p. 435“I was really glad to see that you were kind enough to send the Mirror along with Fraser. The article on “the latest new novel” is basically the same as the review in the Sunday Times. One part truly caught my interest; it mentioned a previous work that the author of Jane Eyre supposedly published—honestly, that stirred my curiosity a bit. The reviewer can't be talking about the little book of poems where Currer Bell contributed a third of it; but since that, along with Jane Eyre, and a short translation of some French poems sent anonymously to a magazine, are the only works of mine that have ever been published, I’m confused about what else he could be referring to.”

‘The reviewer is mistaken, as he is in perverting my meaning, in attributing to me designs I know not, principles I disown.

‘The reviewer is mistaken for misinterpreting my meaning and attributing to me intentions I don’t have and principles I reject.

‘I have been greatly pleased with Mr. R. H. Horne’s poem of Orion.  Will you have the kindness to forward to him the inclosed note, and to correct the address if it is not accurate?—Believe me, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘I have been very pleased with Mr. R. H. Horne’s poem Orion. Would you be so kind as to send him the enclosed note and correct the address if it’s not accurate?—Sincerely, dear sir, yours respectfully,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘May 1st, 1848.

‘May 1st, 1848.

‘My dear Sir,—I am glad you sent me your letter just as you had written it—without revisal, without retrenching or softening touch, because I cannot doubt that I am a gainer by the omission.

Dear Sir,—I’m glad you sent me your letter just as you wrote it—without editing, shortening, or softening it, because I believe that’s beneficial.

‘It would be useless to attempt opposition to your opinions, since, in fact, to read them was to recognise, almost point for point, a clear definition of objections I had already felt, but had found neither the power nor the will to express.  Not the power, because I find it very difficult to analyse closely, or to criticise in appropriate words; and not the will, because I was afraid of p. 436doing Mr. Lewes injustice.  I preferred overrating to underrating the merits of his work.

‘It would be pointless to argue against your opinions because, honestly, reading them felt like getting a clear expression of the objections I had already felt but didn’t have the strength or desire to voice. Not strength, because I have difficulty analyzing things closely or expressing criticism accurately; and not desire, because I was concerned about doing Mr. Lewes an injustice. I preferred to overrate rather than underrate his work’s merits. p. 436

‘Mr. Lewes’s sincerity, energy, and talent assuredly command the reader’s respect, but on what points he depends to win his attachment I know not.  I do not think he cares to excite the pleasant feelings which incline the taught to the teacher as much in friendship as in reverence.  The display of his acquirements, to which almost every page bears testimony—citations from Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, French, and German authors covering as with embroidery the texture of his English—awes and astonishes the plain reader; but if, in addition, you permit yourself to require the refining charm of delicacy, the elevating one of imagination—if you permit yourself to be as fastidious and exacting in these matters as, by your own confession, it appears you are, then Mr. Lewes must necessarily inform you that he does not deal in the article; probably he will add that therefore it must be non-essential.  I should fear he might even stigmatise imagination as a figment, and delicacy as an affectation.

‘Mr. Lewes’s sincerity, energy, and talent certainly deserve the reader’s respect, but I’m not sure what he relies on to gain their loyalty. I don’t think he cares to inspire the warm feelings that foster a connection between the learner and the teacher, both in friendship and reverence. The display of his knowledge, evident on almost every page—with quotes from Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, French, and German authors adorning his English like embroidery—impresses and amazes the average reader. But if you expect the subtle charm and inspiring quality of imagination—if you’re willing to be as picky and demanding in these areas as you admit to being, then Mr. Lewes will likely tell you that he doesn’t focus on those traits; he’ll probably add that therefore, they must be non-essential. I might even worry that he would dismiss imagination as a fantasy and subtlety as pretense.

‘An honest rough heartiness Mr. Lewes will give you; yet in case you have the misfortune to remark that the heartiness might be quite as honest if it were less rough, would you not run the risk of being termed a sentimentalist or a dreamer?

‘Mr. Lewes will show you genuine, heartfelt warmth; however, if you were to point out that the warmth could feel just as real if it were a bit smoother, wouldn’t you risk being labeled a sentimentalist or a dreamer?

‘Were I privileged to address Mr. Lewes, and were it wise or becoming to say to him exactly what one thinks, I should utter words to this effect—

‘If I had the opportunity to talk to Mr. Lewes, and if it was wise or appropriate to express exactly what I think, I would say something like this—

‘“You have a sound, clear judgment as far as it goes, but I conceive it to be limited; your standard of talent is high, but I cannot acknowledge it to be the highest; you are deserving of all attention when you lay down the law on principles, but you are to be resisted when you dogmatise on feelings.

“You have solid and clear judgment, but I believe it's limited; your standard for talent is high, but I can’t agree that it’s the highest; you deserve full attention when discussing principles, but you should be challenged when insisting on feelings."

‘“To a certain point, Mr. Lewes, you can go, but no farther.  Be as sceptical as you please on whatever lies beyond a certain intellectual limit; the mystery will never be cleared up to you, for that limit you will never overpass.  Not all your learning, not all your reading, not all your sagacity, not all your p. 437perseverance can help you over one viewless line—one boundary as impassable as it is invisible.  To enter that sphere a man must be born within it; and untaught peasants have there drawn their first breath, while learned philosophers have striven hard till old age to reach it, and have never succeeded.”  I should not dare, nor would it be right, to say this to Mr. Lewes, but I cannot help thinking it both of him and many others who have a great name in the world.

“Mr. Lewes, you can go this far, but no further. Feel free to be as skeptical as you want about anything beyond a certain intellectual limit; you’ll never understand the mystery because you’ll never surpass that limit. Not your knowledge, not your reading, not your wisdom, and not your determination can help you cross an invisible boundary—one that’s just as impassable as it is invisible. To truly enter that realm, a person must be born into it; untaught peasants have taken their first breaths there, while learned philosophers have struggled for years and still haven’t made it. I wouldn’t dare say this to Mr. Lewes, nor would it be fair, but I can’t help thinking this about him and many others who are well-known.”

‘Hester Mason’s character, career, and fate appeared to me so strange, grovelling, and miserable, that I never for a moment doubted the whole dreary picture was from the life.  I thought in describing the “rustic poetess,” in giving the details of her vulgar provincial and disreputable metropolitan notoriety, and especially in touching on the ghastly catastrophe of her fate, he was faithfully recording facts—thus, however repulsively, yet conscientiously “pointing a moral,” if not “adorning a tale”; but if Hester be the daughter of Lewes’s imagination, and if her experience and her doom be inventions of his fancy, I wish him better, and higher, and truer taste next time he writes a novel.

‘Hester Mason’s character, career, and fate seemed so strange, lowly, and miserable to me that I never doubted the whole bleak picture was drawn from real life. I thought that in portraying the “rustic poetess,” emphasizing the details of her tawdry provincial and disreputable city fame, and especially in addressing the horrific end of her story, he was accurately documenting facts—thus, however unappealingly, yet sincerely “teaching a lesson,” if not “telling a story”; but if Hester is a product of Lewes’s imagination, and if her experiences and ending are creations of his mind, I hope he has better, higher, and more genuine taste next time he writes a novel.

‘Julius’s exploit with the side of bacon is not defensible; he might certainly, for the fee of a shilling or sixpence, have got a boy to carry it for him.

‘Julius’s stunt with the side of bacon is unjustifiable; he could definitely have paid a boy a shilling or sixpence to carry it for him.

‘Captain Heath, too, must have cut a deplorable figure behind the post-chaise.

'Captain Heath must have looked quite pathetic behind the carriage.'

‘Mrs. Vyner strikes one as a portrait from the life; and it equally strikes one that the artist hated his original model with a personal hatred.  She is made so bad that one cannot in the least degree sympathise with any of those who love her; one can only despise them.  She is a fiend, and therefore not like Mr. Thackeray’s Rebecca, where neither vanity, heartlessness, nor falsehood have been spared by the vigorous and skilful hand which portrays them, but where the human being has been preserved nevertheless, and where, consequently, the lesson given is infinitely more impressive.  We can learn little from the strange fantasies of demons—we are not of their kind; but the vices of the deceitful, selfish man or woman humble and p. 438warn us.  In your remarks on the good girls I concur to the letter; and I must add that I think Blanche, amiable as she is represented, could never have loved her husband after she had discovered that he was utterly despicable.  Love is stronger than Cruelty, stronger than Death, but perishes under Meanness; Pity may take its place, but Pity is not Love.

‘Mrs. Vyner comes across as a lifelike portrait; and it’s clear that the artist had a personal dislike for his original model. She is portrayed so badly that one can’t sympathize with anyone who loves her; instead, one can only look down on them. She’s a villain, unlike Mr. Thackeray’s Rebecca, where the artist skillfully depicts vanity, heartlessness, and deceit, yet still manages to preserve her humanity, making the lessons much more impactful. We can learn little from the strange whims of demons—we are not like them; but the vices of deceitful, selfish people humble and warn us. I completely agree with your comments about the good girls, and I must add that I believe Blanche, as lovely as she is illustrated, could never love her husband once she learned he was utterly contemptible. Love is stronger than cruelty, stronger than death, but it dies in the presence of meanness; pity might replace it, but pity is not love.

‘So far, then, I not only agree with you, but I marvel at the nice perception with which you have discriminated, and at the accuracy with which you have marked each coarse, cold, improbable, unseemly defect.  But now I am going to take another side: I am going to differ from you, and it is about Cecil Chamberlayne.

‘So far, not only do I agree with you, but I’m also impressed by your keen insight and how accurately you’ve identified each rough, cold, unlikely, and inappropriate flaw. But now I’m going to switch gears: I’m going to disagree with you, and it’s about Cecil Chamberlayne.

‘You say that no man who had intellect enough to paint a picture, or write a comic opera, could act as he did; you say that men of genius and talent may have egregious faults, but they cannot descend to brutality or meanness.  Would that the case were so!  Would that intellect could preserve from low vice!  But, alas! it cannot.  No, the whole character of Cecil is painted with but too faithful a hand; it is very masterly, because it is very true.  Lewes is nobly right when he says that intellect is not the highest faculty of man, though it may be the most brilliant; when he declares that the moral nature of his kind is more sacred than the intellectual nature; when he prefers “goodness, lovingness, and quiet self-sacrifice to all the talents in the world.”

"You argue that no man with enough intelligence to paint a picture or write a comic opera could behave as he did; you claim that men of genius and talent may have serious flaws, but they can't sink to brutality or meanness. I wish that were true! I wish intelligence could protect against low vices! But sadly, it can't. No, the entire character of Cecil is depicted with chilling accuracy; it is very skillful because it is very real. Lewes is absolutely right when he says that intellect is not the highest ability of man, even if it might be the most impressive; when he states that the moral nature of humanity is more sacred than the intellectual nature; when he prefers 'goodness, lovingness, and quiet self-sacrifice to all the talents in the world.'"

‘There is something divine in the thought that genius preserves from degradation, were it but true; but Savage tells us it was not true for him; Sheridan confirms the avowal, and Byron seals it with terrible proof.

‘There’s something divine about the idea that genius protects us from decline, if only it were true; but Savage tells us it wasn’t true for him; Sheridan backs this up, and Byron confirms it with terrible evidence.

‘You never probably knew a Cecil Chamberlayne.  If you had known such a one you would feel that Lewes has rather subdued the picture than overcharged it; you would know that mental gifts without moral firmness, without a clear sense of right and wrong, without the honourable principle which makes a man rather proud than ashamed of honest labour, are no guarantee from even deepest baseness.

‘You probably never knew a Cecil Chamberlayne. If you had known someone like him, you would feel that Lewes has toned down the portrayal rather than exaggerated it; you would realize that having mental gifts without moral strength, without a clear sense of right and wrong, and without the honorable principles that make a person more proud than ashamed of honest work, does not protect against even the most severe moral failure.

‘I have received the Dublin University Magazine.  The notice p. 439is more favourable than I had anticipated; indeed, I had for a long time ceased to anticipate any from that quarter; but the critic does not strike one as too bright.  Poor Mr. James is severely handled; you, likewise, are hard upon him.  He always strikes me as a miracle of productiveness.

‘I have received the Dublin University Magazine. The notice p. 439 is more positive than I expected; in fact, I had stopped expecting any feedback from that source for quite a while; but the critic doesn’t seem particularly insightful. Poor Mr. James is treated harshly; you are also tough on him. He always seems like a miracle of productivity to me.

‘I must conclude by thanking you for your last letter, which both pleased and instructed me.  You are quite right in thinking it exhibits the writer’s character.  Yes, it exhibits it unmistakeably (as Lewes would say).  And whenever it shall be my lot to submit another MS. to your inspection, I shall crave the full benefit of certain points in that character: I shall ever entreat my first critic to be as impartial as he is friendly; what he feels to be out of taste in my writings, I hope he will unsparingly condemn.  In the excitement of composition, one is apt to fall into errors that one regrets afterwards, and we never feel our own faults so keenly as when we see them exaggerated in others.

‘I must finish by thanking you for your last letter, which both delighted and taught me. You’re absolutely right in believing it reflects the writer’s character. Yes, it shows it clearly (as Lewes would say). And whenever it’s my turn to submit another manuscript for your review, I will ask for the full benefit of certain aspects of that character: I will always urge my first critic to be as fair as he is supportive; what he finds to be in poor taste in my work, I hope he will openly criticize. In the excitement of writing, it’s easy to make mistakes that we later regret, and we never see our own flaws as clearly as when we notice them exaggerated in others.

‘I conclude in haste, for I have written too long a letter; but it is because there was much to answer in yours.  It interested me.  I could not help wishing to tell you how nearly I agreed with you.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I’ll keep this brief, because I’ve written too long a letter; but that’s just because there was so much to address in yours. It caught my interest. I couldn’t help but want to share how much I agree with you.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Bell.’

‘C. Bell.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘April 5th, 1849.

‘April 5th, 1849.

‘My dear Sir,—Your note was very welcome.  I purposely impose on myself the restraint of writing to you seldom now, because I know but too well my letters cannot be cheering.  Yet I confess I am glad when the post brings me a letter: it reminds me that if the sun of action and life does not shine on us, it yet beams full on other parts of the world—and I like the recollection.

‘Dear Sir,—Your note was very welcome. I purposely limit how often I write to you now because I know my letters aren’t uplifting. Still, I admit I feel happy when mail brings me a letter; it reminds me that even if we’re not experiencing the sunshine of action and life, it still shines brightly in other parts of the world—and I appreciate that reminder.

‘I am not going to complain.  Anne has indeed suffered much at intervals since I last wrote to you—frost and east wind have had their effect.  She has passed nights of sleeplessness and pain, and days of depression and languor which nothing could cheer—but still, with the return of genial weather she revives.  I cannot perceive that she is feebler p. 440now than she was a month ago, though that is not saying much.  It proves, however, that no rapid process of destruction is going on in her frame, and keeps alive a hope that with the renovating aid of summer she may yet be spared a long time.

‘I’m not going to complain. Anne has certainly suffered a lot at times since I last wrote to you—cold and east winds have taken their toll. She has spent sleepless, painful nights, and days feeling low and exhausted that nothing could lift her spirits—but still, with the arrival of nicer weather, she bounces back. I can’t see that she’s weaker p. 440 now than she was a month ago, although that isn’t saying much. It shows, however, that there’s no rapid deterioration happening in her body, and it keeps alive the hope that with the refreshing help of summer, she might still have a long time ahead.’

‘What you tell me of Mr. Lewes seems to me highly characteristic.  How sanguine, versatile, and self-confident must that man be who can with ease exchange the quiet sphere of the author for the bustling one of the actor!  I heartily wish him success; and, in happier times, there are few things I should have relished more than an opportunity of seeing him in his new character.

‘What you tell me about Mr. Lewes seems very telling. How optimistic, adaptable, and self-assured must that man be to easily shift from the calm world of an author to the busy one of an actor! I sincerely wish him success; and in better times, there are few things I would have enjoyed more than the chance to see him in his new role.

‘The Cornhill books are still our welcome and congenial resource when Anne is well enough to enjoy reading.  Carlyle’s Miscellanies interest me greatly.  We have read The Emigrant Family.  The characters in the work are good, full of quiet truth and nature, and the local colouring is excellent; yet I can hardly call it a good novel.  Reflective, truth-loving, and even elevated as is Alexander Harris’s mind, I should say he scarcely possesses the creative faculty in sufficient vigour to excel as a writer of fiction.  He creates nothing—he only copies.  His characters are portraits—servilely accurate; whatever is at all ideal is not original.  The Testimony to the Truth is a better book than any tale he can write will ever be.  Am I too dogmatical in saying this?

‘The Cornhill books are still our enjoyable and friendly resource when Anne is healthy enough to appreciate reading. Carlyle’s Miscellanies really interest me. We’ve read The Emigrant Family. The characters in it are good, filled with quiet truth and authenticity, and the local detail is excellent; however, I can hardly call it a good novel. Reflective, truth-loving, and even elevated as Alexander Harris’s mind is, I’d say he doesn’t quite have the creative talent needed to excel as a fiction writer. He creates nothing—he just copies. His characters are portraits—remarkably accurate; anything that is even somewhat ideal isn’t original. The Testimony to the Truth is a better book than any story he can write will ever be. Am I being too dogmatic in saying this?’

‘Anne thanks you sincerely for the kind interest you take in her welfare, and both she and I beg to express our sense of Mrs. Williams’s good wishes, which you mentioned in a former letter.  We are grateful, too, to Mr. Smith and to all who offer us the sympathy of friendship.

‘Anne sincerely thanks you for the kind interest you have in her well-being, and both she and I want to express our appreciation for Mrs. Williams’s good wishes that you mentioned in a previous letter. We are also grateful to Mr. Smith and to everyone who shows us the support of friendship.

‘Whenever you can write with pleasure to yourself, remember Currer Bell is glad to hear from you, and he will make his letters as little dreary as he can in reply.—Yours sincerely,

‘Whenever you can write to yourself with joy, keep in mind that Currer Bell is happy to hear from you, and he will try to make his replies as cheerful as possible.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

‘Haworth, Keighley, December 17th, 1849.

‘Haworth, Keighley, December 17th, 1849.

‘My dear Lætitia,—I have just time to save the post by writing a brief note.  I reached home safely on Saturday afternoon, and, I am thankful to say, found papa quite well.

‘My dear Lætitia,—I have just enough time to send this note before the mail goes out. I got home safely on Saturday afternoon, and I’m happy to share that Dad is doing well.

‘The evening after I left you passed better than I expected.  Thanks to my substantial lunch and cheering cup of coffee, I was able to wait the eight o’clock dinner with complete resignation, and to endure its length quite courageously, nor was I too much exhausted to converse; and of this I was glad, for otherwise I know my kind host and hostess would have been much disappointed.  There were only seven gentlemen at dinner besides Mr. Smith, but of these, five were critics—a formidable band, including the literary Rhadamanthi of the Times, the Athenæum, the Examiner, the Spectator, and the Atlas: men more dreaded in the world of letters than you can conceive.  I did not know how much their presence and conversation had excited me till they were gone, and then reaction commenced.  When I had retired for the night I wished to sleep; the effort to do so was vain—I could not close my eyes.  Night passed, morning came, and I rose without having known a moment’s slumber.  So utterly worn out was I when I got to Derby, that I was obliged to stay there all night.

‘The evening after I left you turned out better than I expected. Thanks to my big lunch and a refreshing cup of coffee, I was able to wait for the eight o’clock dinner with a positive attitude and managed to get through it quite bravely. I wasn’t too exhausted to chat, which made me happy because otherwise I know my kind host and hostess would have been very disappointed. There were only seven gentlemen at dinner besides Mr. Smith, but out of those, five were critics—a pretty intimidating group, including the literary judges from the Times, the Athenæum, the Examiner, the Spectator, and the Atlas: men who are more feared in the literary world than you can imagine. I didn’t realize how much their presence and conversation had energized me until they left, and then I felt the crash. When I went to bed that night, I wanted to sleep; trying to do so was pointless—I couldn’t close my eyes. The night passed, morning came, and I got up without having slept a single moment. I was so completely worn out when I got to Derby that I had to stay there for the night.

‘The post is going.  Give my affectionate love to your mamma, Emily, Fanny, and Sarah Anne.  Remember me respectfully to your papa, and—Believe me, dear Lætitia, yours faithfully,

‘The mail is going out. Send my love to your mom, Emily, Fanny, and Sarah Anne. Please give my regards to your dad, and—Believe me, dear Lætitia, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO JAMES TAYLOR

TO JAMES TAYLOR

‘January 1st, 1850.

‘January 1st, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I am sorry there should have occurred an irregularity in the transmission of the papers; it has been owing to my absence from home.  I trust the interruption has occasioned no inconvenience.  Your last letter evinced such a sincere and discriminating admiration for Dr. Arnold, that perhaps you will not be wholly uninterested in hearing that during my late visit to Miss Martineau I saw much more of Fox How and its inmates, and daily admired, in the widow and children of one of the greatest and best men of his time, the possession of qualities the most estimable and endearing.  Of my kind hostess herself I cannot speak in terms too high.  Without being able to share all her opinions, philosophical, political, or religious, without adopting her theories, I yet find a worth and greatness in herself, and a consistency, benevolence, perseverance in her practice such as wins the sincerest esteem and affection.  She is not a person to be judged by her writings alone, but rather by her own deeds and life—than which nothing can be more exemplary or nobler.  She seems to me the benefactress of Ambleside, yet takes no sort of credit to herself for her active and indefatigable philanthropy.  The government of her household is admirably administered; all she does is well done, from the writing of a history down to the quietest female occupation.  No sort of carelessness or neglect is allowed under her rule, and yet she is not over strict nor too rigidly exacting; her servants and her poor neighbours love as well as respect her.

My dear Sir,—I apologize for the delay in sending the papers; it was because I was away from home. I hope this interruption didn’t cause any problems. Your last letter expressed such sincere admiration for Dr. Arnold that I thought you might like to know that during my recent visit to Miss Martineau, I got to know Fox How and its residents much better, and I was continually impressed by the widow and children of one of the greatest and kindest men of his time, who have truly admirable and endearing qualities. I can’t say enough good things about my kind hostess. Even though I can’t agree with all her ideas—whether philosophical, political, or religious—and I don’t adopt her theories, I still recognize her worth and greatness, as well as her consistency, kindness, and perseverance in action, which earn her the truest respect and affection. She should be judged by her actions and life rather than just her writings—nothing could be more exemplary or noble. To me, she is the benefactor of Ambleside, yet she doesn’t seek any recognition for her tireless philanthropy. She manages her household beautifully; everything she does is well done, from writing history to the smallest domestic tasks. There’s no carelessness or neglect allowed under her supervision, yet she isn’t overly strict or demanding; both her servants and her less fortunate neighbors love and respect her.

p. 443‘I must not, however, fall into the error of talking too much about her, merely because my own mind is just now deeply impressed with what I have seen of her intellectual power and moral worth.  Faults she has, but to me they appear very trivial weighed in the balance against her excellencies.

p. 443‘I shouldn’t, however, make the mistake of talking too much about her, just because I’m currently so impressed by her intelligence and character. She has flaws, but to me, they seem minor compared to her virtues.

‘With every good wish of the season,—I am, my dear sir, yours very sincerely,

‘Wishing you all the best this season,—I am, my dear sir, yours truly,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Birstall, near Leeds,
‘8th January 1850.

‘Birstall, near Leeds,
8th January 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—Fame says you are on a visit with the renowned Currer Bell, the “great unknown” of the present day.  The celebrated Shirley has just found its way hither.  And as one always reads a book with more interest when one has a correct insight into the writer’s designs, I write to ask a favour, which I ought not to be regarded presumptuous in saying that I think I have a species of claim to ask, on the ground of a sort of “poetical justice.”  The interpretation of this enigma is, that the story goes that either I or my father, I do not exactly know which, are part of “Currer Bell’s” stock-in-trade, under the title of Mr. Hall, in that Mr. Hall is represented as black, bilious, and of dismal aspect, stooping a trifle, and indulging a little now and then in the indigenous dialect.  This seems to sit very well on your humble servant—other traits do better for my good father than myself.  However, though I had no idea that I should be made a means to amuse the public, Currer Bell is perfectly welcome to what she can make of so unpromising a subject.  But I think I have a fair claim in return to be let into the secret of the company I have got into.  Some of them are good enough to tell, and need no Œdipus to solve the riddle.  I can tabulate, for instance, the Yorke family for the Taylors, Mr. Moore—Mr. Cartwright, and Mr. Helstone is p. 444clearly meant for Mr. Robertson, though the authoress has evidently got her idea of his character through an unfavourable medium, and does not understand the full value of one of the most admirable characters I ever knew or expect to know.  May thinks she descries Cecilia Crowther and Miss Johnston (afterwards Mrs. Westerman) in two old maids.

Dear Ellen,—I hear you are visiting the famous Currer Bell, the “great unknown” of our time. The celebrated Shirley has just arrived here. Since we always find a book more interesting when we understand the author's intentions, I'm writing to ask a favor, which I don't think is presumptuous since I believe I have a certain claim to request it based on a kind of “poetic justice.” The mystery behind this is that it seems either I or my father—I'm not quite sure which—am part of “Currer Bell’s” cast of characters, under the name of Mr. Hall. In the story, Mr. Hall is portrayed as dark, gloomy, and a bit stooped, sometimes using the local dialect. That seems to fit me well—other traits match my father better. Nonetheless, while I never expected to be used for public entertainment, Currer Bell is free to do whatever she wants with such an unexceptional character. However, I believe I have a right to know more about the company I’ve been included with. Some of them are generous enough to share, and there's no need for an Œdipus to figure out the puzzle. For example, I can identify the Yorke family for the Taylors, Mr. Moore—Mr. Cartwright, and Mr. Helstone is clearly meant to represent Mr. Robertson, although the author seems to have gotten her impression of his character through a biased lens and doesn’t understand the true worth of one of the most admirable individuals I have ever known or will ever know. May thinks she sees Cecilia Crowther and Miss Johnston (later Mrs. Westerman) as two old maids.

‘Now pray get us a full light on all other names and localities that are adumbrated in this said Shirley.  When some of the prominent characters will be recognised by every one who knows our quarters, there can be no harm in letting one know who may be intended by the rest.  And, if necessary, I will bear Currer Bell harmless, and not let the world know that I have my intelligence from head-quarters.  As I said before, I repeat now, that as I or mine are part of the stock-in-trade, I think I have an equitable claim to this intelligence, by way of my dividend.  Mary and Harriet wish also to get at this information; and the latter at all events seems to have her own peculiar claim, as fame says she is “in the book” too.  One had need “walk . . . warily in these dangerous days,” when, as Burns (is it not he?) says—

‘Now please help us get clarity on all the other names and places mentioned in this Shirley. While some of the key characters will be recognized by anyone familiar with our area, it’s useful to know who the others might be. If needed, I’ll make sure Currer Bell is in the clear and won’t reveal that I got this information from the source. As I mentioned before, I stand by my claim that since I or my family are part of the narrative, I have a fair right to this information as my share. Mary and Harriet are also eager to find out this information; and Harriet, in particular, seems to have her own special claim, as it’s rumored she’s “in the book” too. One must be careful in these risky times when, as Burns (is it not him?) says—

      ‘A chield’s among you taking notes,
      And faith he’ll prent it.’—

‘A kid’s among you taking notes,
      And trust me, he’ll write it down.’—

‘Yours sincerely,

‘Yours sincerely,

‘W. M. Heald.

‘W. M. Heald.

‘Mary and Harriet unite with me in the best wishes of the season to you and C--- B---.  Pray give my best respects to Mr. Brontë also, who may have some slight remembrance of me as a child.  I just remember him when at Hartshead.’ [444]

'Mary and Harriet join me in sending you and C--- B--- warm wishes for the season. Please give my best regards to Mr. Brontë as well, who might remember me a bit from when I was a child. I have a vague memory of him from Hartshead.' [444]

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘February 2nd, 1850.

‘February 2nd, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I have despatched to-day a parcel containing The Caxtons, Macaulay’s Essays, Humboldt’s Letters, and such other of the books as I have read, packed with a picturesque irregularity well calculated to excite the envy and admiration of your skilful functionary in Cornhill.  p. 445By-the-bye, he ought to be careful of the few pins stuck in here and there, as he might find them useful at a future day, in case of having more bonnets to pack for the East Indies.  Whenever you send me a new supply of books, may I request that you will have the goodness to include one or two of Miss Austen’s.  I am often asked whether I have read them, and I excite amazement by replying in the negative.  I have read none except Pride and Prejudice.  Miss Martineau mentioned Persuasion as the best.

My dear Sir,—I’ve sent out a package today containing The Caxtons, Macaulay’s Essays, Humboldt’s Letters, and several other books I’ve read, all packed in a charmingly haphazard style that will surely spark the envy and admiration of your talented colleague on Cornhill. By the way, he should be careful with the few pins sticking out here and there, as they might come in handy later, especially if he has more hats to pack for the East Indies. Whenever you send me a new batch of books, could you please include one or two by Miss Austen? I get asked often if I’ve read them, and it surprises people when I say I haven’t. The only one I’ve read is Pride and Prejudice. Miss Martineau mentioned that Persuasion is the best.

‘Thank you for your account of the First Performance.  It was cheering and pleasant to read it, for in your animated description I seemed to realise the scene; your criticism also enables me to form some idea of the play.  Lewes is a strange being.  I always regret that I did not see him when in London.  He seems to me clever, sharp, and coarse; I used to think him sagacious, but I believe now he is no more than shrewd, for I have observed once or twice that he brings forward as grand discoveries of his own, information he has casually received from others—true sagacity disdains little tricks of this sort.  But though Lewes has many smart and some deserving points about him, he has nothing truly great; and nothing truly great, I should think, will he ever produce.  Yet he merits just such successes as the one you describe—triumphs public, brief, and noisy.  Notoriety suits Lewes.  Fame—were it possible that he could achieve her—would be a thing uncongenial to him: he could not wait for the solemn blast of her trumpet, sounding long, and slowly waxing louder.

‘Thank you for your account of the First Performance. It was uplifting and enjoyable to read, as your lively description helped me visualize the scene; your critique also gives me a better understanding of the play. Lewes is a strange character. I always regret not seeing him while I was in London. He strikes me as smart, sharp, and a bit rough around the edges; I used to think he was wise, but now I believe he’s just clever, as I’ve noticed a couple of times that he presents information he casually got from others as his own grand discoveries—true wisdom doesn’t engage in these petty tricks. Although Lewes has many interesting and some valid points, he doesn’t have anything genuinely great, and I doubt he ever will. Still, he deserves the kind of successes you describe—public, fleeting, and loud triumphs. Notoriety fits Lewes well. Fame—if he could ever achieve it—would be something unwelcome to him: he wouldn’t be able to endure the long, solemn sound of her trumpet, gradually growing louder.’

‘I always like your way of mentioning Mr. Smith, because my own opinion of him concurs with yours; and it is as pleasant to have a favourable impression of character confirmed, as it is painful to see it dispelled.  I am sure he possesses a fine nature, and I trust the selfishness of the world and the hard habits of business, though they may and must modify him disposition, will never quite spoil it.

‘I really appreciate how you talk about Mr. Smith because I feel the same way about him. It's nice to have a positive impression of someone's character reinforced, just as it's upsetting when it's shattered. I’m sure he has a great nature, and I hope that the selfishness of the world and the tough demands of business, even if they may change his attitude, will never completely ruin it.'

‘Can you give me any information respecting Sheridan Knowles?  A few lines received from him lately, and a present of his George Lovel, induce me to ask the question.  Of course p. 446I am aware that he is a dramatic writer of eminence, but do you know anything about him as a man?

‘Can you tell me anything about Sheridan Knowles? I recently got a few lines from him and a copy of his George Lovel, which makes me curious. Of course I know he is a notable playwright, but do you know anything about him personally?

‘I believe both Shirley and Jane Eyre are being a good deal read in the North just now; but I only hear fitful rumours from time to time.  I ask nothing, and my life of anchorite seclusion shuts out all bearers of tidings.  One or two curiosity-hunter have made their way to Haworth Parsonage, but our rude hill and rugged neighbourhood will, I doubt not, form a sufficient barrier to the frequent repetition of such visits.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘I believe both Shirley and Jane Eyre are getting a lot of attention in the North right now; but I only hear sporadic rumors here and there. I don't ask for updates, and my life of solitude keeps me away from anyone bringing news. A couple of curious visitors have made their way to Haworth Parsonage, but I’m sure our rough hills and rugged surroundings will be enough to stop these visits from becoming regular. —Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 1st, 1850.

‘March 1st, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—I scribble you a line in haste to tell you of my proceedings.  Various folks are beginning to come boring to Haworth, on the wise errand of seeing the scenery described in Jane Eyre and Shirley; amongst others, Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and Lady S. have persisted in coming; they were here on Friday.  The baronet looks in vigorous health; he scarcely appears more than thirty-five, but he says he is forty-four.  Lady Shuttleworth is rather handsome, and still young.  They were both quite unpretending.  When here they again urged me to visit them.  Papa took their side at once—would not hear of my refusing.  I must go—this left me without plea or defence.  I consented to go for three days.  They wanted me to return with them in the carriage, but I pleaded off till to-morrow.  I wish it was well over.

Dear Ellen,—I'm writing quickly to update you on what’s happening. More and more people are coming to Haworth to see the scenery described in Jane Eyre and Shirley; among them are Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and Lady S., who visited on Friday. The baronet looks very healthy; he hardly seems older than thirty-five, although he claims to be forty-four. Lady Shuttleworth is quite attractive and still young. They were both very down-to-earth. While they were here, they urged me to visit them again. Dad immediately supported their suggestion and wouldn’t let me say no. I have to go—this left me with no excuse to refuse. I agreed to stay for three days. They wanted me to ride back with them in their carriage, but I managed to postpone it until tomorrow. I just wish it was all over already.

‘If all be well I shall be able to write more about them when p. 447I come back.  Sir J. is very courtly—fine-looking; I wish he may be as sincere as he is polished.—In haste, yours faithfully,

‘If everything goes well, I should be able to write more about them when p. 447I return. Sir J. is very refined—good-looking; I hope he is as genuine as he seems.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘March 16th, 1850.

‘March 16th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I found your letter with several others awaiting me on my return home from a brief stay in Lancashire.  The mourning border alarmed me much.  I feared that dread visitant, before whose coming every household trembles, had invaded your hearth and taken from you perhaps a child, perhaps something dearer still.  The loss you have actually sustained is painful, but so much less painful than what I had anticipated, that to read your letter was to be greatly relieved.  Still, I know what Mrs. Williams will feel.  We can have but one father, but one mother, and when either is gone, we have lost what can never be replaced.  Offer her, under this affliction, my sincere sympathy.  I can well imagine the cloud these sad tidings would cast over your young cheerful family.  Poor little Dick’s exclamation and burst of grief are most naïve and natural; he felt the sorrow of a child—a keen, but, happily, a transient pang.  Time will, I trust, ere long restore your own and your wife’s serenity and your children’s cheerfulness.

My dear Sir,—When I returned home from a short trip to Lancashire, I found your letter along with several others waiting for me. The mourning border worried me a lot. I feared that the dreaded visitor, whom every household fears, had come to your home and taken away perhaps a child, or even something more precious. The loss you’ve actually experienced is painful, but it’s so much less painful than what I had feared that reading your letter was a great relief. Still, I know how Mrs. Williams will feel. We can have only one father, only one mother, and when either is gone, we lose something that can never be replaced. Please offer her my heartfelt sympathy during this difficult time. I can easily imagine the shadow these sad news would cast over your young and cheerful family. Poor little Dick’s outburst and grief are natural; he was feeling the sorrow of a child—a deep, yet thankfully, a fleeting pain. I hope that time will soon restore the calmness of you, your wife, and the cheerfulness of your children.

‘I mentioned, I think, that we had one or two visitors at Haworth lately; amongst them were Sir James Kay-Shuttleworth and his lady.  Before departing they exacted a promise that I would visit them at Gawthorpe Hall, their residence on the borders of East Lancashire.  I went reluctantly, for it is always a difficult and painful thing to me to meet the advances of people whose kindness I am in no position to repay.  Sir James is a man of polished manners, with clear intellect and highly cultivated mind.  On the whole, I got on very well with him.

‘I think I mentioned that we had one or two visitors at Haworth recently; among them were Sir James Kay-Shuttleworth and his wife. Before leaving, they made me promise to visit them at Gawthorpe Hall, their home on the borders of East Lancashire. I went hesitantly, as it's always challenging and uncomfortable for me to accept the hospitality of people whose kindness I cannot reciprocate. Sir James is a well-mannered man, with a sharp mind and a highly educated perspective. Overall, I got along quite well with him.

‘His health is just now somewhat broken by his severe official labours; and the quiet drives to old ruins and old halls situate amongst older hills and woods, the dialogues (perhaps I should rather say monologues, for I listened far more than I talked) by the fireside in his antique oak-panelled drawing-room, while p. 448they suited him, did not too much oppress and exhaust me.  The house, too, is very much to my taste, near three centuries old, grey, stately, and picturesque.  On the whole, now that the visit is over, I do not regret having paid it.  The worst of it is that there is now some menace hanging over my head of an invitation to go to them in London during the season—this, which would doubtless be a great enjoyment to some people, is a perfect terror to me.  I should highly prize the advantages to be gained in an extended range of observation, but I tremble at the thought of the price I must necessarily pay in mental distress and physical wear and tear.  But you shall have no more of my confessions—to you they will appear folly.—Yours sincerely,

‘His health is currently fragile due to his intense work responsibilities; however, the peaceful drives to ancient ruins and old halls nestled among even older hills and woods, along with the conversations (though I should probably call them monologues, as I listened far more than I spoke) by the fireside in his antique oak-paneled drawing room, suited him and didn’t overly burden or exhaust me. The house is very much my style, nearly three centuries old, grey, grand, and picturesque. Overall, now that the visit is over, I don’t regret going. The downside is that there's now a looming threat of an invitation to visit them in London during the season—something that might be an amazing experience for some, but feels like a nightmare for me. I would greatly appreciate the benefits of a broader perspective, but I dread the mental strain and physical toll it would inevitably cause. But you won’t hear any more of my confessions—because you'd likely see them as foolish.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 19th, 1850.

‘March 19th, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have got home again, and now that the visit is over, I am, as usual, glad I have been; not that I could have endured to prolong it: a few days at once, in an utterly strange place, amongst utterly strange faces, is quite enough for me.

Dear Ellen,—I'm back home again, and now that the visit is over, I'm, as usual, glad I went; not that I could have handled staying any longer: a few days in a completely unfamiliar place, surrounded by completely unfamiliar faces, is more than enough for me.

‘When the train stopped at Burnley, I found Sir James waiting for me.  A drive of about three miles brought us to the gates of Gawthorpe, and after passing up a somewhat desolate avenue, there towered the hall—grey, antique, castellated, and stately—before me.  It is 250 years old, and, within as without, is a model of old English architecture.  The arms and the strange crest of the Shuttleworths are carved on the oak pannelling of each room.  They are not a parvenue family, but date from the days of Richard III.  This part of Lancashire seems rather remarkable for its houses of ancient race.  The Townleys, who live near, go back to the Conquest.

‘When the train stopped at Burnley, I found Sir James waiting for me. A drive of about three miles brought us to the gates of Gawthorpe, and after passing through a somewhat desolate avenue, the hall towered before me—grey, old, castle-like, and stately. It’s 250 years old and is a prime example of old English architecture, both inside and out. The arms and the unusual crest of the Shuttleworths are carved into the oak paneling of each room. They aren’t a new family but have roots that trace back to the days of Richard III. This part of Lancashire seems quite remarkable for its historic homes. The Townleys, who live nearby, can trace their lineage back to the Conquest.

‘The people, however, were of still more interest to me than the house.  Lady Shuttleworth is a little woman, thirty-two years old, with a pretty, smooth, lively face.  Of pretension to aristocratic airs she may be entirely acquitted; of frankness, good-humour, and activity she has enough; truth obliges me to add, that, as it seems to me, grace, dignity, fine feeling were p. 449not in the inventory of her qualities.  These last are precisely what her husband possesses.  In manner he can be gracious and dignified; his tastes and feelings are capable of elevation; frank he is not, but, on the contrary, politic; he calls himself a man of the world and knows the world’s ways; courtly and affable in some points of view, he is strict and rigorous in others.  In him high mental cultivation is combined with an extended range of observation, and thoroughly practical views and habits.  His nerves are naturally acutely sensitive, and the present very critical state of his health has exaggerated sensitiveness into irritability.  His wife is of a temperament precisely suited to nurse him and wait on him; if her sensations were more delicate and acute she would not do half so well.  They get on perfectly together.  The children—there are four of them—are all fine children in their way.  They have a young German lady as governess—a quiet, well-instructed, interesting girl, whom I took to at once, and, in my heart, liked better than anything else in the house.  She also instinctively took to me.  She is very well treated for a governess, but wore the usual pale, despondent look of her class.  She told me she was home-sick, and she looked so.

‘The people, however, were even more interesting to me than the house. Lady Shuttleworth is a petite woman, thirty-two years old, with a pretty, smooth, lively face. She can’t be accused of being pretentious about her aristocratic status; she has plenty of openness, good humor, and energy. However, I must honestly say that, as it seems to me, grace, dignity, and a fine sense of feeling are not part of her qualities. These traits are precisely what her husband has. He can be gracious and dignified in his manner; his tastes and feelings are capable of being elevated. He’s not straightforward but rather diplomatic; he considers himself a man of the world and is familiar with its ways. Courteous and friendly in some respects, he is strict and rigorous in others. He combines high intellectual refinement with a broad range of observations and very practical views and habits. His nerves are naturally sensitive, and the current critical state of his health has turned that sensitivity into irritability. His wife is perfectly suited to care for him and attend to his needs; if she were more delicate and sensitive, she wouldn’t do nearly as well. They get along beautifully together. The children—there are four of them—are all wonderful in their own ways. They have a young German woman as a governess—a quiet, well-educated, interesting girl who I immediately liked and preferred over everything else in the house. She also instinctively liked me. She is treated quite well for a governess but still has the usual pale, gloomy look typical of her class. She told me she was homesick, and she really did look it.

‘I have received the parcel containing the cushion and all the etcetera, for which I thank you very much.  I suppose I must begin with the group of flowers; I don’t know how I shall manage it, but I shall try.  I have a good number of letters to answer—from Mr. Smith, from Mr. Williams, from Thornton Hunt, Lætitia Wheelwright, Harriet Dyson—and so I must bid you good-bye for the present.  Write to me soon.  The brief absence from home, though in some respects trying and painful in itself, has, I think, given me a little better tone of spirit.  All through this month of February I have had a crushing time of it.  I could not escape from or rise above certain most mournful recollections—the last few days, the sufferings, the remembered words, most sorrowful to me, of those who, Faith assures me, are now happy.  At evening and bed-time such thoughts would haunt me, bringing a weary heartache.  Good-bye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘I’ve received the package with the cushion and everything else, for which I’m very grateful. I guess I should start with the group of flowers; I’m not sure how I’ll handle it, but I’ll give it a shot. I have a lot of letters to respond to—from Mr. Smith, Mr. Williams, Thornton Hunt, Lætitia Wheelwright, and Harriet Dyson—so I need to say goodbye for now. Please write to me soon. This short time away from home, although tough and painful in some ways, has helped lift my spirits a bit. February has been really difficult for me. I couldn't escape or rise above certain sad memories—the last few days, the suffering, and the words that still bring me sorrow from those who, Faith tells me, are now at peace. In the evenings and at bedtime, those thoughts lingered, causing me a heavy heartache. Goodbye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

p. 450TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 450TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 21st, 1850.

‘May 21st, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—My visit is again postponed.  Sir James Shuttleworth, I am sorry to say, is most seriously ill.  Two physicians are in attendance twice a day, and company and conversation, even with his own relatives, are prohibited as too exciting.  Notwithstanding this, he has written two notes to me himself, claiming a promise that I will wait till he is better, and not allow any one else “to introduce me” as he says, “into the Oceanic life of London.”  Sincerely sorry as I was for him, I could not help smiling at this sentence.  But I shall willingly promise.  I know something of him, and like part, at least, of what I do know.  I do not feel in the least tempted to change him for another.  His sufferings are very great.  I trust and hope God will be pleased to spare his mind.  I have just got a note informing me that he is something better; but, of course, he will vary.  Lady Shuttleworth is much, much to be pitied too; his nights, it seems, are most distressing.—Good-bye, dear Nell.  Write soon to

Dear Ellen,—My visit has been postponed again. I'm really sorry to say that Sir James Shuttleworth is very seriously ill. Two doctors are seeing him twice a day, and he's not allowed any company or conversation, even with his own family, because it might be too much for him. Despite this, he has written me two notes himself, insisting that I promise to wait until he’s better and not let anyone else “introduce me” to the “Oceanic life of London,” as he puts it. As much as I feel for him, I couldn't help but smile at that line. But I will gladly promise. I know a bit about him, and I like at least part of what I know. I don’t feel at all tempted to replace him with someone else. His suffering is immense. I hope and pray that God will spare his mind. I just received a note letting me know he’s a little better; but of course, his condition will fluctuate. Lady Shuttleworth deserves a lot of sympathy as well; it seems his nights are very distressing.—Goodbye, dear Nell. Write to me soon.

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘76 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park Gardens, June 3rd, 1850.

‘76 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park Gardens, June 3rd, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—I came to London last Thursday.  I am staying at Mrs. Smith’s, who has changed her residence, as the address will show.  A good deal of writing backwards and forwards, persuasion, etc., took place before this step was resolved on; but at last I explained to Sir James that I had some little matters of business to transact, and that I should stay quietly at my publisher’s.  He has called twice, and Lady Shuttleworth once; each of them alone.  He is in a fearfully nervous state.  To my great horror he talks of my going with them to Hampton Court, Windsor, etc.  God knows how I shall get on.  I perfectly dread it.

Dear Ellen,—I arrived in London last Thursday. I’m staying with Mrs. Smith, who has moved, as the address will show. There was a lot of discussion and persuading before we made this decision; but I eventually explained to Sir James that I had some small business to take care of and that I would be quietly staying at my publisher's. He has visited me twice, and Lady Shuttleworth once, both times separately. He is extremely nervous. To my great dismay, he suggests that I join them on a trip to Hampton Court, Windsor, etc. God knows how I will manage. I’m really dreading it.

‘Here I feel very comfortable.  Mrs. Smith treats me with a serene, equable kindness which just suits me.  Her son is, as before, genial and kindly.  I have seen very few persons, and p. 451am not likely to see many, as the agreement was that I was to be very quiet.  We have been to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, to the Opera, and the Zoological Gardens.  The weather is splendid.  I shall not stay longer than a fortnight in London.  The feverishness and exhaustion beset me somewhat, but not quite so badly as before, as indeed I have not yet been so much tried.  I hope you will write soon and tell me how you are getting on.  Give my regards to all.—Yours faithfully,

‘Here I feel very comfortable. Mrs. Smith treats me with a calm, balanced kindness that really suits me. Her son is, as always, friendly and kind. I’ve seen very few people, and p. 451 I'm not likely to see many more since the plan was for me to stay very low-key. We’ve been to the Royal Academy Exhibition, the Opera, and the Zoo. The weather is wonderful. I won’t be staying in London for more than two weeks. I feel a bit anxious and tired, but not as badly as before, since I haven’t been pushed too much yet. I hope you’ll write soon and let me know how you’re doing. Send my regards to everyone.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘76 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park Gardens, June 4th, 1850.

‘76 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park Gardens, June 4th, 1850.

‘Dear Papa,—I was very glad to get your letter this morning, and still more glad to learn that your health continues in some degree to improve.  I fear you will feel the present weather somewhat debilitating, at least if it is as warm in Yorkshire as in London.  I cannot help grudging these fine days on account of the roofing of the house.  It is a great pity the workmen were not prepared to begin a week ago.

Dear Dad,—I was really happy to receive your letter this morning, and even happier to hear that your health is improving a bit. I'm worried that the current weather might be a bit draining for you, at least if it's as warm in Yorkshire as it is in London. I can't help but resent these nice days because of the roofing on the house. It's such a shame the workers weren't ready to start a week ago.

‘Since I wrote I have been to the Opera; to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, where there were some fine paintings, especially a large one by Landseer of the Duke of Wellington on the field of Waterloo, and a grand, wonderful picture of Martin’s from Campbell’s poem of the “Last Man,” showing the red sun fading out of the sky, and all the soil of the foreground made up of bones and skulls.  The secretary of the Zoological Society also sent me an honorary ticket of admission to their gardens, which I wish you could see.  There are animals from all parts of the world inclosed in great cages in the open air amongst trees and shrubs—lions, tigers, leopards, elephants, numberless monkies, camels, five or six cameleopards, a young hippopotamus with an Egyptian for its keeper; birds of all kinds—eagles, ostriches, a pair of great condors from the Andes, strange ducks and water-fowl which seem very happy and comfortable, and build their nests amongst the reeds and sedges of the lakes where they are kept.  Some of the American birds make inexpressible noises.

‘Since I wrote, I’ve been to the opera and the Royal Academy Exhibition, where there were some amazing paintings, especially a large one by Landseer of the Duke of Wellington on the battlefield of Waterloo, and a striking picture by Martin inspired by Campbell’s poem “The Last Man,” depicting the red sun fading out of the sky, with the foreground filled with bones and skulls. The secretary of the Zoological Society also sent me an honorary ticket to their gardens, which I wish you could see. There are animals from all over the world enclosed in large outdoor cages among trees and shrubs—lions, tigers, leopards, elephants, countless monkeys, camels, a few giraffes, and a young hippopotamus with an Egyptian keeper; birds of all kinds—eagles, ostriches, a pair of huge condors from the Andes, and unusual ducks and waterfowl that seem very happy and comfortable, building their nests among the reeds and sedges of the lakes where they live. Some American birds make indescribable sounds.

p. 452‘There are also all sorts of living snakes and lizards in cages, some great Ceylon toads not much smaller than Flossy, some large foreign rats nearly as large and fierce as little bull-dogs.  The most ferocious and deadly-looking things in the place were these rats, a laughing hyena (which every now and then uttered a hideous peal of laughter such as a score of maniacs might produce) and a cobra di capello snake.  I think this snake was the worst of all: it had the eyes and face of a fiend, and darted out its barbed tongue sharply and incessantly.

p. 452‘There are all kinds of live snakes and lizards in cages, some huge Ceylon toads that are almost the size of Flossy, and some large foreign rats that are nearly as big and fierce as small bulldogs. The most ferocious and menacing creatures in the place were these rats, a laughing hyena (which occasionally let out a horrible laugh that sounded like a chorus of maniacs) and a cobra di capello snake. I think this snake was the worst of all: it had the eyes and face of a devil, and its barbed tongue darted in and out quickly and constantly.

‘I am glad to hear that Tabby and Martha are pretty well.  Remember me to them, and—Believe me, dear papa, your affectionate daughter,

‘I’m glad to hear that Tabby and Martha are doing pretty well. Send my regards to them, and—Believe me, dear Dad, your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘I hope you don’t care for the notice in Sharpe’s Magazine; it does not disturb me in the least.  Mr. Smith says it is of no consequence whatever in a literary sense.  Sharpe, the proprietor, was an apprentice of Mr. Smith’s father.’

‘I hope you don’t mind the notice in Sharpe’s Magazine; it doesn’t bother me at all. Mr. Smith says it’s not important in a literary sense. Sharpe, the owner, was an apprentice of Mr. Smith’s father.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘76 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park Gardens, June 21st, 1850.

‘76 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park Gardens, June 21st, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—I am leaving London, if all be well, on Tuesday, and shall be very glad to come to you for a few days, if that arrangement still remains convenient to you.  I intend to start at nine o’clock a.m. by the express train, which arrives in Leeds thirty-five minutes past two.  I should then be at Batley about four in the afternoon.  Would that suit?

‘Dear Ellen,—I’m planning to leave London, if everything goes well, on Tuesday, and I’d love to come visit you for a few days, if that still works for you. I plan to leave at nine o’clock a.m. on the express train, which gets to Leeds at 2:35 PM. I should arrive in Batley around four in the afternoon. Does that work for you?

‘My London visit has much surpassed my expectations this time; I have suffered less and enjoyed more than before.  Rather a trying termination yet remains to me.  Mrs. Smith’s youngest son is at school in Scotland, and George, her eldest, is going to fetch him home for the vacation.  The other evening he announced his intention of taking one of his sisters with him, and proposed that Miss Brontë should go down to Edinburgh and join them there, and see that city and its suburbs.  I concluded he was joking, laughed and declined; however, it seems he was in earnest.  The thing appearing to me perfectly p. 453out of the question, I still refused.  Mrs. Smith did not favour it; you may easily fancy how she helped me to sustain my opposition, but her worthy son only waxed more determined.  His mother is master of the house, but he is master of his mother.  This morning she came and entreated me to go.  “George wished it so much”; he had begged her to use her influence, etc., etc.  Now I believe that George and I understand each other very well, and respect each other very sincerely.  We both know the wide breach time has made between us; we do not embarrass each other, or very rarely; my six or eight years of seniority, to say nothing of lack of all pretension to beauty, etc., are a perfect safeguard.  I should not in the least fear to go with him to China.  I like to see him pleased, I greatly dislike to ruffle and disappoint him, so he shall have his mind; and if all be well, I mean to join him in Edinburgh after I shall have spent a few days with you.  With his buoyant animal spirits and youthful vigour he will make severe demands on my muscles and nerves, but I daresay I shall get through somehow, and then perhaps come back to rest a few days with you before I go home.  With kind regards to all at Brookroyd, your guests included,—I am, dear Ellen, yours faithfully,

‘My trip to London has exceeded my expectations this time; I’ve suffered less and enjoyed more than ever before. However, there’s still a tough ending ahead for me. Mrs. Smith’s youngest son is attending school in Scotland, and George, her oldest, is planning to bring him home for vacation. The other evening, he mentioned that he intended to take one of his sisters with him and suggested that Miss Brontë should come to Edinburgh to join them and explore the city and its suburbs. I assumed he was joking, laughed, and declined; however, it turns out he was serious. The idea seemed completely p. 453 out of the question, so I refused again. Mrs. Smith didn’t support it; you can easily imagine how she helped me resist, but her admirable son became even more determined. His mother may run the house, but he runs her. This morning she came to plead with me to go. “George really wants this”; he had asked her to use her influence, etc., etc. Now I believe George and I understand each other quite well and sincerely respect one another. We recognize the significant gap time has created between us; we rarely make things awkward for each other. My six or eight years of being older, not to mention my complete lack of pretension to beauty, offer perfect protection. I wouldn’t hesitate to go with him to China. I like seeing him happy, and I really dislike upsetting him, so he'll get his wish; if all goes well, I plan to join him in Edinburgh after spending a few days with you. With his energetic spirit and youthful vigor, he will certainly push my limits physically and mentally, but I’m sure I’ll manage somehow, and then perhaps return to rest for a few days with you before heading home. Sending warm regards to everyone at Brookroyd, including your guests—I am, dear Ellen, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Write by return of post.’

‘Write back to me soon.’

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

‘Haworth, July 30th, 1850.

‘Haworth, July 30th, 1850.

‘My dear Lætitia,—I promised to write to you when I should have returned home.  Returned home I am, but you may conceive that many, many matters solicit attention and demand arrangement in a house which has lately been turned topsy-turvy in the operation of unroofing.  Drawers and cupboards must wait a moment, however, while I fulfil my promise, though it is imperatively necessary that this fulfilment should be achieved with brevity.

‘My dear Lætitia,—I promised to write to you when I got home. I’m home now, but you can imagine that there are a lot of things needing my attention and sorting out in a house that has recently been turned upside down during the roofing process. Drawers and cupboards will have to wait for a moment while I keep my promise, though I feel it’s crucial to do so quickly.

‘My stay in Scotland was short, and what I saw was chiefly comprised in Edinburgh and the neighbourhood, in Abbotsford and Melrose, for I was obliged to relinquish my first intention p. 454of going from Glasgow to Oban and thence through a portion of the Highlands.  But though the time was brief, and the view of objects limited, I found such a charm of situation, association, and circumstances that I think the enjoyment experienced in that little space equalled in degree and excelled in kind all which London yielded during a month’s sojourn.  Edinburgh compared to London is like a vivid page of history compared to a huge dull treatise on political economy; and as to Melrose and Abbotsford, the very names possess music and magic.

‘My time in Scotland was short, and what I saw was mostly in Edinburgh and the surrounding areas, including Abbotsford and Melrose, because I had to give up my initial plan of going from Glasgow to Oban and then through part of the Highlands. But even though the time was limited and my view of things was narrow, I found such charm in the location, history, and circumstances that the enjoyment I experienced during that little time matched and even surpassed what I felt during a month in London. Edinburgh compared to London is like a lively page of history versus a huge, dull textbook on political economy; and as for Melrose and Abbotsford, even their names have a musical and magical quality.

‘I am thankful to say that on my return home I found papa pretty well.  Full often had I thought of him when I was far away; and deeply sad as it is on many accounts to come back to this old house, yet I was glad to be with him once more.

‘I’m thankful to say that upon my return home, I found Dad doing pretty well. I often thought of him when I was far away, and as sad as it is in many ways to come back to this old house, I was glad to be with him again.

‘You were proposing, I remember, to go into the country; I trust you are there now and enjoying this fine day in some scene where the air will not be tainted, nor the sunshine dimmed, by London smoke.  If your papa, mamma, or any of your sisters are within reach, give them my kindest remembrances—if not, save such remembrances till you see them.—Believe me, my dear Lætitia, yours hurriedly but faithfully,

‘You mentioned, I remember, that you’d go into the countryside; I hope you’re there now and enjoying this beautiful day somewhere the air isn’t polluted and the sun isn’t obscured by London smoke. If your dad, mom, or any of your sisters are around, please send them my warmest regards—if not, hold on to those regards until you see them. —Believe me, my dear Lætitia, yours quickly but sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘Ambleside, August 15th, 1850.

‘Ambleside, August 15th, 1850.

‘Dear Papa,—I think I shall not come home till Thursday.  If all be well I shall leave here on Monday and spend a day or two with Ellen Nussey.  I have enjoyed my visit exceedingly.  Sir J. K. Shuttleworth has called several times and taken me out in his carriage.  He seems very truly friendly; but, I am sorry to say, he looks pale and very much wasted.  I greatly fear he will not live very long unless some change for the better soon takes place.  Lady S. is ill too, and cannot go out.  I have seen a good deal of Dr. Arnold’s family, and like them much.  As to Miss Martineau, I admire her and wonder at her more than I can say.  Her powers of labour, of exercise, and social cheerfulness are beyond my comprehension.  In spite of p. 455the unceasing activity of her colossal intellect she enjoys robust health.  She is a taller, larger, and more strongly made woman than I had imagined from that first interview with her.  She is very kind to me, though she must think I am a very insignificant person compared to herself.  She has just been into the room to show me a chapter of her history which she is now writing, relating to the Duke of Wellington’s character and his proceedings in the Peninsula.  She wanted an opinion on it, and I was happy to be able to give a very approving one.  She seems to understand and do him justice.

‘Dear Papa,—I think I won’t come home until Thursday. If all goes well, I’ll leave here on Monday and spend a day or two with Ellen Nussey. I’ve really enjoyed my visit. Sir J. K. Shuttleworth has visited several times and taken me out in his carriage. He seems very genuinely friendly; however, I’m sorry to say he looks pale and quite frail. I really fear he won’t live much longer unless something improves soon. Lady S. is sick too and can’t go out. I’ve seen quite a bit of Dr. Arnold’s family and I like them a lot. As for Miss Martineau, I admire her and am amazed by her more than I can express. Her ability to work hard, stay active, and maintain her social spirit is beyond my understanding. Despite her incredible intellect, she enjoys good health. She’s a taller, bigger, and more robust woman than I had imagined from our first meeting. She’s very kind to me, although she must think of me as a rather insignificant person compared to herself. She just came into the room to show me a chapter of her history that she’s currently writing about the Duke of Wellington’s character and his actions in the Peninsula. She wanted my opinion on it, and I was happy to give a very positive one. She seems to truly understand and appreciate him.

‘You must not direct any more letters here as they will not reach me after to-day.  Hoping, dear papa, that you are well, and with kind regards to Tabby and Martha,—I am, your affectionate daughter,

‘You should not send any more letters here because they won’t reach me after today. I hope, dear Dad, that you are doing well, and please give my best to Tabby and Martha. I am your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘October 2nd, 1850.

‘October 2nd, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—I have to thank you for the care and kindness with which you have assisted me throughout in correcting these Remains.

My dear Sir,—I want to thank you for the care and kindness you've shown in helping me with the corrections on these Remains.

‘Whether, when they are published, they will appear to others as they do to me, I cannot tell.  I hope not.  And indeed I suppose what to me is bitter pain will only be soft pathos to the general public.

‘Whether, when they are published, they will seem to others as they do to me, I can’t say. I hope not. And I guess what feels like intense pain to me will just come across as gentle sadness to the general public.

‘Miss Martineau has several times lately asked me to go and see her; and though this is a dreary season for travelling northward, I think if papa continues pretty well I shall go in a week or two.  I feel to my deep sorrow, to my humiliation, that it is not in my power to bear the canker of constant solitude.  I had calculated that when shut out from every enjoyment, from every stimulus but what could be derived from intellectual exertion, my mind would rouse itself perforce.  It is not so.  Even intellect, even imagination, will not dispense with the ray of domestic cheerfulness, with the gentle spur of family discussion.  Late in the evenings, and all through the nights, I fall into a condition of mind which turns entirely to the past—to memory; and memory is both sad and relentless.  This will never do, and p. 456will produce no good.  I tell you this that you may check false anticipations.  You cannot help me, and must not trouble yourself in any shape to sympathise with me.  It is my cup, and I must drink it, as others drink theirs.—Yours sincerely,

‘Miss Martineau has asked me several times lately to come and see her; and even though this isn’t the best time for traveling north, I think if Dad continues to do well, I’ll go in a week or two. I feel deep sorrow and humiliation that I can’t handle the pain of constant solitude. I thought that when cut off from all enjoyment, with only intellectual challenges to stimulate me, my mind would push itself to be active. But that’s not the case. Even intellect and imagination can’t replace the warmth of domestic cheerfulness or the gentle motivation from family discussions. Late at night and into the early hours, I find myself dwelling on the past—on memories, which are both sad and relentless. This isn’t working, and p. 456it won’t lead to anything good. I’m sharing this so you can manage your expectations. You can’t help me, and you shouldn’t feel obliged to sympathize with me. This is my struggle, and I have to face it, just like others face theirs.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS HARRIET MARTINEAU.

TO MISS HARRIET MARTINEAU.

‘My dear Miss Martineau,—I think I best show my sense of the tone and feeling of your last, by immediate compliance with the wish you express that I should send your letter.  I inclose it, and have marked with red ink the passage which struck me dumb.  All the rest is fair, right, worthy of you, but I protest against this passage; and were I brought up before the bar of all the critics in England, to such a charge I should respond, “Not guilty.”

‘My dear Miss Martineau,—I believe the best way to respond to the tone and sentiment of your last letter is to agree right away to your request to send it. I've included it here and highlighted in red the part that left me speechless. Everything else is good, right, and worthy of you, but I strongly disagree with this section; if I were put on trial by all the critics in England for this, I would plead, “Not guilty.”

‘I know what love is as I understand it; and if man or woman should be ashamed of feeling such love, then is there nothing right, noble, faithful, truthful, unselfish in this earth, as I comprehend rectitude, nobleness, fidelity, truth, and disinterestedness.—Yours sincerely,

‘I know what love means to me; and if someone should feel ashamed of experiencing such love, then there’s nothing right, noble, faithful, truthful, or selfless on this earth, as I understand these qualities.—Yours sincerely,

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘To differ from you gives me keen pain.’

‘It pains me to be different from you.’

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL

‘November 6th, 1850.

‘November 6th, 1850.

‘My dear Sir,—Mrs. Arnold seemed an amiable, and must once have been a very pretty, woman; her daughter I liked much.  There was present also a son of Chevalier Bunsen, with his wife, or rather bride.  I had not then read Dr. Arnold’s Life—otherwise, the visit would have interested me even more than it actually did.

My dear Sir,—Mrs. Arnold seemed to be a kind person and must have once been a very attractive woman; I really liked her daughter. Chevalier Bunsen's son and his wife, or rather, his new bride, were also there. I hadn’t read Dr. Arnold's Life at that time—if I had, the visit would have interested me even more than it actually did.

‘Mr. Williams told me (if I mistake not) that you had recently visited the Lake Country.  I trust you enjoyed your p. 457excursion, and that our English Lakes did not suffer too much by comparison in your memory with the Scottish Lochs.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Mr. Williams mentioned to me (if I remember correctly) that you recently visited the Lake District. I hope you enjoyed your trip, and that our English Lakes didn’t seem too inferior compared to the Scottish Lochs.—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Ambleside, December 21st, 1850.

‘Ambleside, December 21st, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have managed to get off going to Sir J. K. Shuttleworth’s by a promise to come some other time.  I thought I really should like to spend two or three days with you before going home; therefore, if it is not inconvenient for you, I will come on Monday and stay till Thursday.  I shall be at Bradford (D.V.) at ten minutes past two, Monday afternoon, and can take a cab at the station forward to Birstall.  I have truly enjoyed my visit.  I have seen a good many people, and all have been so marvellously kind; not the least so the family of Dr. Arnold.  Miss Martineau I relish inexpressibly.  Sir James has been almost every day to take me a drive.  I begin to admit in my own mind that he is sincerely benignant to me.  I grieve to say he looks to me as if wasting away.  Lady Shuttleworth is ill.  She cannot go out, and I have not seen her.  Till we meet, good-bye.

Dear Ellen,—I’ve managed to avoid going to Sir J. K. Shuttleworth’s by promising to visit another time. I really want to spend two or three days with you before heading home; so, if it’s not too inconvenient for you, I’ll come on Monday and stay until Thursday. I’ll be at Bradford (D.V.) at 2:10 PM on Monday and can catch a cab at the station to Birstall. I’ve truly enjoyed my visit. I’ve met quite a few people, and everyone has been so wonderfully kind; especially Dr. Arnold’s family. I enjoy Miss Martineau immensely. Sir James has taken me out for a drive almost every day. I’m starting to think that he genuinely cares for me. I regret to say he looks like he’s wasting away. Lady Shuttleworth is unwell. She can’t go out, and I haven’t seen her. Until we meet, goodbye.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘At seven,’ writes Mr. Arnold from Fox How (December 21, 1850), ‘came Miss Martineau and Miss Brontë (Jane Eyre); talked to Miss Martineau (who blasphemes frightfully) about the prospects of the Church of England, and, wretched man that I am, promised to go and see her cow-keeping miracles [457a] to-morrow—I, who hardly know a cow from a sheep.  I talked to Miss Brontë (past thirty and plain, with expressive grey eyes, though) of her curates, of French novels, and her education in a school at Brussels, and sent the lions roaring to their dens at half-past nine, and came to talk to you.’  [457b]

"At seven," Mr. Arnold writes from Fox How (December 21, 1850), "Miss Martineau and Miss Brontë (of Jane Eyre) arrived; I talked with Miss Martineau (who has a foul mouth) about the future of the Church of England, and, being the miserable man that I am, I promised to go see her amazing cow-keeping tomorrow—I, who can hardly tell a cow from a sheep. I spoke with Miss Brontë (over thirty and plain, but with expressive grey eyes) about her curates, French novels, and her education in Brussels, and I sent the lions roaring back to their dens at half-past nine before coming to talk to you."

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL,

TO JAMES TAYLOR, CORNHILL,

‘January 15th, 1851.

‘January 15th, 1851.

‘My dear Sir,—I fancy the imperfect way in which my last note was expressed must have led you into an error, and that you must have applied to Mrs. Arnold the remarks I intended for Miss Martineau.  I remember whilst writing about “my hostess” I was sensible to some obscurity in the term; permit me now to explain that it referred to Miss Martineau.

Dear Sir,—I believe my last note was unclear, which may have led to a misunderstanding, and you directed your comments to Mrs. Arnold instead of Miss Martineau. I recall being confused when I referred to "my hostess," and I want to clarify that I was referring to Miss Martineau.

‘Mrs. Arnold is, indeed, as I judge from my own observations no less than from the unanimous testimony of all who really know her, a good and amiable woman, but the intellectual is not her forte, and she has no pretensions to power or completeness of character.  The same remark, I think, applies to her daughters.  You admire in them the kindliest feeling towards each other and their fellow-creatures, and they offer in their home circle a beautiful example of family unity, and of that refinement which is sure to spring thence; but when the conversation turns on literature or any subject that offers a test for the intellect, you usually felt that their opinions were rather imitative than original, rather sentimental than sound.  Those who have only seen Mrs. Arnold once will necessarily, I think, judge of her unfavourably; her manner on introduction disappointed me sensibly, as lacking that genuineness and simplicity one seemed to have a right to expect in the chosen life-companion of Dr. Arnold.  On my remarking as much to Mrs. Gaskell and Sir J. K. Shuttleworth, I was told for my consolation it was a “conventional manner,” but that it vanished on closer acquaintance; fortunately this last assurance proved true.  It is observable that Matthew Arnold, the eldest son, and the author of the volume of poems to which you allude, inherits his mother’s defect.  Striking and prepossessing in appearance, his manner displeases from its seeming foppery.  I own it caused me at first to regard him with regretful surprise; the p. 459shade of Dr. Arnold seemed to me to frown on his young representative.  I was told, however, that “Mr. Arnold improved upon acquaintance.”  So it was: ere long a real modesty appeared under his assumed conceit, and some genuine intellectual aspirations, as well as high educational acquirements, displaced superficial affectations.  I was given to understand that his theological opinions were very vague and unsettled, and indeed he betrayed as much in the course of conversation.  Most unfortunate for him, doubtless, has been the untimely loss of his father.

‘Mrs. Arnold is, from my observations and the general consensus of those who truly know her, a good and kind woman, but she’s not especially intellectual and doesn’t seem to have ambitions for power or a fully developed character. I would say the same applies to her daughters. They genuinely care for one another and others, promoting a lovely example of family unity and its accompanying refinement; however, when discussions turn to literature or topics that require intellectual engagement, it often seems that their opinions are more about imitation than originality, more emotional than logical. Those who have only met Mrs. Arnold once might judge her harshly; her demeanor upon introduction left me disappointed, lacking the authenticity and simplicity I would expect from Dr. Arnold's partner. When I shared this observation with Mrs. Gaskell and Sir J. K. Shuttleworth, they remarked it was a “conventional manner” that faded with closer acquaintance; thankfully, that turned out to be accurate. It's notable that Matthew Arnold, the eldest son—who authored the poetry volume you mentioned—has inherited some of his mother's deficiencies. Although he is striking and appealing, his manner can come across as a bit pretentious. I admit this made me initially view him with a sense of surprised disappointment; the spirit of Dr. Arnold seemed to quietly disapprove of his young counterpart. However, I was reassured that “Mr. Arnold gets better upon acquaintance.” And indeed, over time, a genuine modesty surfaced beneath his affected charm, complemented by real intellectual ambitions and impressive academic achievements that replaced his superficial pretenses. I gathered that his theological beliefs are somewhat vague and unsettled, a fact he revealed during our discussions. Clearly, the unfortunate early loss of his father has deeply impacted him.

‘My visit to Westmoreland has certainly done me good.  Physically, I was not ill before I went there, but my mind had undergone some painful laceration.  In the course of looking over my sister’s papers, mementos, and memoranda, that would have been nothing to others, conveyed for me so keen a sting.  Near at hand there was no means of lightening or effacing the sad impression by refreshing social intercourse; from my father, of course, my sole care was to conceal it—age demanding the same forbearance as infancy in the communication of grief.  Continuous solitude grew more than I could bear, and, to speak truth, I was glad of a change.  You will say that we ought to have power in ourselves either to bear circumstances or to bend them.  True, we should do our best to this end, but sometimes our best is unavailing.  However, I am better now, and most thankful for the respite.

‘My visit to Westmoreland has definitely benefited me. I wasn't physically unwell before I went, but my mind was experiencing significant distress. While sifting through my sister’s papers, keepsakes, and notes, what would seem trivial to others hit me hard. In that environment, I had no way to alleviate or escape the sorrow through social interaction; with my father, my primary goal was to conceal it—age demands as much patience in sharing grief as childhood does. The constant solitude became overwhelming, and honestly, I welcomed a change. Some might argue we should have the strength to either endure our circumstances or change them. While that’s true and we should strive for that, sometimes doing our best just isn’t enough. Thankfully, I’m feeling better now and genuinely appreciate the break.

‘The interest you so kindly express in my sister’s works touches me home.  Thank you for it, especially as I do not believe you would speak otherwise than sincerely.  The only notices that I have seen of the new edition of Wuthering Heights were those in the Examiner, the Leader, and the Athenæum.  That in the Athenæum somehow gave me pleasure: it is quiet but respectful—so I thought, at least.

‘The interest you’ve shown in my sister’s work really touches me. Thank you for that, especially since I believe your intentions are sincere. The only reviews I’ve encountered for the new edition of Wuthering Heights came from the Examiner, the Leader, and the Athenæum. I found the review in the Athenæum somewhat pleasing; it’s understated but respectful—at least that’s how I perceived it.

‘You asked whether Miss Martineau made me a convert to mesmerism?  Scarcely; yet I heard miracles of its efficacy and could hardly discredit the whole of what was told me.  I even underwent a personal experiment; and though the result was not absolutely clear, it was inferred that in time I should prove an excellent subject.

‘As for whether Miss Martineau convinced me of mesmerism? Not exactly; nevertheless, I heard incredible stories about its effectiveness, making it hard to dismiss everything I was told. I even participated in a personal experiment; though the results weren't entirely clear, it was suggested that I might eventually make an excellent subject.

p. 460‘The question of mesmerism will be discussed with little reserve, I believe, in a forthcoming work of Miss Martineau’s, and I have some painful anticipations of the manner in which other subjects, offering less legitimate ground for speculation, will be handled.

p. 460‘The subject of mesmerism will likely be addressed quite openly in an upcoming book by Miss Martineau, and I have some concerns about how other topics, which offer even less solid grounds for speculation, will be treated.

‘You mention the Leader; what do you think of it?  I have been asked to contribute; but though I respect the spirit of fairness and courtesy in which it is on the whole conducted, its principles on some points are such that I have hitherto shrunk from the thought of seeing my name in its columns.

‘You mentioned the Leader; what’s your opinion of it? I’ve been invited to contribute, but while I appreciate its overall spirit of fairness and courtesy, there are certain principles it supports that have made me hesitant to appear in its columns.

‘Thanking you for your good wishes,—I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘Thank you for your kind wishes,—I remain, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

‘Haworth, January 12th, 1851.

‘Haworth, January 12th, 1851.

‘Dear Lætitia,—A spare moment must and shall be made for you, no matter how many letters I have to write (and just now there is an influx).  In reply to your kind inquiries, I have to say that my stay in London and excursion to Scotland did me good—much good at the time; but my health was again somewhat sharply tried at the close of autumn, and I lost in some days of indisposition the additional flesh and strength I had previously gained.  This resulted from the painful task of looking over letters and papers belonging to my sisters.  Many little mementos and memoranda conspired to make an impression inexpressibly sad, which solitude deepened and fostered till I grew ill.  A brief trip to Westmoreland has, however, I am thankful to say, revived me again, and the circumstance of papa being just now in good health and spirits gives me many causes for gratitude.  When we have but one precious thing left we think much of it.

Dear Lætitia,—I must make time for you, regardless of how many letters I have to write (and I’m currently overwhelmed with them). In response to your kind inquiries, I have to say my time in London and trip to Scotland were beneficial—very beneficial at the time; however, my health took a downturn again at the end of autumn, and I lost the extra weight and strength I had gained during those challenging days. This was due to the emotionally taxing task of sorting through letters and papers belonging to my sisters. Many little reminders and notes caused me great sadness, and that loneliness worsened until I fell ill. Thankfully, a brief trip to Westmoreland has aided my recovery, and I’m grateful that Dad is currently in good health and spirits, which gives me plenty to be thankful for. When only one precious thing remains, we tend to reflect deeply on it.

‘I have been staying a short time with Miss Martineau.  As you may imagine, the visit proved one of no common interest.  She is certainly a woman of wonderful endowments, both intellectual and physical, and though I share few of her opinions, and regard her as fallible on certain points of judgment, I must still accord her my sincerest esteem.  The manner in which p. 461she combines the highest mental culture with the nicest discharge of feminine duties filled me with admiration, while her affectionate kindness earned my gratitude.

‘I have been staying briefly with Miss Martineau. As you can imagine, the visit was incredibly interesting. She is undeniably a woman of extraordinary talent, both intellectually and in presence, and even though I don’t agree with many of her views and think she sometimes misjudges things, I still hold her in high esteem. Her ability to combine exceptional intellect with the careful execution of her feminine responsibilities truly amazed me, and her warm kindness left me very grateful.

‘Your description of the magician Paxton’s crystal palace is quite graphic.  Whether I shall see it or not I don’t know.  London will be so dreadfully crowded and busy this season, I feel a dread of going there.

‘Your description of the magician Paxton’s Crystal Palace is quite vivid. Whether I will see it or not remains uncertain. London will be unbearably crowded and busy this season; I feel a sense of dread about going there.

‘Compelled to break off, I have only time to offer my kindest remembrances to your whole circle, and my love to yourself.—Yours ever,

‘Forced to conclude this, I can only take a moment to send my warmest regards to everyone in your circle, and my love to you.—Yours always,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO REV. P. BRONTË

TO REV. P. BRONTË

‘112 Gloucester Terrace, Hyde Park,
‘London, June 17th, 1851.

‘112 Gloucester Terrace, Hyde Park,
‘London, June 17th, 1851.

‘Dear Papa,—I write a line in haste to tell you that I find they will not let me leave London till next Tuesday; and as I have promised to spend a day or two with Mrs. Gaskell on my way home, it will probably be Friday or Saturday in next week before I return to Haworth.  Martha will thus have a few days more time, and must not hurry or overwork herself.  Yesterday I saw Cardinal Wiseman and heard him speak.  It was at a meeting for the Roman Catholic Society of St. Vincent de Paul; the Cardinal presided.  He is a big portly man something of the shape of Mr. Morgan; he has not merely a double but a treble and quadruple chin; he has a very large mouth with oily lips, and looks as if he would relish a good dinner with a bottle of wine after it.  He came swimming into the room smiling, simpering, and bowing like a fat old lady, and sat down very demure in his chair and looked the picture of a sleek hypocrite.  He was dressed in black like a bishop or dean in plain clothes, but wore scarlet gloves and a brilliant scarlet waistcoat.  A bevy of inferior priests surrounded him, many of them very dark-looking and sinister men.  The Cardinal spoke in a smooth whining manner, just like a canting Methodist preacher.  The audience seemed to look up to him as to a god.  A spirit of the hottest zeal pervaded the whole meeting.  I was told afterwards that except myself and the person who accompanied me there p. 462was not a single Protestant present.  All the speeches turned on the necessity of straining every nerve to make converts to popery.  It is in such a scene that one feels what the Catholics are doing.  Most persevering and enthusiastic are they in their work!  Let Protestants look to it.  It cheered me much to hear that you continue pretty well.  Take every care of yourself.  Remember me kindly to Tabby and Martha, also to Mr. Nicholls, and—Believe me, dear papa, your affectionate daughter,

Dear Papa,—I’m writing quickly to let you know that I can't leave London until next Tuesday. Since I promised to spend a day or two with Mrs. Gaskell on my way home, I probably won't be back in Haworth until Friday or Saturday next week. This gives Martha a few extra days, so she shouldn’t rush or overwork herself. Yesterday, I saw Cardinal Wiseman and listened to him speak at a gathering for the Roman Catholic Society of St. Vincent de Paul, where the Cardinal presided. He’s a large, portly man, much like Mr. Morgan; he has more than one double chin. He has a very large mouth with oily lips, giving the impression that he’d enjoy a nice dinner followed by a bottle of wine. He entered the room smiling and bowing like a plump old lady, then sat down very demurely, appearing the picture of a smooth hypocrite. He was dressed in black like a bishop or dean in plain attire but wore scarlet gloves and a bright red waistcoat. A group of lesser priests surrounded him, many of whom looked dark and sinister. The Cardinal spoke in a smooth, whiny tone, reminiscent of a preaching Methodist minister. The audience seemed to revere him like a deity. An atmosphere of intense zeal filled the meeting. I was told later that, aside from myself and my companion, there wasn’t a single Protestant present. All the speeches focused on the need to do everything possible to convert people to popery. It’s in scenes like this that you realize what the Catholics are about. They are incredibly persistent and enthusiastic in their efforts! Protestants should take note. I was really pleased to hear that you’re doing quite well. Take care of yourself. Please send my regards to Tabby and Martha, as well as to Mr. Nicholls, and—Believe me, dear papa, your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 19th, 1851.

‘June 19th, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen,—I shall have to stay in London a few days longer than I intended.  Sir J. K. Shuttleworth has found out that I am here.  I have some trouble in warding off his wish that I should go directly to his house and take up my quarters there, but Mrs. Smith helped me, and I got off with promising to spend a day.  I am engaged to spend a day or two with Mrs. Gaskell on my way home, and could not put her off, as she is going away for a portion of the summer.  Lady Shuttleworth looks very delicate.  Papa is now very desirous I should come home; and when I have as quickly as possible paid my debts of engagements, home I must go.  Next Tuesday I go to Manchester for two days.

Dear Ellen,—I’ll have to stay in London a few days longer than I had planned. Sir J. K. Shuttleworth has found out that I’m here. I’m struggling to avoid his insistence that I go straight to his house and stay there, but Mrs. Smith helped me out, and I managed to get away with just promising to spend one day. I’m already committed to spending a day or two with Mrs. Gaskell on my way home, and I can’t cancel on her since she’s leaving for part of the summer. Lady Shuttleworth seems quite delicate. Dad really wants me to come home now, and as soon as I finish my other commitments, I definitely need to go. Next Tuesday, I'm heading to Manchester for two days.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘112 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park, June 24th, 1851.

‘112 Gloucester Terrace,
‘Hyde Park, June 24th, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen,—I cannot now leave London till Friday.  To-morrow is Mr. Smith’s only holiday.  Mr. Taylor’s departure leaves him loaded with work.  More than once since I came he has been kept in the city till three in the morning.  He wants to take us all to Richmond, and I promised last week I would stay and go with him, his mother, and sisters.  I go to Mrs. Gaskell’s on Friday.—Believe me, yours faithfully,

Dear Ellen,—I can’t leave London until Friday. Tomorrow is Mr. Smith’s only day off. Mr. Taylor’s departure has left him overwhelmed with work. Several times since I arrived, he’s been in the city until three in the morning. He wants to take all of us to Richmond, and I promised last week that I would stay and join him, his mother, and sisters. I’m going to Mrs. Gaskell’s on Friday.—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 463TO REV. P. BRONTË, Haworth, Yorks

p. 463TO REV. P. BRONTË, Haworth, Yorks

‘112 Gloucester Terrace,
‘June 26th, 1851.

‘112 Gloucester Terrace,
‘June 26th, 1851.

‘Dear Papa,—I have not yet been able to get away from London, but if all be well I shall go to-morrow, stay two days with Mrs. Gaskell at Manchester, and return home on Monday 30th without fail.  During this last week or ten days I have seen many things, some of them very interesting, and have also been in much better health than I was during the first fortnight of my stay in London.  Sir James and Lady Shuttleworth have really been very kind, and most scrupulously attentive.  They desire their regards to you, and send all manner of civil messages.  The Marquis of Westminster and the Earl of Ellesmere each sent me an order to see their private collection of pictures, which I enjoyed very much.  Mr. Rogers, the patriarch-poet, now eighty-seven years old, invited me to breakfast with him.  His breakfasts, you must understand, are celebrated throughout Europe for their peculiar refinement and taste.  He never admits at that meal more than four persons to his table: himself and three guests.  The morning I was there I met Lord Glenelg and Mrs. Davenport, a relation of Lady Shuttleworth’s, and a very beautiful and fashionable woman.  The visit was very interesting; I was glad that I had paid it after it was over.  An attention that pleased and surprised me more I think than any other was the circumstance of Sir David Brewster, who is one of the first scientific men of his day, coming to take me over the Crystal Palace and pointing out and explaining the most remarkable curiosities.  You will know, dear papa, that I do not mention those things to boast of them, but merely because I think they will give you pleasure.  Nobody, I find, thinks the worse of me for avoiding publicity and declining to go to large parties, and everybody seems truly courteous and respectful, a mode of behaviour which makes me grateful, as it ought to do.  Good-bye till Monday.  Give my best regards to Mr. Nicholls, Tabby, and Martha, and—Believe me your affectionate daughter,

Dear Papa,—I haven't been able to leave London yet, but if all goes well, I’ll head out tomorrow, spend two days with Mrs. Gaskell in Manchester, and return home on Monday the 30th without fail. Over the past week or so, I’ve seen many fascinating things and have also been feeling much better than I did during the first two weeks of my stay in London. Sir James and Lady Shuttleworth have been incredibly kind and attentive. They send their regards and various polite messages. The Marquis of Westminster and the Earl of Ellesmere each invited me to see their private collection of paintings, which I found immensely enjoyable. Mr. Rogers, the elderly poet, who is now eighty-seven, invited me for breakfast. His breakfasts are renowned throughout Europe for their unique refinement and taste. He only allows four people at his table: himself and three guests. The morning I was there, I met Lord Glenelg and Mrs. Davenport, who is related to Lady Shuttleworth and is a very beautiful and stylish woman. The visit was quite interesting, and I was glad I went afterward. One gesture that surprised and pleased me greatly was when Sir David Brewster, one of the leading scientists of his time, came to give me a tour of the Crystal Palace, highlighting and explaining its most remarkable features. You know, dear papa, I’m not mentioning these things to boast, but simply because I believe they will bring you joy. Nobody looks down on me for avoiding the spotlight and shunning large gatherings; everyone is genuinely courteous and respectful, which makes me feel grateful, as it should. Goodbye until Monday. Please send my best to Mr. Nicholls, Tabby, and Martha, and—Believe me, your affectionate daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 464CHAPTER XVII: THE REV. ARTHUR BELL NICHOLLS

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘October 9th, 1844.

‘October 9th, 1844.

‘Dear Ellen,—We are getting on here the same as usual, only that Branwell has been more than ordinarily troublesome and annoying of late; he leads papa a wretched life.  Mr. Nicholls is returned just the same.  I cannot for my life see p. 466those interesting germs of goodness in him you discovered; his narrowness of mind always strikes me chiefly.  I fear he is indebted to your imagination for his hidden treasure.—Yours,

Dear Ellen,—We’re going about things as usual, but Branwell has been really bothersome and annoying lately; he makes life hard for Dad. Mr. Nicholls is back to his usual self. I just can’t see the interesting traits you found in him; his narrow-mindedness really stands out to me. I'm worried you’re imagining some hidden greatness in him that isn’t there.—Yours,

‘C. B.’

‘C. B.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘July 10th, 1846.

‘July 10th, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen,—Who gravely asked you whether Miss Brontë was not going to be married to her papa’s curate?  I scarcely need say that never was rumour more unfounded.  A cold faraway sort of civility are the only terms on which I have ever been with Mr. Nicholls.  I could by no means think of mentioning such a rumour to him even as a joke.  It would make me the laughing-stock of himself and his fellow curates for half a year to come.  They regard me as an old maid, and I regard them, one and all, as highly uninteresting, narrow, and unattractive specimens of the coarser sex.

Dear Ellen,—Who seriously asked you if Miss Brontë was going to marry her dad's curate? I hardly need to say this rumor couldn’t be more false. The only interaction I’ve ever had with Mr. Nicholls is a distant kind of politeness. There’s no way I’d even mention such a rumor to him, even as a joke. It would make me the joke among him and his fellow curates for the next six months. They see me as an old maid, and I think of them as dull, narrow-minded, and uninteresting representatives of the male gender.

‘Write to me again soon, whether you have anything particular to say or not.  Give my sincere love to your mother and sisters.

‘Write to me again soon, whether you have something specific to say or not. Please give my love to your mom and sisters.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘November 17th, 1846.

‘November 17th, 1846.

‘Dear Ellen,—I will just write a brief despatch to say that I received yours and that I was very glad to get it.  I do not know when you have been so long without writing to me before.  I had begun to imagine you were gone to your brother Joshua’s.

Dear Ellen,—I just wanted to drop a quick note to say that I got your letter and was really glad to receive it. I can’t remember the last time you waited so long to write to me. I had started to think you must have gone to your brother Joshua’s.

‘Papa continues to do very well.  He read prayers twice in the church last Sunday.  Next Sunday he will have to take the whole duty of the three services himself, as Mr. Nicholls is in Ireland.  Remember me to your mother and sisters.  Write as soon as you possibly can after you get to Oundle.  Good luck go with you.

‘Dad is still doing great. He read prayers twice at church last Sunday. Next Sunday, he’ll have to manage all three services by himself since Mr. Nicholls is in Ireland. Say hi to your mom and sisters for me. Write back as soon as you can after you get to Oundle. Wishing you good luck.’

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 467TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 467TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘October 7th, 1847.

‘October 7th, 1847.

‘Dear Ellen,—I have been expecting you to write to me; but as you don’t do it, and as, moreover, you may possibly think it is my turn, and not yours, though on that point I am far from clear, I shall just send you one of my scrubby notes for the express purpose of eliciting a reply.  Anne was very much pleased with your letter; I presume she has answered it before now.  I would fain hope that her health is a little stronger than it was, and her spirits a little better, but she leads much too sedentary a life, and is continually sitting stooping either over a book or over her desk.  It is with difficulty we can prevail upon her to take a walk or induce her to converse.  I look forward to next summer with the confident intention that she shall, if possible, make at least a brief sojourn at the sea-side.

Dear Ellen,—I’ve been waiting for you to write to me, but since you haven’t, and you might think it’s my turn instead of yours—I'm not really sure about that—I’m sending you one of my messy notes just to get a response. Anne was really happy to get your letter; I assume she’s replied by now. I hope her health is a bit better than it was and that her spirits have lifted, but she spends way too much time sitting and is always hunched over either a book or her desk. It’s hard to get her to go for a walk or have a chat. I’m looking forward to next summer, hoping she can at least have a short stay by the sea if possible.

‘I am sorry I inoculated you with fears about the east wind; I did not feel the last blast so severely as I have often done.  My sympathies were much awakened by the touching anecdote.  Did you salute your boy-messenger with a box on the ear the next time he came across you?  I think I should have been strongly tempted to have done as much.  Mr. Nicholls is not yet returned.  I am sorry to say that many of the parishioners express a desire that he should not trouble himself to recross the Channel.  This is not the feeling that ought to exist between shepherd and flock.  It is not such as is prevalent at Birstall.  It is not such as poor Mr. Weightman excited.

‘I’m sorry I filled you with worries about the east wind; I didn’t feel the last gust as strongly as I often do. My emotions were really stirred by the heartwarming story. Did you give your boy messenger a smack on the ear the next time you saw him? I think I would have been very tempted to do the same. Mr. Nicholls hasn’t returned yet. I’m sorry to say many of the parishioners hope he won’t bother coming back across the Channel. That’s not the kind of feeling that should exist between a shepherd and their flock. It’s not the way things are at Birstall. It’s not how poor Mr. Weightman inspired people.

‘Give my best love to all of them, and—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Send my love to all of them, and—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 28th, 1850.

‘January 28th, 1850.

‘Dear Ellen,—I cannot but be concerned to hear of your mother’s illness; write again soon, if it be but a line, to tell me how she gets on.  This shadow will, I trust and believe, be but a passing one, but it is a foretaste and warning of what must come one day.  Let it prepare your mind, dear Ellen, for that great p. 468trial which, if you live, it must in the course of a few years be your lot to undergo.  That cutting asunder of the ties of nature is the pain we most dread and which we are most certain to experience.  Lewes’s letter made me laugh; I cannot respect him more for it.  Sir J. K. Shuttleworth’s letter did not make me laugh; he has written again since.  I have received to-day a note from Miss Alexander, daughter, she says, of Dr. Alexander.  Do you know anything of her?  Mary Taylor seems in good health and spirits, and in the way of doing well.  I shall feel anxious to hear again soon.

Dear Ellen,—I'm really worried about your mother's illness; please write back soon, even if it's just a quick message, to let me know how she’s doing. I hope and believe this tough time is only temporary, but it reminds us of what must come one day. Let it prepare you, dear Ellen, for that significant p. 468trial you will eventually face if you live long enough. The painful separation from our loved ones is what we fear the most, and it’s something we are likely to experience. Lewes’s letter made me laugh; I have great respect for him because of it. Sir J. K. Shuttleworth’s letter didn’t make me laugh; he has written again since then. Today, I received a note from Miss Alexander, who says she is Dr. Alexander's daughter. Do you know anything about her? Mary Taylor seems to be in good health and spirits, and she’s doing well. I’ll be eager to hear back from you soon.

‘C. B.

‘C. B.

‘P.S.—Mr. Nicholls has finished reading Shirley; he is delighted with it.  John Brown’s wife seriously thought he had gone wrong in the head as she heard him giving vent to roars of laughter as he sat alone, clapping his hands and stamping on the floor.  He would read all the scenes about the curates aloud to Papa.  He triumphed in his own character. [468]  What Mr. Grant will say is another thing.  No matter.’

‘P.S. —Mr. Nicholls has finished reading Shirley; he loved it. John Brown’s wife genuinely thought he had lost his mind when she heard him laughing out loud by himself, clapping his hands and stomping his feet. He read all the scenes about the curates out loud to Papa. He was proud of his own character. __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ What Mr. Grant will say is a different story. It doesn’t matter.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, July 27th, 1851.

‘Haworth, July 27th, 1851.

‘Dear Nell,—I hope you have taken no cold from your wretched journey home; you see you should have taken my advice and stayed till Saturday.  Didn’t I tell you I had a “presentiment” it would be better for you to do so?

Dear Nell,—I hope you didn’t catch a cold from your awful trip back home; you should have listened to my advice and stayed until Saturday. Didn’t I have a “feeling” it would be better for you to do that?

p. 469‘I am glad you found your mother pretty well.  Is she disposed to excuse the wretched petrified condition of the bilberry preserve, in consideration of the intent of the donor?  It seems they had high company while you were away.  You see what you lose by coming to Haworth.  No events here since your departure except a long letter from Miss Martineau.  (She did not write the article on “Woman” in the Westminster; by the way, it is the production of a man, and one of the first philosophers and political economists and metaphysicians of the day.) [469]  Item, the departure of Mr. Nicholls for Ireland, and his inviting himself on the eve thereof to come and take a farewell tea; good, mild, uncontentious.  Item, a note from the stiff-like chap who called about the epitaph for his cousin.  I inclose this—a finer gem in its way it would be difficult to conceive.  You need not, however, be at the trouble of returning it.  How are they at Hunsworth yet?  It is no use saying whether I am solitary or not; I drive on very well, and papa continues pretty well.—Yours faithfully,

p. 469‘I’m glad to hear your mom is doing well. Is she okay with the awful state of the bilberry preserve, given the donor's good intentions? It seems they had some important guests while you were away. You see what you miss by coming to Haworth. No news here since you left, except for a long letter from Miss Martineau. (By the way, she didn’t write the article on “Woman” in the Westminster; that was actually done by a man, one of the leading philosophers and political economists of the day.) __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ Also, Mr. Nicholls has left for Ireland and invited himself for farewell tea the night before; he’s a nice, mild-mannered guy and doesn’t cause trouble. I also got a note from that formal person who came by to discuss the epitaph for his cousin. I’m enclosing it—it’s quite interesting in its own way. You don’t need to worry about returning it. How are things at Hunsworth? There’s no point in saying whether I feel lonely or not; I’m managing fine, and Dad is doing pretty well, too.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

‘Haworth, April 12th, 1852.

‘Haworth, April 12th, 1852.

‘Dear Lætitia,—Your last letter gave me much concern.  I had hoped you were long ere this restored to your usual health, and it both pained and surprised me to hear that you still suffer so much from debility.  I cannot help thinking your constitution is naturally sound and healthy.  Can it be the air of London which disagrees with you?  For myself, I struggled through the winter and the early part of spring often with great difficulty.  My friend stayed with me a few days in the early part of January—she could not be spared longer.  I was p. 470better during her visit, but had a relapse soon after she left me, which reduced my strength very much.  It cannot be denied that the solitude of my position fearfully aggravated its other evils.  Some long, stormy days and nights there were when I felt such a craving for support and companionship as I cannot express.  Sleepless, I lay awake night after night; weak and unable to occupy myself, I sat in my chair day after day, the saddest memories my only company.  It was a time I shall never forget, but God sent it and it must have been for the best.

Dear Lætitia,—Your last letter really worried me. I had hoped by now you would be back to your usual health, and I was both pained and surprised to hear that you’re still struggling with weakness. I truly believe your health is naturally strong. Could it be that the London air doesn’t agree with you? As for me, I managed to get through the winter and early spring, though often with great difficulty. A friend visited for a few days in early January—she couldn’t stay any longer. I felt better while she was here, but I had a relapse soon after she left, which really drained my energy. It can’t be denied that the isolation of my situation made everything much worse. There were some long, stormy days and nights when I felt an overwhelming need for support and companionship that I can’t put into words. I lay awake night after night, sleepless; weak and unable to stay occupied, I sat in my chair day after day, haunted by the saddest memories as my only company. It was a time I will never forget, but it was allowed by God, and it must have been for the best.

‘I am better now, and very grateful do I feel for the restoration of tolerable health; but, as if there was always to be some affliction, papa, who enjoyed wonderful health during the whole winter, is ailing with his spring attack of bronchitis.  I earnestly trust it may pass over in the comparatively ameliorated form in which it has hitherto shown itself.

‘I am feeling better now, and I’m really grateful to have my health back to a decent level; however, it seems there’s always some trouble. Dad, who was in great health all winter, is now struggling with a spring flare-up of bronchitis. I sincerely hope it passes this time in the milder way it has so far.’

‘Let me not forget to answer your question about the cataract.  Tell your papa my father was seventy at the time he underwent an operation; he was most reluctant to try the experiment—could not believe that at his age and with his want of robust strength it would succeed.  I was obliged to be very decided in the matter and to act entirely on my own responsibility.  Nearly six years have now elapsed since the cataract was extracted (it was not merely depressed).  He has never once, during that time, regretted the step, and a day seldom passes that he does not express gratitude and pleasure at the restoration of that inestimable privilege of vision whose loss he once knew.

‘Let me not forget to answer your question about the cataract. Tell your dad that my father was seventy when he had the surgery; he was very hesitant to go through with it—he couldn’t believe it would work at his age and with his lack of strength. I had to be quite firm about it and take full responsibility. Nearly six years have passed since the cataract was removed (it wasn’t just depressed). He hasn’t regretted that decision even once since then, and almost every day, he expresses his gratitude and happiness for the restoration of that invaluable gift of sight that he once lost.

‘I hope the next tidings you hear of your brother Charles will be satisfactory for his parents’ and sisters’ sake as well as his own.  Your poor mamma has had many successive trials, and her uncomplaining resignation seems to offer us all an example worthy to be followed.  Remember me kindly to her, to your papa, and all your circle, and—Believe me, with best wishes to yourself, yours sincerely,

‘I hope the next news you get about your brother Charles will be good for his parents, sisters, and himself. Your poor mom has gone through a lot of hardships, and her patience in dealing with them sets a great example for all of us. Please give my regards to her, to your dad, and everyone else in your circle, and—Believe me, with best wishes to you, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 471TO REV. P. BRONTË, HAWORTH, YORKS

p. 471TO REV. P. BRONTË, HAWORTH, YORKS

‘Cliff House, Filey, June 2nd, 1852.

‘Cliff House, Filey, June 2nd, 1852.

‘Dear Papa,—Thank you for your letter, which I was so glad to get that I think I must answer it by return of post.  I had expected one yesterday, and was perhaps a little unreasonably anxious when disappointed, but the weather has been so very cold that I feared either you were ill or Martha worse.  I hope Martha will take care of herself.  I cannot help feeling a little uneasy about her.

Dear Dad,—Thank you for your letter. I was so happy to receive it that I felt I had to respond right away. I was expecting one yesterday and was maybe a bit unreasonably worried when it didn’t come, but the weather has been so cold that I feared either you were sick or Martha was worse. I hope Martha will take care of herself. I can’t help but feel a little anxious about her.

‘On the whole I get on very well here, but I have not bathed yet as I am told it is much too cold and too early in the season.  The sea is very grand.  Yesterday it was a somewhat unusually high tide, and I stood about an hour on the cliffs yesterday afternoon watching the tumbling in of great tawny turbid waves, that made the whole shore white with foam and filled the air with a sound hollower and deeper than thunder.  There are so very few visitors at Filey yet that I and a few sea-birds and fishing-boats have often the whole expanse of sea, shore, and cliff to ourselves.  When the tide is out the sands are wide, long, and smooth, and very pleasant to walk on.  When the high tides are in, not a vestige of sand remains.  I saw a great dog rush into the sea yesterday, and swim and bear up against the waves like a seal.  I wonder what Flossy would say to that.

‘Overall, I’m really enjoying it here, but I haven’t gone for a swim yet because I’ve been told it’s way too cold and still early in the season. The sea is quite impressive. Yesterday, there was an unusually high tide, and I spent about an hour on the cliffs in the afternoon watching the huge brown waves crashing in, creating a foamy white shore and filling the air with a sound deeper and more resonant than thunder. There are still very few visitors in Filey, so it’s often just me, a few sea birds, and fishing boats sharing the entire stretch of sea, shore, and cliffs. When the tide goes out, the sands are wide, long, and smooth, making them really nice to walk on. When the high tides come in, there’s not a trace of sand left. I saw a big dog leap into the sea yesterday and swim, pushing against the waves like a seal. I wonder what Flossy would think of that.

‘On Sunday afternoon I went to a church which I should like Mr. Nicholls to see.  It was certainly not more than thrice the length and breadth of our passage, floored with brick, the walls green with mould, the pews painted white, but the paint almost all worn off with time and decay.  At one end there is a little gallery for the singers, and when these personages stood up to perform they all turned their backs upon the congregation, and the congregation turned their backs on the pulpit and parson.  The effect of this manœuvre was so ludicrous, I could hardly help laughing; had Mr. Nicholls been there he certainly would have laughed out.  Looking up at the gallery and seeing only the broad backs of the singers presented to their audience was p. 472excessively grotesque.  There is a well-meaning but utterly inactive clergyman at Filey, and Methodists flourish.

‘On Sunday afternoon, I went to a church that I think Mr. Nicholls should see. It was definitely not bigger than three times the size of our hallway, with a brick floor, walls covered in green mold, and pews painted white, though most of the paint had faded due to time and wear. At one end, there’s a little gallery for the singers, and when they stood up to perform, they all turned their backs to the congregation, while the congregation turned their backs on the pulpit and the preacher. The whole situation was so ridiculous that I could barely hold in my laughter; if Mr. Nicholls had been there, he definitely would have laughed out loud. Looking up at the gallery and seeing only the broad backs of the singers facing their audience was excessively bizarre. There’s a well-meaning but completely inactive clergyman in Filey, and the Methodists are doing really well.

‘I cannot help enjoying Mr. Butterfield’s defeat; and yet in one sense this is a bad state of things, calculated to make working people both discontented and insubordinate.  Give my kind regards, dear papa, to Mr. Nicholls, Tabby, and Martha.  Charge Martha to beware of draughts, and to get such help in her cleaning as she shall need.  I hope you will continue well.—Believe me, your affectionate daughter,

‘I can't help but enjoy Mr. Butterfield’s defeat; and yet, in a way, this is a troubling situation that could cause working people to feel both dissatisfied and rebellious. Please send my warm regards, dear dad, to Mr. Nicholls, Tabby, and Martha. Remind Martha to watch out for drafts and to get any help she needs with her cleaning. I hope you remain well.—Sincerely, your loving daughter,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘December 15th, 1852.

‘December 15th, 1852.

‘Dear Ellen,—I return the note, which is highly characteristic, and not, I fear, of good omen for the comfort of your visit.  There must be something wrong in herself as well as in her servants.  I inclose another note which, taken in conjunction with the incident immediately preceding it, and with a long series of indications whose meaning I scarce ventured hitherto to interpret to myself, much less hint to any other, has left on my mind a feeling of deep concern.  This note you will see is from Mr. Nicholls.

Dear Ellen,—I’m sending back the note, which is very telling, and I’m afraid it doesn’t bode well for the comfort of your visit. There must be something off with her as well as her staff. I’m including another note that, in light of the incident that happened just before it and a long list of signs that I’ve barely dared to interpret for myself, let alone mention to anyone else, has left me feeling quite concerned. You’ll notice this note is from Mr. Nicholls.

‘I know not whether you have ever observed him specially when staying here.  Your perception is generally quick enough—too quick, I have sometimes thought; yet as you never said anything, I restrained my own dim misgivings, which could not claim the sure guide of vision.  What papa has seen or guessed I will not inquire, though I may conjecture.  He has minutely noticed all Mr. Nicholls’s low spirits, all his threats of expatriation, all his symptoms of impaired health—noticed them with little sympathy and much indirect sarcasm.  On Monday evening Mr. Nicholls was here to tea.  I vaguely felt without clearly seeing, as without seeing I have felt for some time, the meaning of his constant looks, and strange, feverish restraint.  After tea I withdrew to the dining-room as usual.  As usual, Mr. Nicholls sat with papa till between eight and nine o’clock; I then heard him open the parlour door as if going.  I expected the clash of the front door.  He stopped in the passage; he p. 473tapped; like lightning it flashed on me what was coming.  He entered; he stood before me.  What his words were you can guess; his manner you can hardly realise, nor can I forget it.  Shaking from head to foot, looking deadly pale, speaking low, vehemently, yet with difficulty, he made me for the first time feel what it costs a man to declare affection where he doubts response.

‘I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed him, especially when he’s been here. Your insight is usually quick enough—too quick, I’ve sometimes thought; yet since you never mentioned anything, I held back my own vague concerns, which lacked the sure guidance of sight. I won’t ask what Dad has seen or guessed, though I can speculate. He has observed all of Mr. Nicholls’s low spirits, his threats to leave, and his signs of poor health—noticed them with little sympathy and a lot of indirect sarcasm. On Monday evening, Mr. Nicholls came over for tea. I sensed something without fully seeing, just as I’ve been feeling for a while about his constant glances and strange, tense restraint. After tea, I went to the dining room as usual. Mr. Nicholls stayed with Dad until between eight and nine o’clock; then I heard him open the sitting room door as if he was leaving. I expected to hear the front door slam. He paused in the hallway; he p. 473tapped; and suddenly it hit me what was happening. He came in; he stood in front of me. You can probably guess his words; you can hardly comprehend his manner, nor can I forget it. Shaking from head to toe, looking deathly pale, speaking quietly but passionately, and yet with difficulty, he made me feel for the first time what it costs a man to profess affection when he doubts the response.’

‘The spectacle of one ordinarily so statue-like thus trembling, stirred, and overcome, gave me a kind of strange shock.  He spoke of sufferings he had borne for months, of sufferings he could endure no longer, and craved leave for some hope.  I could only entreat him to leave me then and promise a reply on the morrow.  I asked him if he had spoken to papa.  He said he dared not.  I think I half led, half put him out of the room.  When he was gone I immediately went to papa, and told him what had taken place.  Agitation and anger disproportionate to the occasion ensued; if I had loved Mr. Nicholls, and had heard such epithets applied to him as were used, it would have transported me past my patience; as it was, my blood boiled with a sense of injustice.  But papa worked himself into a state not to be trifled with: the veins on his temples started up like whip-cord, and his eyes became suddenly bloodshot.  I made haste to promise that Mr. Nicholls should on the morrow have a distinct refusal.

‘The sight of someone who is usually so calm and composed shaking, affected, and overwhelmed shocked me in a strange way. He talked about the pain he had endured for months, pain he could no longer take, and desperately sought some hope. I could only ask him to leave me for now and promised to give him an answer tomorrow. I asked if he had talked to Dad. He said he didn’t dare. I think I partly led him out and partly nudged him out of the room. Once he left, I went straight to Dad and told him what happened. He reacted with agitation and anger that felt way out of proportion for the situation; if I had been in love with Mr. Nicholls and heard the things that were said about him, it would have pushed me beyond my limits; as it was, I felt furious with a sense of injustice. But Dad worked himself into a state that was not to be ignored: the veins on his temples stood out like ropes, and his eyes suddenly became bloodshot. I hurried to promise that Mr. Nicholls would receive a clear refusal tomorrow.

‘I wrote yesterday and got this note.  There is no need to add to this statement any comment.  Papa’s vehement antipathy to the bare thought of any one thinking of me as a wife, and Mr. Nicholls’s distress, both give me pain.  Attachment to Mr. Nicholls you are aware I never entertained, but the poignant pity inspired by his state on Monday evening, by the hurried revelation of his sufferings for many months, is something galling and irksome.  That he cared something for me, and wanted me to care for him, I have long suspected, but I did not know the degree or strength of his feelings.  Dear Nell, good-bye.—Yours faithfully,

‘I wrote yesterday and got this note. There’s no need to add any comments to this statement. Dad’s strong dislike for anyone thinking of me as a wife, along with Mr. Nicholls’s distress, both cause me pain. You know I never had any feelings for Mr. Nicholls, but the intense pity I felt for his situation on Monday evening, after hearing about his sufferings for so long, is really frustrating. I’ve suspected for a while that he cared about me and wanted me to care for him, but I didn’t know how deep or strong his feelings were. Dear Nell, goodbye.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘I have letters from Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and Miss Martineau, but I cannot talk of them now.’

‘I have letters from Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and Miss Martineau, but I can’t discuss them right now.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, December 18th, 1852.

‘Haworth, December 18th, 1852.

‘Dear Nell,—You may well ask, how is it? for I am sure I don’t know.  This business would seem to me like a dream, did not my reason tell me it has long been brewing.  It puzzles me to comprehend how and whence comes this turbulence of feeling.

Dear Nell,—You might be curious about how things are going because, honestly, I have no clue. This situation feels dreamlike to me, though I know deep down it’s been brewing for a while. I'm confused trying to understand where this wave of emotion is coming from.

p. 475‘You ask how papa demeans himself to Mr. Nicholls.  I only wish you were here to see papa in his present mood: you would know something of him.  He just treats him with a hardness not to be bent, and a contempt not to be propitiated.  The two have had no interview as yet; all has been done by letter.  Papa wrote, I must say, a most cruel note to Mr. Nicholls on Wednesday.  In his state of mind and health (for the poor man is horrifying his landlady, Martha’s mother, by entirely rejecting his meals) I felt that the blow must be parried, and I thought it right to accompany the pitiless despatch by a line to the effect that, while Mr. Nicholls must never expect me to reciprocate the feeling he had expressed, yet, at the same time, I wished to disclaim participation in sentiments calculated to give him pain; and I exhorted him to maintain his courage and spirits.  On receiving the two letters, he set off from home.  Yesterday came the inclosed brief epistle.

p. 475‘You’re asking how Dad treats Mr. Nicholls. I truly wish you were here to see Dad in his current mood; you’d get to know him a bit better. He’s treating him with a stubbornness that can’t be softened and a disdain that can’t be calmed. They haven’t met in person yet; everything has been handled through letters. Dad wrote, I must say, a pretty harsh note to Mr. Nicholls on Wednesday. Considering his state of mind and health (the poor guy is stressing his landlady, Martha's mother, by refusing to eat), I felt the need to soften the blow. I thought it was right to send a note along with the harsh message, saying that while Mr. Nicholls should never expect me to feel the same way he does, I wanted to make it clear that I don’t share any feelings that might hurt him; and I encouraged him to stay strong and keep his spirits up. After receiving both letters, he left home. Yesterday, I received the short letter attached here.’

‘You must understand that a good share of papa’s anger arises from the idea, not altogether groundless, that Mr. Nicholls has behaved with disingenuousness in so long concealing his aim.  I am afraid also that papa thinks a little too much about his want of money; he says the match would be a degradation, that I should be throwing myself away, that he expects me, if I marry at all, to do very differently; in short, his manner of viewing the subject is on the whole far from being one in which I can sympathise.  My own objections arise from a sense of incongruity and uncongeniality in feelings, tastes, principles.

‘You need to understand that a big part of Dad’s anger comes from the belief, which isn’t entirely unfounded, that Mr. Nicholls has been dishonest by hiding his true intentions for so long. I also worry that Dad is overly focused on his lack of money; he says this match would be a step down for me, that I’d be wasting my potential, and he expects that if I marry at all, it should be someone very different. Overall, his perspective is one I really can’t relate to. My own concerns stem from a feeling of mismatch and lack of connection in our emotions, interests, and values.

‘How are you getting on, dear Nell, and how are all at Brookroyd?  Remember me kindly to everybody.—Yours, wishing devoutly that papa would resume his tranquillity, and Mr. Nicholls his beef and pudding,

‘How are you doing, dear Nell, and how are things at Brookroyd? Please remember me warmly to everyone.—Yours, hoping earnestly that Dad will find his peace again, and Mr. Nicholls his beef and pudding,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘I am glad to say that the incipient inflammation in papa’s eye is disappearing.’

‘I’m happy to report that the early inflammation in Dad’s eye is going away.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 2nd, 1853.

‘January 2nd, 1853.

‘Dear Nell,—I thought of you on New Year’s night, and hope you got well over your formidable tea-making.  I trust p. 476that Tuesday and Wednesday will also pass pleasantly.  I am busy too in my little way preparing to go to London this week, a matter which necessitates some little application to the needle.  I find it is quite necessary I should go to superintend the press, as Mr. Smith seems quite determined not to let the printing get on till I come.  I have actually only received three proof-sheets since I was at Brookroyd.  Papa wants me to go too, to be out of the way, I suppose; but I am sorry for one other person whom nobody pities but me.  Martha is bitter against him; John Brown says “he should like to shoot him.”  They don’t understand the nature of his feelings, but I see now what they are.  He is one of those who attach themselves to very few, whose sensations are close and deep, like an underground stream, running strong, but in a narrow channel.  He continues restless and ill; he carefully performs the occasional duty, but does not come near the church, procuring a substitute every Sunday.  A few days since he wrote to papa requesting permission to withdraw his resignation.  Papa answered that he should only do so on condition of giving his written promise never again to broach the obnoxious subject either to him or to me.  This he has evaded doing, so the matter remains unsettled.  I feel persuaded the termination will be his departure for Australia.  Dear Nell, without loving him, I don’t like to think of him suffering in solitude, and wish him anywhere so that he were happier.  He and papa have never met or spoken yet.  I am very glad to learn that your mother is pretty well, and also that the piece of challenged work is progressing.  I hope you will not be called away to Norfolk before I come home: I should like you to pay a visit to Haworth first.  Write again soon.—Yours faithfully,

Dear Nell,—I thought about you on New Year’s night and hope you managed your tricky tea-making well. I trust p. 476 that Tuesday and Wednesday will be pleasant too. I’m also busy in my own way preparing to go to London this week, which means I need to spend some time sewing. I realize I must oversee the printing since Mr. Smith seems determined to hold things up until I get there. I’ve only received three proof-sheets since I was at Brookroyd. Dad wants me to go too, probably to stay out of his way, but I feel sorry for one other person that nobody else cares about. Martha is really upset with him; John Brown has said he’d like to shoot him. They don’t understand his feelings, but I see what they really are. He’s one of those people who connects with very few, and his emotions run deep and strong, like an underground stream, but in a tight channel. He remains restless and unwell; he dutifully fulfills his occasional responsibilities but avoids church and gets someone else to fill in every Sunday. A few days ago, he wrote to Dad asking to take back his resignation. Dad replied that he would only agree if he promised in writing never to bring up the unpleasant topic again, either with him or with me. He hasn't done that, so the issue is still unresolved. I’m convinced it will end with him leaving for Australia. Dear Nell, even though I don’t love him, I don’t like to think of him suffering alone, and I hope he finds happiness anywhere else. He and Dad still haven’t met or spoken. I'm glad to hear your mom is doing well, and that the disputed project is making progress. I hope you won’t be called away to Norfolk before I get back home: I’d like you to visit Haworth first. Write back soon.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 4th, 1853.

‘March 4th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—We had the parsons to supper as well as to tea.  Mr. N. demeaned himself not quite pleasantly.  I thought he made no effort to struggle with his dejection but gave way to it in a manner to draw notice; the Bishop was obviously p. 477puzzled by it.  Mr. Nicholls also showed temper once or twice in speaking to papa.  Martha was beginning to tell me of certain “flaysome” looks also, but I desired not to hear of them.  The fact is, I shall be most thankful when he is well away.  I pity him, but I don’t like that dark gloom of his.  He dogged me up the lane after the evening service in no pleasant manner.  He stopped also in the passage after the Bishop and the other clergy were gone into the room, and it was because I drew away and went upstairs that he gave that look which filled Martha’s soul with horror.  She, it seems, meantime, was making it her business to watch him from the kitchen door.  If Mr. Nicholls be a good man at bottom, it is a sad thing that nature has not given him the faculty to put goodness into a more attractive form.  Into the bargain of all the rest he managed to get up a most pertinacious and needless dispute with the Inspector, in listening to which all my old unfavourable impressions revived so strongly, I fear my countenance could not but shew them.

Dear Ellen,—We had the ministers over for supper as well as tea. Mr. N. didn’t behave very nicely. I felt he didn’t make any effort to fight off his sadness and let it show in a way that caught attention; the Bishop was clearly p. 477confused by it. Mr. Nicholls also lost his temper a couple of times while talking to Dad. Martha started to tell me about some “creepy” looks too, but I didn’t want to hear it. To be honest, I’ll be really glad when he’s gone. I feel sorry for him, but I don’t like that dark mood he has. He followed me up the lane after the evening service in a really uncomfortable way. He also lingered in the hallway after the Bishop and the other clergy had gone into the room, and I think the look he gave me when I pulled away and went upstairs was what terrified Martha. Meanwhile, she was trying to keep an eye on him from the kitchen door. If Mr. Nicholls is a good person deep down, it’s a shame he hasn’t figured out how to express that goodness in a more appealing way. On top of everything else, he managed to start a really stubborn and unnecessary argument with the Inspector, and listening to it brought back all my old negative feelings so strongly that I’m afraid my face couldn’t hide them.

‘Dear Nell, I consider that on the whole it is a mercy you have been at home and not at Norfolk during the late cold weather.  Love to all at Brookroyd.—Yours faithfully,

'Dear Nell, I think it’s a blessing you’ve been at home and not in Norfolk during the recent cold weather. Love to everyone at Brookroyd.—Yours faithfully,

‘c. Brontë.’

‘c. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘March 9th, 1853.

‘March 9th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—I am sure Miss Wooler would enjoy her visit to you, as much as you her company.  Dear Nell, I thank you sincerely for your discreet and friendly silence on the point alluded to.  I had feared it would be discussed between you two, and had an inexpressible shrinking at the thought; now less than ever does it seem a matter open to discussion.  I hear nothing, and you must quite understand that if I feel any uneasiness it is not that of confirmed and fixed regard, but that anxiety which is inseparable from a state of absolute uncertainty about a somewhat momentous matter.  I do not know, I am not sure myself, that any other termination would be better than lasting estrangement and unbroken silence.  Yet a good deal of pain has been and must be gone through in that case.  However, to each his burden.

Dear Ellen,—I'm sure Miss Wooler would enjoy visiting you just as much as you enjoy her company. Dear Nell, I sincerely thank you for your thoughtful and friendly silence on the matter we've hinted at. I was worried it would come up in conversation between you two, and I felt a deep reluctance at the thought; now it feels even less like something that should be discussed. I haven't heard anything, and you must understand that if I feel any anxiety, it's not from a settled or fixed attachment, but rather from the worry that comes with being in a state of total uncertainty about something that feels significant. I don't know, and I'm not even sure myself, that there’s any other outcome that would be better than continued estrangement and unending silence. Still, a lot of pain has been experienced and will continue to be felt in that situation. However, we each have our own burdens to bear.

p. 478‘I have not yet read the papers; D.V. I will send them to-morrow.—Yours faithfully,

p. 478‘I haven't read the papers yet; God willing, I will send them tomorrow.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘Understand that in whatever I have said above, it was not for pity or sympathy.  I hardly pity myself.  Only I wish that in all matters in this world there was fair and open dealing, and no underhand work.’

‘Understand that everything I’ve said above wasn’t intended for pity or sympathy. I barely feel sorry for myself. I just wish that in all aspects of life, there was fairness and transparency, without any sneaky tactics.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, April 6th, 1853.

‘Haworth, April 6th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—My visit to Manchester is for the present put off by Mr. Morgan having written to say that since papa will not go to Buckingham to see him he will come to Yorkshire to see papa; when, I don’t yet know, and I trust in goodness he will not stay long, as papa really cannot bear putting out of his way.  I must wait, however, till the infliction is over.

‘Dear Ellen,—My trip to Manchester is currently postponed because Mr. Morgan wrote to say that since Dad won’t go to Buckingham to see him, he’ll come to Yorkshire to visit Dad instead; I don’t know when that will be yet, and I really hope he doesn’t stay long, as Dad can’t handle the disruption. I just have to wait until this inconvenience is over.

‘You ask about Mr. Nicholls.  I hear he has got a curacy, but do not yet know where.  I trust the news is true.  He and papa never speak.  He seems to pass a desolate life.  He has allowed late circumstances so to act on him as to freeze up his manner and overcast his countenance not only to those immediately concerned but to every one.  He sits drearily in his rooms.  If Mr. Grant or any other clergyman calls to see, and as they think, to cheer him, he scarcely speaks.  I find he tells them nothing, seeks no confidant, rebuffs all attempts to penetrate his mind.  I own I respect him for this.  He still lets Flossy go to his rooms, and takes him to walk.  He still goes over to see Mr. Sowden sometimes, and, poor fellow, that is all.  He looks ill and miserable.  I think and trust in Heaven that he will be better as soon as he fairly gets away from Haworth.  I pity him inexpressibly.  We never meet nor speak, nor dare I look at him; silent pity is just all that I can give him, and as he knows nothing about that, it does not comfort.  He is now grown so gloomy and reserved that nobody seems to like him.  His fellow-curates shun trouble in that shape; the lower orders dislike it.  Papa has a perfect antipathy to him, and he, I fear, to papa.  Martha hates him.  I think he might almost be dying and they would not speak a friendly word to or of him.  How much of all p. 479this he deserves I can’t tell; certainly he never was agreeable or amiable, and is less so now than ever, and alas! I do not know him well enough to be sure that there is truth and true affection, or only rancour and corroding disappointment at the bottom of his chagrin.  In this state of things I must be, and I am, entirely passive.  I may be losing the purest gem, and to me far the most precious, life can give—genuine attachment—or I may be escaping the yoke of a morose temper.  In this doubt conscience will not suffer me to take one step in opposition to papa’s will, blended as that will is with the most bitter and unreasonable prejudices.  So I just leave the matter where we must leave all important matters.

‘You’re asking about Mr. Nicholls. I hear he’s got a curacy, but I don't know where yet. I hope the news is true. He and Dad never talk. He seems to be living a lonely life. He has let recent events affect him so much that it has shut him off and darkened his expression with everyone, not just those close to him. He sits around in his rooms looking miserable. When Mr. Grant or any other clergyman comes to visit, thinking they can cheer him up, he hardly says a word. I find he shares nothing, doesn’t look for a confidant, and pushes away all attempts to understand him. I have to admit I respect him for that. He still lets Flossy visit him and takes him for walks. He still goes to see Mr. Sowden sometimes, and, poor guy, that’s about it. He looks unwell and unhappy. I think and pray that he will feel better once he can get away from Haworth. I feel incredibly sorry for him. We never see each other or talk, and I can’t even bring myself to look at him; silent pity is all I can offer, and since he doesn’t know about it, it doesn’t help. He has become so gloomy and withdrawn that nobody seems to like him. His fellow curates avoid him; the lower class dislikes him. Dad has a strong dislike for him, and I’m afraid he feels the same about Dad. Martha hates him. I think he could be nearly dying, and they still wouldn’t say a kind word to or about him. How much of this he deserves, I can’t say; he has certainly never been pleasant or friendly, and he's even less so now. Unfortunately, I don’t know him well enough to be certain whether there’s real truth and affection or just bitterness and disappointment behind his unhappiness. In this situation, I have to just be, and I am entirely passive. I may be losing the most precious thing life can offer—genuine affection—or I may be escaping the burden of a sour disposition. With this uncertainty, my conscience won’t let me act against Dad’s wishes, even if those wishes are mixed with harsh and unreasonable biases. So I’ll just leave it up to fate, like we must with all important matters.

‘Remember me kindly to all at Brookroyd, and—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Please send my best regards to everyone at Brookroyd, and—Sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 16th, 1853.

‘May 16th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—The east winds about which you inquire have spared me wonderfully till to-day, when I feel somewhat sick physically, and not very blithe mentally.  I am not sure that the east winds are entirely to blame for this ailment.  Yesterday was a strange sort of a day at church.  It seems as if I were to be punished for my doubts about the nature and truth of poor Mr. Nicholls’s regard.  Having ventured on Whit Sunday to stop the sacrament, I got a lesson not to be repeated.  He struggled, faltered, then lost command over himself—stood before my eyes and in the sight of all the communicants white, shaking, voiceless.  Papa was not there, thank God!  Joseph Redman spoke some words to him.  He made a great effort, but could only with difficulty whisper and falter through the service.  I suppose he thought this would be the last time; he goes either this week or the next.  I heard the women sobbing round, and I could not quite check my own tears.  What had happened was reported to papa either by Joseph Redman or John Brown; it excited only anger, and such expressions as “unmanly driveller.”  Compassion or relenting is no more to be looked for than sap from firewood.

'Dear Ellen,—The east winds you've asked about have treated me surprisingly well until today, when I feel a bit under the weather physically, and not very cheerful mentally. I’m not sure the east winds are entirely to blame for this discomfort. Yesterday was a peculiar day at church. It felt like I was being punished for my doubts about poor Mr. Nicholls’s feelings. After daring to interrupt the service on Whit Sunday, I learned a lesson I won’t forget. He struggled, hesitated, and then completely lost control—standing before me and all the communicants, pale, trembling, and silent. Thank God Papa wasn’t there! Joseph Redman said a few words to him. He put in a great effort but could only barely whisper and stammer through the service. I guess he thought it would be his last time; he’s leaving either this week or next. I heard the women crying around me, and I couldn’t help but shed a few tears myself. What happened was reported to Papa either by Joseph Redman or John Brown; it only sparked anger and comments like “unmanly driveller.” Compassion or forgiveness is as unlikely as getting sap from firewood.'

p. 480‘I never saw a battle more sternly fought with the feelings than Mr. Nicholls fights with his, and when he yields momentarily, you are almost sickened by the sense of the strain upon him.  However, he is to go, and I cannot speak to him or look at him or comfort him a whit, and I must submit.  Providence is over all, that is the only consolation.—Yours faithfully,

p. 480‘I’ve never seen someone fight with their feelings as fiercely as Mr. Nicholls does, and when he gives in even for a moment, you can really feel the intensity he's under. However, he has to leave, and I can’t talk to him, look at him, or comfort him at all, and I have to accept that. Providence is watching over everything; that’s the only comfort I have.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 19th, 1853.

‘May 19th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—I cannot help feeling a certain satisfaction in finding that the people here are getting up a subscription to offer a testimonial of respect to Mr. Nicholls on his leaving the place.  Many are expressing both their commiseration and esteem for him.  The Churchwardens recently put the question to him plainly: Why was he going?  Was it Mr. Brontë’s fault or his own?  “His own,” he answered.  Did he blame Mr. Brontë?  “No! he did not: if anybody was wrong it was himself.”  Was he willing to go?  “No! it gave him great pain.”  Yet he is not always right.  I must be just.  He shows a curious mixture of honour and obstinacy—feeling and sullenness.  Papa addressed him at the school tea-drinking, with constrained civility, but still with civility.  He did not reply civilly; he cut short further words.  This sort of treatment offered in public is what papa never will forget or forgive, it inspires him with a silent bitterness not to be expressed.  I am afraid both are unchristian in their mutual feelings.  Nor do I know which of them is least accessible to reason or least likely to forgive.  It is a dismal state of things.

Dear Ellen,—I can’t help feeling a certain satisfaction in finding that people here are organizing a collection to show their respect for Mr. Nicholls as he leaves. Many are expressing both sympathy and admiration for him. The Churchwardens recently asked him straight out: Why was he leaving? Was it Mr. Brontë’s fault or his own? “His own,” he replied. Did he blame Mr. Brontë? “No! If anyone is at fault, it’s himself.” Was he eager to leave? “No! It causes him great pain.” Yet he isn’t always right. I must be fair. He has a strange mix of honor and stubbornness—feeling and sulkiness. Papa spoke to him at the school tea gathering, with strained politeness, but still with politeness. He didn’t respond in kind; he cut off further conversation. This kind of public treatment is something Papa will never forget or forgive; it fills him with a silent bitterness that can’t be expressed. I’m afraid both of them are unchristian in their feelings towards each other. I don’t know which of them is less open to reason or more unlikely to forgive. It’s a gloomy situation.

‘The weather is fine now, dear Nell.  We will take these sunny days as a good omen for your visit to Yarmouth.  With kind regards to all at Brookroyd, and best wishes to yourself,—I am, yours sincerely,

‘The weather is nice now, dear Nell. We will take these sunny days as a good sign for your visit to Yarmouth. With warm regards to everyone at Brookroyd, and best wishes to you—I am, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, May 27th, 1853.

‘Haworth, May 27th, 1853.

‘Dear Ellen,—You will want to know about the leave-taking?  The whole matter is but a painful subject, but I must treat it p. 481briefly.  The testimonial was presented in a public meeting.  Mr. Taylor and Mr. Grant were there.  Papa was not very well and I advised him to stay away, which he did.  As to the last Sunday, it was a cruel struggle.  Mr. Nicholls ought not to have had to take any duty.

Dear Ellen,—You’ll want to know about the farewell? It’s a tough topic, but I have to address itp. 481briefly. The testimonial was given at a public meeting. Mr. Taylor and Mr. Grant were present. Dad wasn’t feeling well, so I suggested he stay home, which he did. As for last Sunday, it was a heartbreaking struggle. Mr. Nicholls shouldn’t have had to take on any duties.

‘He left Haworth this morning at six o’clock.  Yesterday evening he called to render into papa’s hands the deeds of the National School, and to say good-bye.  They were busy cleaning—washing the paint, etc., in the dining-room, so he did not find me there.  I would not go into the parlour to speak to him in papa’s presence.  He went out, thinking he was not to see me; and indeed, till the very last moment, I thought it best not.  But perceiving that he stayed long before going out at the gate, and remembering his long grief, I took courage and went out, trembling and miserable.  I found him leaning against the garden door in a paroxysm of anguish, sobbing as women never sob.  Of course I went straight to him.  Very few words were interchanged, those few barely articulate.  Several things I should have liked to ask him were swept entirely from my memory.  Poor fellow!  But he wanted such hope and such encouragement as I could not give him.  Still, I trust he must know now that I am not cruelly blind and indifferent to his constancy and grief.  For a few weeks he goes to the south of England, afterwards he takes a curacy somewhere in Yorkshire, but I don’t know where.

‘He left Haworth this morning at six o’clock. Yesterday evening, he came to hand over the deeds of the National School to Dad and to say goodbye. They were busy cleaning—washing the paint and all—in the dining room, so he didn’t find me there. I didn’t want to go into the parlor to talk to him in Dad’s presence. He left, thinking he wouldn’t get to see me; and honestly, until the very last moment, I thought it was best not to. But noticing that he lingered at the gate before leaving, and remembering his long suffering, I gathered my courage and stepped outside, feeling shaky and miserable. I found him leaning against the garden door in a fit of despair, sobbing harder than a woman ever would. Naturally, I went straight to him. Very few words were exchanged, those few barely understandable. There were several things I wanted to ask him, but they completely slipped my mind. Poor guy! But he needed hope and encouragement that I couldn’t offer him. Still, I hope he knows now that I'm not cruelly blind or indifferent to his loyalty and pain. For a few weeks, he’s going to the south of England; afterward, he’ll take a curacy somewhere in Yorkshire, but I don’t know where.

‘Papa has been far from strong lately.  I dare not mention Mr. Nicholls’s name to him.  He speaks of him quietly and without opprobrium to others, but to me he is implacable on the matter.  However, he is gone—gone, and there’s an end of it.  I see no chance of hearing a word about him in future, unless some stray shred of intelligence comes through Mr. Sowden or some other second-hand source.  In all this it is not I who am to be pitied at all, and of course nobody pities me.  They all think in Haworth that I have disdainfully refused him.  If pity would do Mr. Nicholls any good, he ought to have, and I believe has it.  They may abuse me if they will; whether they do or not I can’t tell.

‘Dad hasn’t been very strong lately. I can’t mention Mr. Nicholls’s name to him. He talks about him calmly and without anger to others, but with me, he’s completely unforgiving on the subject. Anyway, he’s gone—gone, and that’s that. I don’t see any chance of hearing a word about him in the future unless some random bit of news trickles in through Mr. Sowden or some other second-hand source. In all this, I’m not the one who deserves pity at all, and of course, no one pities me. They all think in Haworth that I’ve turned him down with disdain. If pity could help Mr. Nicholls, he should get some, and I believe he does. They can criticize me if they want; I can’t tell whether they do or not.

p. 482‘Write soon and say how your prospects proceed.  I trust they will daily brighten.—Yours faithfully,

p. 482‘Write soon and let me know how your plans are going. I hope they improve every day.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT

‘Haworth, March 18th, 1854.

‘Haworth, March 18th, 1854.

‘My dear Lætitia,—I was very glad to see your handwriting again; it is, I believe, a year since I heard from you.  Again and again you have recurred to my thoughts lately, and I was beginning to have some sad presages as to the cause of your silence.  Your letter happily does away with all these; it brings, on the whole, good tidings both of your papa, mamma, your sister, and, last but not least, your dear respected English self.

My dear Lætitia,—I was really happy to see your handwriting again; it’s been about a year since I heard from you. You've been on my mind a lot lately, and I was starting to worry about why you hadn’t written. Thankfully, your letter clears all that up; it brings mostly good news about your dad, your mom, your sister, and, last but not least, you, my dear respected English friend.

‘My dear father has borne the severe winter very well, a circumstance for which I feel the more thankful, as he had many weeks of very precarious health last summer, following an attack from which he suffered last June, and which for a few hours deprived him totally of sight, though neither his mind, speech, nor even his powers of motion were in the least affected.  I can hardly tell you how thankful I was, dear Lætitia, when, after that dreary and almost despairing interval of utter darkness, some gleam of daylight became visible to him once more.  I had feared that paralysis had seized the optic nerve.  A sort of mist remained for a long time, and indeed his vision is not yet perfectly clear, but he can read, write, and walk about, and he preaches twice every Sunday, the curate only reading the prayers.  You can well understand how earnestly I pray that sight may be spared him to the end; he so dreads the privation of blindness.  His mind is just as strong and active as ever, and politics interest him as they do your papa.  The Czar, the war, the alliance between France and England—into all these things he throws himself heart and soul.  They seem to carry him back to his comparatively young days, and to renew the excitement of the last great European struggle.  Of course, my father’s sympathies, and mine too, are all with justice and Europe against tyranny and Russia.

‘My dear father has handled the harsh winter really well, which I'm especially grateful for, as he had several weeks of poor health last summer after an attack last June that completely took away his sight for a few hours, although his mind, speech, and even his ability to move were not affected at all. I can hardly express how thankful I was, dear Lætitia, when, after that bleak and almost hopeless period of total darkness, he started to see a little bit of light again. I had feared that paralysis had taken hold of his optic nerve. A kind of fog lingered for a long time, and his vision still isn’t completely clear, but he can read, write, and walk around, and he preaches twice every Sunday, with the curate only reading the prayers. You can easily imagine how earnestly I pray that he keeps his sight until the end; he fears losing it so much. His mind remains as sharp and active as ever, and he’s just as interested in politics as your dad. The Czar, the war, the alliance between France and England—he dives into all of these issues wholeheartedly. They seem to bring him back to his comparatively younger days and rekindle the excitement of the last major European conflict. Naturally, my father’s sympathies, and mine too, are fully with justice and Europe against tyranny and Russia.

‘Circumstanced as I have been, you will comprehend that I p. 483had neither the leisure nor inclination to go from home much during the past year.  I spent a week with Mrs. Gaskell in the spring, and a fortnight with some other friends more recently, and that includes the whole of my visiting since I saw you last.  My life is indeed very uniform and retired, more so than is quite healthful either for mind or body; yet I feel reason for often renewed feelings of gratitude in the sort of support which still comes and cheers me from time to time.  My health, though not unbroken, is, I sometimes fancy, rather stronger on the whole than it was three years ago; headache and dyspepsia are my worst ailments.  Whether I shall come up to town this season for a few days I do not yet know; but if I do I shall hope to call in Phillimore Place.  With kindest remembrances to your papa, mamma, and sisters,—I am, dear Lætitia, affectionately yours,

‘Given my circumstances, you can understand that I p. 483have not had the time or desire to go out much over the past year. I spent a week with Mrs. Gaskell in the spring, and a fortnight with some other friends more recently, and that sums up all my visiting since I last saw you. My life has been very consistent and quiet, probably more than is healthy for my mind or body; yet I feel a continuous sense of gratitude for the support that still comes and lifts my spirits from time to time. My health, although not perfect, seems to be overall a bit stronger than it was three years ago; headaches and indigestion are my main issues. Whether I will come to town this season for a few days is still uncertain; but if I do, I will definitely hope to stop by your place on Phillimore Place. Please send my warmest regards to your dad, mom, and sisters—yours affectionately, dear Lætitia.

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, March 28th, 1854.

‘Haworth, March 28th, 1854.

‘My dear Ellen,—The inclosure in yours of yesterday puzzled me at first, for I did not immediately recognise my own hand-writing; when I did, the sensation was one of consternation and vexation, as the letter ought by all means to have gone on Friday.  It was intended to relieve him of great anxiety.  However, I trust he will get it to-day; and on the whole, when I think it over, I can only be thankful that the mistake was no worse, and did not throw the letter into the hands of some p. 484indifferent and unscrupulous person.  I wrote it after some days of indisposition and uneasiness, and when I felt weak and unfit to write.  While writing to him, I was at the same time intending to answer your note, which I suppose accounts for the confusion of ideas, shown in the mixed and blundering address.

My dear Ellen,—The letter you enclosed yesterday puzzled me initially since I didn’t recognize my own handwriting right away. When I finally did, I felt a mix of panic and frustration because it should have definitely been sent on Friday to ease his considerable anxiety. I hope he gets it today; and overall, when I think about it, I’m just grateful that the mistake wasn’t worse and that it didn’t end up with someone indifferent and unscrupulous. I wrote it after several days of feeling unwell and uneasy, when I was weak and not up for writing. While I was writing to him, I was also planning to respond to your note, which explains the confused ideas in the mixed-up and awkward address.

‘I wish you could come about Easter rather than at another time, for this reason: Mr. Nicholls, if not prevented, proposes coming over then.  I suppose he will stay at Mr. Grant’s, as he has done two or three times before, but he will be frequently coming here, which would enliven your visit a little.  Perhaps, too, he might take a walk with us occasionally.  Altogether it would be a little change, such as, you know, I could not always offer.

‘I wish you could visit around Easter instead of another time, and here’s why: Mr. Nicholls is planning to come then, unless something changes. I think he’ll stay at Mr. Grant’s like he has a couple of times before, but he’ll be visiting here often, which would make your visit a bit more lively. Maybe he could even join us for a walk now and then. Overall, it would be a nice change, which, as you know, I can’t always provide.’

‘If all be well he will come under different circumstances to any that have attended his visits before; were it otherwise, I should not ask you to meet him, for when aspects are gloomy and unpropitious, the fewer there are to suffer from the cloud the better.

‘If everything goes well, he will come under different circumstances than those he’s experienced during previous visits; otherwise, I wouldn’t ask you to meet him, because when things seem gloomy and unfavorable, it's better for fewer people to be affected by the negativity.’

‘He was here in January and was then received, but not pleasantly.  I trust it will be a little different now.

‘He was here in January and was received, but not warmly. I hope it will be a bit different this time.

‘Papa breakfasts in bed and has not yet risen; his bronchitis is still troublesome.  I had a bad week last week, but am greatly better now, for my mind is a little relieved, though very sedate, and rising only to expectations the most moderate.

‘Dad is having breakfast in bed and hasn’t gotten up yet; his bronchitis is still troubling him. I had a rough week last week, but I’m feeling much better now, as my mind is a bit more at ease, though still quite calm, and only lifting to the most modest expectations.

‘Sometime, perhaps in May, I may hope to come to Brookroyd, but, as you will understand from what I have now stated, I could not come before.

‘Sometime, maybe in May, I hope to come to Brookroyd, but as you can see from what I’ve just said, I couldn’t come before.

‘Think it over, dear Nell, and come to Haworth if you can.  Write as soon as you can decide.—Yours affectionately,

‘Think it over, dear Nell, and come to Haworth if you can. Write as soon as you can decide.—Yours affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 1st, 1854.

‘April 1st, 1854.

‘My dear Ellen,—You certainly were right in your second interpretation of my note.  I am too well aware of the dulness of Haworth for any visitor, not to be glad to avail myself of the chance of offering even a slight change.  But this morning my p. 485little plans have been disarranged by an intimation that Mr. Nicholls is coming on Monday.  I thought to put him off, but have not succeeded.  As Easter now consequently seems an unfavourable period both from your point of view and mine, we will adjourn it till a better opportunity offers.  Meantime, I thank you, dear Ellen, for your kind offer to come in case I wanted you.  Papa is still very far from well: his cough very troublesome, and a good deal of inflammatory action in the chest.  To-day he seems somewhat better than yesterday, and I earnestly hope the improvement may continue.

My dear Ellen,—You were right about your second interpretation of my note. I know how dull Haworth can be for any visitor, so I was glad to take the opportunity to offer even a little change. But this morning my plans got disrupted because I found out that Mr. Nicholls is coming on Monday. I thought about postponing him, but I couldn’t. Since Easter now feels like a bad time for both of us, let's put it off until a better opportunity arises. In the meantime, thank you, dear Ellen, for your kind offer to come if I needed you. Papa is still very unwell: his cough is quite bothersome, and there’s a lot of inflammation in his chest. Today he seems somewhat better than yesterday, and I'm really hoping the improvement will last.

‘With kind regards to your mother and all at Brookroyd,—I am, dear Ellen, yours affectionately,

‘With warm regards to your mother and everyone at Brookroyd,—I am, dear Ellen, yours affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, April 11th, 1854.

‘Haworth, April 11th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—Thank you for the collar; it is very pretty, and I will wear it for the sake of her who made and gave it.

Dear Ellen,—Thank you for the collar; it's really pretty, and I will wear it in honor of the person who made and gave it.

‘Mr. Nicholls came on Monday, and was here all last week.  Matters have progressed thus since July.  He renewed his visit in September, but then matters so fell out that I saw little of him.  He continued to write.  The correspondence pressed on my mind.  I grew very miserable in keeping it from papa.  At last sheer pain made me gather courage to break it.  I told all.  It was very hard and rough work at the time, but the issue after a few days was that I obtained leave to continue the communication.  Mr. Nicholls came in January; he was ten days in the neighbourhood.  I saw much of him.  I had stipulated with papa for opportunity to become better acquainted.  I had it, and all I learnt inclined me to esteem and affection.  Still papa was very, very hostile, bitterly unjust.

‘Mr. Nicholls came over on Monday and was here all last week. Things have progressed like this since July. He visited again in September, but then circumstances changed, and I saw little of him. He kept writing. The correspondence weighed heavily on my mind. I felt really miserable keeping it from Dad. Finally, sheer pain gave me the courage to speak up. I told him everything. It was tough and emotional at the time, but after a few days, I got permission to continue the communication. Mr. Nicholls came in January; he spent ten days in the area. I saw a lot of him. I had asked Dad for the chance to get to know him better. I got it, and everything I learned made me feel esteem and affection for him. Still, Dad was very, very hostile and unfairly harsh.’

‘I told Mr. Nicholls the great obstacle that lay in his way.  He has persevered.  The result of this, his last visit, is, that papa’s consent is gained, that his respect, I believe, is won, for Mr. Nicholls has in all things proved himself disinterested and forbearing.  Certainly, I must respect him, nor can I withhold from him more than mere cool respect.  In fact, dear Ellen, I am engaged.

‘I told Mr. Nicholls about the significant obstacle he faced. He has kept trying. As a result of his latest visit, Papa has given his consent, and I believe he has earned his respect because Mr. Nicholls has shown himself to be selfless and patient in everything. I definitely have to respect him, and I can't just treat him with cold indifference. In fact, dear Ellen, I’m engaged.

p. 486‘Mr. Nicholls, in the course of a few months, will return to the curacy of Haworth.  I stipulated that I would not leave papa; and to papa himself I proposed a plan of residence which should maintain his seclusion and convenience uninvaded, and in a pecuniary sense bring him gain instead of loss.  What seemed at one time impossible is now arranged, and papa begins really to take a pleasure in the prospect.

p. 486‘Mr. Nicholls will be back at the Haworth parish in a few months. I made it clear that I wouldn't leave Dad; and I suggested a living arrangement that would keep his privacy and comfort intact while also providing him with financial benefit instead of a loss. What once seemed impossible is now sorted out, and Dad is starting to genuinely look forward to it.

‘For myself, dear Ellen, while thankful to One who seems to have guided me through much difficulty, much and deep distress and perplexity of mind, I am still very calm, very inexpectant.  What I taste of happiness is of the soberest order.  I trust to love my husband.  I am grateful for his tender love to me.  I believe him to be an affectionate, a conscientious, a high-principled man; and if, with all this, I should yield to regrets that fine talents, congenial tastes and thoughts are not added, it seems to me I should be most presumptuous and thankless.

'For my part, dear Ellen, while I'm grateful to the one who seems to have helped me through a lot of difficulties and deep feelings of distress and confusion, I still feel very calm and not expecting much. The happiness I experience is very grounded. I trust that I will love my husband. I'm thankful for his caring love for me. I believe he is a loving, responsible, and principled man; and if, despite all of this, I were to regret that he doesn't share certain talents or interests with me, it seems to me that I would be incredibly ungrateful and presumptuous.'

‘Providence offers me this destiny.  Doubtless, then, it is the best for me.  Nor do I shrink from wishing those dear to me one not less happy.

‘Fate has given me this path. Surely, it’s the best for me. And I don’t hesitate to wish for those I care about to have one just as happy.’

‘It is possible that our marriage may take place in the course of the summer.  Mr. Nicholls wishes it to be in July.  He spoke of you with great kindness, and said he hoped you would be at our wedding.  I said I thought of having no other bridesmaid.  Did I say rightly?  I mean the marriage to be literally as quiet as possible.

‘It's possible that our wedding will happen this summer. Mr. Nicholls wants it to be in July. He spoke very kindly of you and said he hopes you'll be at our wedding. I mentioned that I don't plan to have any other bridesmaid. Did I say that right? I want the wedding to be as low-key as possible.

‘Do not mention these things just yet.  I mean to write to Miss Wooler shortly.  Good-bye.  There is a strange half-sad feeling in making these announcements.  The whole thing is something other than imagination paints it beforehand; cares, fears, come mixed inextricably with hopes.  I trust yet to talk the matter over with you.  Often last week I wished for your presence and said so to Mr. Nicholls—Arthur, as I now call him, but he said it was the only time and place when he could not have wished to see you.  Good-bye.—Yours affectionately,

‘Don’t mention these things just yet. I’m planning to write to Miss Wooler soon. Goodbye. There’s a strange, kind of sad feeling in making these announcements. The whole situation is different from how I imagined it beforehand; worries and fears get tangled up with hopes. I still hope to discuss this with you. Often last week I wished you were here and told Mr. Nicholls—Arthur, as I now call him—but he said it was the one time and place when he wouldn’t have wanted to see you. Goodbye.—Yours affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

p. 487TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

p. 487TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 15th, 1854.

‘April 15th, 1854.

‘My own dear Nell,—I hope to see you somewhere about the second week in May.

My own dear Nell,—I hope to see you around the second week in May.

‘The Manchester visit is still hanging over my head.  I have deferred it, and deferred it, but have finally promised to go about the beginning of next month.  I shall only stay three days, then I spend two or three days at Hunsworth, then come to Brookroyd.  The three visits must be compressed into the space of a fortnight, if possible.

‘The Manchester visit is still looming. I’ve postponed it and postponed it, but I’ve finally promised to go at the beginning of next month. I’ll stay for three days, then spend two or three days at Hunsworth, and finally come to Brookroyd. I need to fit all three visits into two weeks, if possible.

‘I suppose I shall have to go to Leeds.  My purchases cannot be either expensive or extensive.  You must just resolve in your head the bonnets and dresses; something that can be turned to decent use and worn after the wedding-day will be best, I think.

‘I guess I’ll have to head to Leeds. My shopping can’t be too pricey or too much. You just need to decide about the hats and dresses in your mind; something practical that can be used well and worn after the wedding day will be best, I think.

‘I wrote immediately to Miss Wooler and received a truly kind letter from her this morning.  If you think she would like to come to the marriage I will not fail to ask her.

‘I wrote to Miss Wooler immediately and received a really nice letter from her this morning. If you think she would want to come to the wedding, I’ll be sure to ask her.

‘Papa’s mind seems wholly changed about the matter, and he has said both to me and when I was not there, how much happier he feels since he allowed all to be settled.  It is a wonderful relief for me to hear him treat the thing rationally, to talk over with him themes on which once I dared not touch.  He is rather anxious things should get forward now, and takes quite an interest in the arrangement of preliminaries.  His health improves daily, though this east wind still keeps up a slight irritation in the throat and chest.

‘Dad's mindset seems completely different about this now, and he’s mentioned to me, and even when I wasn't around, how much happier he feels since everything got resolved. It’s such a relief for me to hear him discuss this rationally, to talk about subjects I once didn’t dare to bring up. He’s quite eager for things to progress now and is really interested in organizing the details. His health is improving every day, though this east wind still causes some irritation in his throat and chest.

‘The feeling which had been disappointed in papa was ambition, paternal pride—ever a restless feeling, as we all know.  Now that this unquiet spirit is exorcised, justice, which was once quite forgotten, is once more listened to, and affection, I hope, resumes some power.

‘The feeling that had been let down by Dad was ambition, paternal pride—always a restless feeling, as we all know. Now that this uneasy spirit is gone, justice, which was once completely ignored, is being heard again, and affection, I hope, regains some strength.

‘My hope is that in the end this arrangement will turn out more truly to papa’s advantage than any other it was in my power to achieve.  Mr. Nicholls in his last letter refers touchingly to his earnest desire to prove his gratitude to papa, by offering support and consolation to his declining age.  This will p. 488not be mere talk with him—he is no talker, no dealer in professions.—Yours affectionately,

‘My hope is that in the end this arrangement will be more beneficial to Dad than any other option I could manage. Mr. Nicholls, in his last letter, expressed a sincere desire to show his gratitude to Dad by providing support and comfort in his later years. This won’t just be empty words for him—he’s not one for talk, nor does he make empty promises.—Yours affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘April 28th, 1854.

‘April 28th, 1854.

‘My dear Ellen,—I have delayed writing till I could give you some clear notion of my movements.  If all be well, I go to Manchester on the 1st of May.  Thence, on Thursday, to Hunsworth till Monday, when (D.V.) I come to Brookroyd.  I must be at home by the close of the week.  Papa, thank God! continues to improve much.  He preached twice on Sunday and again on Wednesday, and was not tired; his mind and mood are different to what they were, so much more cheerful and quiet.  I trust the illusions of ambition are quite dissipated, and that he really sees it is better to relieve a suffering and faithful heart, to secure its fidelity, a solid good, than unfeelingly to abandon one who is truly attached to his interest as well as mine, and pursue some vain empty shadow.

My dear Ellen,—I've put off writing until I could give you a clear idea of my plans. If all goes well, I’ll be heading to Manchester on May 1st. Then, on Thursday, I’ll be in Hunsworth until Monday, when (God willing) I’ll come to Brookroyd. I need to be back home by the end of the week. Thank God, Papa continues to improve a lot. He preached twice on Sunday and again on Wednesday, and he wasn’t tired; his mind and mood are so much better now—much more cheerful and calm. I hope the illusions of ambition have faded, and that he really understands it’s better to support a suffering and loyal heart to secure its loyalty—a real good—rather than coldly abandon someone who genuinely cares about him as well as me, just to chase some empty dream.

‘I thank you, dear Ellen, for your kind invitation to Mr. Nicholls.  He was asked likewise to Manchester and Hunsworth.  I would not have opposed his coming had there been no real obstacle to the arrangement—certain little awkwardnesses of feeling I would have tried to get over for the sake of introducing him to old friends; but it so happens that he cannot leave on account of his rector’s absence.  Mr. C. will be in town with his family till June, and he always stipulates that his curate shall remain at Kirk-Smeaton while he is away.

“I appreciate your kind invitation to Mr. Nicholls, dear Ellen. He was also invited to Manchester and Hunsworth. I wouldn’t have opposed his coming if there hadn’t been a real obstacle—some minor awkward feelings I would have tried to overcome to introduce him to old friends; but it turns out he can’t leave because his rector is away. Mr. C. will be in town with his family until June, and he always insists that his curate stays at Kirk-Smeaton while he’s gone.”

‘How did you get on at the Oratorio?  And what did Miss Wooler say to the proposal of being at the wedding?  I have many points to discuss when I see you.  I hope your mother and all are well.  With kind remembrances to them, and true love to you,—I am, dear Nell, faithfully yours,

‘How did you do at the Oratorio? And what did Miss Wooler say about the idea of being at the wedding? I have a lot to talk about when I see you. I hope your mom and everyone are doing well. Please send my best to them, and lots of love to you,—I am, dear Nell, faithfully yours,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘When you write, address me at Mrs. Gaskell’s, Plymouth Grove, Manchester.’

‘When you write, please send it to me at Mrs. Gaskell’s, Plymouth Grove, Manchester.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘May 22nd, 1854.

‘May 22nd, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—I wonder how you are, and whether that p. 489harassing cough is better.  Be scrupulously cautious about undue exposure.  Just now, dear Ellen, an hour’s inadvertence might cause you to be really ill.  So once again, take care.  Since I came home I have been very busy stitching.  The little new room is got into order, and the green and white curtains are up; they exactly suit the papering, and look neat and clean enough.  I had a letter a day or two since announcing that Mr. Nicholls comes to-morrow.  I feel anxious about him, more anxious on one point than I dare quite express to myself.  It seems he has again been suffering sharply from his rheumatic affection.  I hear this not from himself, but from another quarter.  He was ill while I was at Manchester and Brookroyd.  He uttered no complaint to me, dropped no hint on the subject.  Alas! he was hoping he had got the better of it, and I know how this contradiction of his hopes will sadden him.  For unselfish reasons he did so earnestly wish this complaint might not become chronic.  I fear, I fear.  But, however, I mean to stand by him now, whether in weal or woe.  This liability to rheumatic pain was one of the strong arguments used against the marriage.  It did not weigh somehow.  If he is doomed to suffer, it seems that so much the more will he need care and help.  And yet the ultimate possibilities of such a case are appalling.  You remember your aunt.  Well, come what may, God help and strengthen both him and me.  I look forward to to-morrow with a mixture of impatience and anxiety.  Poor fellow! I want to see with my own eyes how he is.

Dear Ellen,—I wonder how you are and whether that p. 489persistent cough has gotten any better. Please be extremely careful about being out too long. Right now, dear Ellen, just a little time out could make you seriously ill. So, once again, take care. Since I got home, I've been really busy sewing. The little new room is set up, and the green and white curtains are up; they match the wallpaper perfectly and look nice and clean. I got a letter a day or two ago saying that Mr. Nicholls is coming tomorrow. I'm worried about him, especially about one thing I can’t quite bring myself to say. It seems he has been struggling again with his rheumatic pain. I heard this not from him, but from someone else. He was unwell while I was in Manchester and Brookroyd. He didn’t complain to me or drop any hints about it. Unfortunately, he was hoping he had gotten over it, and I know how disappointing this news will be for him. He really wanted this issue not to become long-term for unselfish reasons. I’m concerned, I really am. But I plan to support him now, whether the outcome is good or bad. This risk of rheumatic pain was one of the main reasons people were against the marriage. It didn’t seem to matter. If he’s meant to suffer, it seems he will need even more care and help. And yet the potential outcomes of such a situation are terrifying. You remember your aunt. Well, no matter what happens, may God help and strengthen both him and me. I’m looking forward to tomorrow with a mix of eagerness and worry. Poor guy! I really want to see for myself how he is doing.

‘It is getting late and dark.  Write soon, dear Ellen.  Goodnight and God bless you.—Yours affectionately,

‘It’s getting late and dark. Write soon, dear Ellen. Goodnight and God bless you.—Yours affectionately,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, May 27th, 1854.

‘Haworth, May 27th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—Your letter was very welcome, and I am glad and thankful to learn you are better.  Still, beware of presuming on the improvement—don’t let it make you careless.  Mr. Nicholls has just left me.  Your hopes were not ill-founded about his illness.  At first I was thoroughly frightened.  However, inquiring gradually relieved me.  In short, I soon p. 490discovered that my business was, instead of sympathy, to rate soundly.  The patient had wholesome treatment while he was at Haworth, and went away singularly better; perfectly unreasonable, however, on some points, as his fallible sex are not ashamed to be.

Dear Ellen,—Your letter was very welcome, and I'm glad to hear you're feeling better. Still, be careful not to take that improvement for granted—don't let it make you careless. Mr. Nicholls just left me. Your hopes about his illness were not misplaced. At first, I was really scared. However, as I asked more questions, I started to feel better. In short, I quickly realized that my job was to evaluate rather than just show sympathy. The patient received good treatment while he was at Haworth and left significantly better; though, he was being quite unreasonable about some things, as men often are.

‘Man is, indeed, an amazing piece of mechanism when you see, so to speak, the full weakness of what he calls his strength.  There is not a female child above the age of eight but might rebuke him for spoilt petulance of his wilful nonsense.  I bought a border for the table-cloth and have put it on.

‘Man is truly an incredible machine when you consider how weak he is despite what he calls his strength. Any girl over the age of eight could scold him for his spoiled, childish behavior. I bought a border for the tablecloth and have put it on.

‘Good-bye, dear Ellen.  Write again soon, and mind and give a bulletin.—Yours faithfully,

‘Goodbye, dear Ellen. Write back soon, and make sure to give an update.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.’

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘June 12th, 1854.

‘June 12th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—Papa preached twice to-day as well and as strongly as ever.  It is strange how he varies, how soon he is depressed and how soon revived.  It makes me feel so thankful when he is better.  I am thankful too that you are stronger, dear Nell.  My worthy acquaintance at Kirk-Smeaton refuses to acknowledge himself better yet.  I am uneasy about not writing to Miss Wooler.  I fear she will think me negligent, while I am only busy and bothered.  I want to clear up my needlework a little, and have been sewing against time since I was at Brookroyd.  Mr. Nicholls hindered me for a full week.

Dear Ellen,—Dad preached twice today, just as well and powerfully as ever. It’s odd how he changes, how quickly he gets down and how quickly he bounces back. I feel so grateful when he’s feeling better. I’m also thankful that you’re feeling stronger, dear Nell. My good friend at Kirk-Smeaton still refuses to admit he’s doing better. I'm worried about not writing to Miss Wooler. I fear she’ll think I’m neglecting her when I’m really just busy and stressed. I want to tidy up my sewing a bit, and I’ve been working against the clock since I was at Brookroyd. Mr. Nicholls held me back for a whole week.

‘I like the card very well, but not the envelope.  I should like a perfectly plain envelope with a silver initial.

‘I really like the card, but not the envelope. I would prefer a completely plain envelope with a silver initial.’

‘I got my dresses from Halifax a day or two since, but have not had time to have them unpacked, so I don’t know what they are like.

‘I got my dresses from Halifax a day or two ago, but I haven't had time to unpack them, so I don't know what they are like.

‘Next time I write, I hope to be able to give you clear information, and to beg you to come here without further delay.  Good-bye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘Next time I write, I hope to give you clear information and urge you to come here without any further delay. Goodbye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. Brontë.

‘C. Brontë.

‘I had almost forgotten to mention about the envelopes.  Mr. Nicholls says I have ordered far too few; he thinks sixty will be wanted.  Is it too late to remedy this error?  There is p. 491no end to his string of parson friends.  My own list I have not made out.’

‘I had almost forgotten to mention the envelopes. Mr. Nicholls says I’ve ordered way too few; he thinks I’ll need sixty. Is it too late to fix this mistake? There are p. 491no end to the number of clergymen he knows. I haven’t even made my own list yet.’

SEND CARDS TO

SEND CARDS TO

The Rev. W. Morgan, Rectory, Hulcott, Aylesbury, Bucks.  Joseph Branwell, Esq., Thamar Terrace, Launceston. Cornwall.

The Rev. W. Morgan, Rectory, Hulcott, Aylesbury, Bucks. Joseph Branwell, Esq., Thamar Terrace, Launceston, Cornwall.

Dr. Wheelwright, 29 Phillimore Place, Kensington, London.

Dr. Wheelwright, 29 Phillimore Place, Kensington, London.

George Smith, Esq., 65 Cornhill, London.

George Smith, Esq., 65 Cornhill, London.

Mrs. and Misses Smith, 65 Cornhill, London.

Mrs. and Misses Smith, 65 Cornhill, London.

W. S. Williams, Esq., 65 Cornhill, London.

W. S. Williams, Esq., 65 Cornhill, London.

R. Monckton Milnes, Esq.

R. Monckton Milnes, Esq.

Mrs. Gaskell, Plymouth Grove, Manchester.

Mrs. Gaskell, Plymouth Grove, Manchester.

Francis Bennoch, Esq., Park, Blackheath, London.

Francis Bennoch, Esq., Park, Blackheath, London.

George Taylor, Esq., Stanbury.

George Taylor, Esq., Stanbury.

Mrs. and Miss Taylor.

Mrs. and Miss Taylor.

H. Merrall, Esq., Lea Sykes, Haworth.

H. Merrall, Esq., Lea Sykes, Haworth.

E. Merrall, Esq., Ebor House, Haworth.

E. Merrall, Esq., Ebor House, Haworth.

R. Butterfield, Esq., Woodlands, Haworth.

R. Butterfield, Esq., Woodlands, Haworth.

R. Thomas, Esq., Haworth.

R. Thomas, Esq., Haworth.

J. Pickles, Esq., Brow Top, Haworth.

J. Pickles, Esq., Brow Top, Haworth.

Wooler Family.

Wooler Family.

Brookroyd. [491]

Brookroyd. [491]

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Thursday Evening.

‘Thursday Evening.

‘Dear Ellen,—I scribble one hasty line just to say that after a pleasant enough journey we have got safely to Conway; the evening is wet and wild, though the day was fair chiefly, with some gleams of sunshine.  However, we are sheltered in a comfortable inn.  My cold is not worse.  If you get this scrawl to-morrow and write by return, direct to me at the post-office, Bangor, and I may get it on Monday.  Say how you and Miss p. 492Wooler got home.  Give my kindest and most grateful love to Miss Wooler whenever you write.  On Monday, I think, we cross the Channel.  No more at present.—Yours faithfully and lovingly,

Dear Ellen,—I’m writing you a quick note to let you know we arrived safely in Conway after a pretty nice trip. The evening is rainy and wild, but the day was mostly nice with some sunshine. We’re cozy in a comfortable inn. My cold isn't any worse. If you get this message tomorrow and write back, address it to me at the post office in Bangor, and I should receive it on Monday. Let me know how you and Miss Wooler made it home. Please send my warmest and heartfelt love to Miss Wooler whenever you write. I think we’re crossing the Channel on Monday. That’s all for now.—Yours faithfully and affectionately,

‘C. B. N.’

‘C. B. N.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, August 9th, 1854.

‘Haworth, August 9th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—I earnestly hope you are by yourself now, and relieved from the fag of entertaining guests.  You do not complain, but I am afraid you have had too much of it.

‘Dear Ellen,—I sincerely hope you’re finally alone and free from the exhaustion of hosting guests. You don’t say anything, but I’m worried you’ve had more than enough of it.

‘Since I came home I have not had an unemployed moment.  My life is changed indeed: to be wanted continually, to be constantly called for and occupied seems so strange; yet it is a marvellously good thing.  As yet I don’t quite understand how some wives grow so selfish.  As far as my experience of matrimony goes, I think it tends to draw you out of, and away from yourself.

‘Since I got home, I haven’t had a single free moment. My life has really changed: being needed all the time, constantly being sought after and busy feels so strange; yet it’s incredibly good. I still don’t fully understand how some wives become so selfish. From what I’ve experienced in marriage, I think it tends to pull you out of yourself and away from who you are.’

‘We have had sundry callers this week.  Yesterday Mr. Sowden and another gentleman dined here, and Mr. and Mrs. Grant joined them at tea.

‘We’ve had various visitors this week. Yesterday, Mr. Sowden and another gentleman had dinner here, and Mr. and Mrs. Grant joined them for tea.

‘I do not think we shall go to Brookroyd soon, on papa’s account.  I do not wish again to leave home for a time, but I trust you will ere long come here.

‘I don’t think we’ll be going to Brookroyd anytime soon, for dad’s sake. I don’t want to leave home again for a while, but I hope you’ll come here soon.’

‘I really like Mr. Sowden very well.  He asked after you.  Mr. Nicholls told him we expected you would be coming to stay with us in the course of three or four weeks, and that he should then invite him over again as he wished us to take sundry rather long walks, and as he should have his wife to look after, and she was trouble enough, it would be quite necessary to have a guardian for the other lady.  Mr. Sowden seemed perfectly acquiescent.

‘I really like Mr. Sowden a lot. He asked about you. Mr. Nicholls told him we expected you would be coming to stay with us in about three or four weeks, and that he should invite him over again since he wanted us to take some nice long walks. Plus, he would need to look after his wife, who was quite a handful, so it would be important to have someone to look after the other lady. Mr. Sowden seemed completely on board with that.

‘Dear Nell, during the last six weeks, the colour of my thoughts is a good deal changed: I know more of the realities of life than I once did.  I think many false ideas are propagated, perhaps unintentionally.  I think those married women who indiscriminately urge their acquaintance to marry, much to blame.  For my part, I can only say with deeper sincerity and p. 493fuller significance what I always said in theory, “Wait God’s will.”  Indeed, indeed, Nell, it is a solemn and strange and perilous thing for a woman to become a wife.  Man’s lot is far, far different.  Tell me when you think you can come.  Papa is better, but not well.  How is your mother? give my love to her.—Yours faithfully,

‘Dear Nell, over the past six weeks, my thoughts have changed a lot: I understand more about the realities of life than I used to. I believe many misconceptions are spread, possibly without meaning to. I think those married women who push their friends to marry are quite to blame. For me, I can only say with deeper sincerity and p. 493 fuller significance what I've always said in theory, “Wait for God's will.” Indeed, Nell, it’s a serious, strange, and risky thing for a woman to become a wife. A man's situation is very, very different. Let me know when you think you can come. Dad is better, but still not well. How is your mother? Please give her my love.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.

‘C. B. Nicholls.

‘Have I told you how much better Mr. Nicholls is?  He looks quite strong and hale; he gained 12 lbs. during the four weeks we were in Ireland.  To see this improvement in him has been a main source of happiness to me, and to speak truth, a subject of wonder too.’

‘Have I mentioned how much better Mr. Nicholls is? He looks really strong and healthy; he gained 12 lbs. during the four weeks we were in Ireland. Seeing this improvement in him has been a huge source of happiness for me, and honestly, it’s been pretty amazing too.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, August 29th.

‘Haworth, August 29th.

‘Dear Ellen,—Can you come here on Wednesday week (Sept.  6th)?  Try to arrange matters to do so if possible, for it will be better than to delay your visit till the days grow cold and short.  I want to see you again, dear Nell, and my husband too will receive you with pleasure; and he is not diffuse of his courtesies or partialities, I can assure you.  One friendly word from him means as much as twenty from most people.

Dear Ellen,—Can you come here on Wednesday next (Sept. 6th)? Please try to make it work, as it would be better than postponing your visit until the days are colder and shorter. I really want to see you again, dear Nell, and my husband will be happy to see you too; he’s not one to overly express his hospitality or favorites, I promise you. A single kind word from him carries as much weight as twenty from most people.

‘We have been busy lately giving a supper and tea-drinking to the singers, ringers, Sunday-school teachers, and all the scholars of the Sunday and National Schools, amounting in all to some 500 souls.  It gave satisfaction and went off well.

‘We have been busy lately hosting a dinner and tea for the singers, bell ringers, Sunday school teachers, and all the students from the Sunday and National Schools, totaling about 500 people. It was enjoyable and went smoothly.

‘Papa, I am thankful to say, is much better; he preached last Sunday.  How does your mother bear this hot weather?  Write soon, dear Nell, and say you will come.—Yours faithfully,

‘Papa, I'm happy to say, is feeling much better; he preached last Sunday. How is your mom handling the hot weather? Write soon, dear Nell, and let me know you’ll come.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B. N.’

‘C. B. N.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, September 7th, 1854.

‘Haworth, September 7th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—I send a French paper to-day.  You would almost think I had given them up, it is so long since one was despatched.  The fact is, they had accumulated to quite a pile during my absence.  I wished to look them over before sending them off, and as yet I have scarcely found time.  That same Time is an article of which I once had a large stock always on p. 494hand; where it is all gone now it would be difficult to say, but my moments are very fully occupied.  Take warning, Ellen, the married woman can call but a very small portion of each day her own.  Not that I complain of this sort of monopoly as yet, and I hope I never shall incline to regard it as a misfortune, but it certainly exists.  We were both disappointed that you could not come on the day I mentioned.  I have grudged this splendid weather very much.  The moors are in glory, I never saw them fuller of purple bloom.  I wanted you to see them at their best; they are just turning now, and in another week, I fear, will be faded and sere.  As soon as ever you can leave home, be sure to write and let me know.

Dear Ellen,—I’m sending a French paper today. You’d almost think I had stopped sending them, since it’s been so long since the last one went out. The truth is, they piled up a lot while I was away. I wanted to go through them before sending them off, but I’ve hardly found the time. Time is something I used to have a lot of, but I can’t say where it’s all gone now; my moments are really filled up. Take this as a warning, Ellen: a married woman can only claim a tiny part of each day as her own. I’m not complaining about this situation yet, and I hope I never feel it as a misfortune, but it definitely exists. We were both disappointed that you couldn’t come on the day I mentioned. I’ve resented missing out on this beautiful weather. The moors are stunning; I’ve never seen them so full of purple blooms. I wanted you to see them at their best; they’re just starting to change now, and in another week, I’m afraid they’ll be faded and dry. As soon as you can leave home, please write and let me know.

‘Papa continues greatly better.  My husband flourishes; he begins indeed to express some slight alarm at the growing improvement in his condition.  I think I am decent, better certainly than I was two months ago, but people don’t compliment me as they do Arthur—excuse the name, it has grown natural to use it now.  I trust, dear Nell, that you are all well at Brookroyd, and that your visiting stirs are pretty nearly over.  I compassionate you from my heart for all the trouble to which you must be put, and I am rather ashamed of people coming sponging in that fashion one after another; get away from them and come here.—Yours faithfully,

‘Dad is doing much better. My husband is thriving; he’s actually starting to show some slight concern about how much he’s improving. I think I’m looking decent, better certainly than I was two months ago, but people don’t compliment me like they do Arthur—sorry for the name, it just feels natural to use it now. I hope, dear Nell, that you’re all well at Brookroyd, and that your visitors are almost done. I really feel for you with all the hassle you must be going through, and I’m a bit embarrassed about people mooching around like that one after another; get away from them and come here.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 7th, 1854.

‘Haworth, November 7th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—Arthur wishes you would burn my letters.  He was out when I commenced this letter, but he has just come in.  It is not “old friends” he mistrusts, he says, but the chances of war—the accidental passing of letters into hands and under eyes for which they were never written.

Dear Ellen,—Arthur wants you to destroy my letters. He was out when I started this letter, but he just got back. He says it’s not “old friends” he distrusts, but the unpredictable nature of war—the possibility of letters falling into the wrong hands or being seen by people they were never meant for.

‘All this seems mighty amusing to me; it is a man’s mode of viewing correspondence.  Men’s letters are proverbially uninteresting and uncommunicative.  I never quite knew before why they made them so.  They may be right in a sense: strange chances do fall out certainly.  As to my own notes, I never thought of attaching importance to them or p. 495considering their fate, till Arthur seemed to reflect on both so seriously.

‘All this seems really amusing to me; it's a man’s way of looking at letters. Men’s letters are famously boring and lack detail. I never really understood why they were like that. They might have a point in some way: strange things do happen, for sure. As for my own notes, I never considered them important or thought about what would happen to them until Arthur seemed to take both so seriously. p. 495

‘I will write again next week if all be well to name a day for coming to see you.  I am sure you want, or at least ought to have, a little rest before you are bothered with more company; but whenever I come, I suppose, dear Nell, under present circumstances, it will be a quiet visit, and that I shall not need to bring more than a plain dress or two.  Tell me this when you write.—Believe me faithfully yours,

‘I will write again next week if everything goes well to set a day for coming to see you. I’m sure you want, or at least deserve, a little break before you have to deal with more guests; but whenever I visit, I think, dear Nell, in the current situation, it will be a low-key visit, and I won’t need to bring more than a simple dress or two. Let me know this when you write.—Sincerely yours,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 14th, 1854.

‘Haworth, November 14th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—I am only just at liberty to write to you; guests have kept me very busy during the last two or three days.  Sir J. Kay-Shuttleworth and a friend of his came here on Saturday afternoon and stayed till after dinner on Monday.

Dear Ellen,—I’m finally free to write to you; I’ve been super busy with guests for the past couple of days. Sir J. Kay-Shuttleworth and a friend of his arrived here on Saturday afternoon and stayed until after dinner on Monday.

‘When I go to Brookroyd, Arthur will take me there and stay one night, but I cannot yet fix the time of my visit.  Good-bye for the present, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘When I go to Brookroyd, Arthur will take me there and stay one night, but I can't set the date for my visit just yet. Goodbye for now, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 21st, 1854,

‘Haworth, November 21st, 1854,

‘Dear Ellen,—You ask about Mr. Sowden’s matter.  He walked over here on a wild rainy day.  We talked it over.  He is quite disposed to entertain the proposal, but of course there must be close inquiry and ripe consideration before either he or the patron decide.  Meantime Mr. Sowden [495] is most anxious that the affairs be kept absolutely quiet; in the event of disappointment it would be both painful and injurious to him if it should be rumoured at Hebden Bridge that he has had thoughts of leaving.  Arthur says if a whisper gets out these things fly from parson to parson like wildfire.  I cannot p. 496help somehow wishing that the matter should be arranged, if all on examination is found tolerably satisfactory.

Dear Ellen,—You asked about Mr. Sowden’s situation. He came over on a wild, rainy day. We discussed it. He’s definitely open to the proposal, but of course, there needs to be a thorough investigation and careful consideration before he or the patron makes a decision. In the meantime, Mr. Sowden __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ is very eager to keep things completely under wraps; if things don’t go well, it would be both painful and damaging for him if word got out in Hebden Bridge that he was thinking about leaving. Arthur says if a rumor starts, it spreads among the clergy like wildfire. I can’t help but wish that everything can be resolved if everything is found to be reasonably satisfactory.

‘Papa continues pretty well, I am thankful to say; his deafness is wonderfully relieved.  Winter seems to suit him better than summer; besides, he is settled and content, as I perceive with gratitude to God.

‘Papa is doing quite well, I’m happy to say; his deafness has improved a lot. Winter seems to agree with him more than summer; also, he is settled and content, which I appreciate and thank God for.

‘Dear Ellen, I wish you well through every trouble.  Arthur is not in just now or he would send a kind message.—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Dear Ellen, I hope you’re doing well despite everything. Arthur isn’t here right now, or he would send a caring message.—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, November 29th, 1854.

‘Haworth, November 29th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—Arthur somewhat demurs about my going to Brookroyd as yet; fever, you know, is a formidable word.  I cannot say I entertain any apprehensions myself further than this, that I should be terribly bothered at the idea of being taken ill from home and causing trouble; and strangers are sometimes more liable to infection than persons living in the house.

‘Dear Ellen,—Arthur is a bit hesitant about me going to Brookroyd just yet; fever, you know, is a serious issue. I can’t say I have any worries myself besides the fact that I would be really stressed at the thought of getting sick away from home and causing trouble; also, strangers can sometimes be more at risk for infection than people who live in the house.

‘Mr. Sowden has seen Sir J. K. Shuttleworth, but I fancy the matter is very uncertain as yet.  It seems the Bishop of Manchester stipulates that the clergyman chosen should, if possible, be from his own diocese, and this, Arthur says, is quite right and just.  An exception would have been made in Arthur’s favour, but the case is not so clear with Mr. Sowden.  However, no harm will have been done if the matter does not take wind, as I trust it will not.  Write very soon, dear Nell, and,—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘Mr. Sowden has met with Sir J. K. Shuttleworth, but I think the situation is still very uncertain. It seems the Bishop of Manchester insists that the clergyman chosen should, if possible, come from his own diocese, and Arthur says this is absolutely fair. An exception would have been made for Arthur, but it’s not so straightforward with Mr. Sowden. However, no harm will have been done if this doesn’t get out, which I hope it won’t. Write back very soon, dear Nell, and—Believe me, yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, December 7th, 1854.

‘Haworth, December 7th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—I shall not get leave to go to Brookroyd before Christmas now, so do not expect me.  For my own part I really should have no fear, and if it just depended on me I should come.  But these matters are not quite in my power now: another must be consulted; and where his wish and p. 497judgment have a decided bias to a particular course, I make no stir, but just adopt it.  Arthur is sorry to disappoint both you and me, but it is his fixed wish that a few weeks should be allowed yet to elapse before we meet.  Probably he is confirmed in this desire by my having a cold at present.  I did not achieve the walk to the waterfall with impunity.  Though I changed my wet things immediately on returning home, yet I felt a chill afterwards, and the same night had sore throat and cold; however, I am better now, but not quite well.

Dear Ellen,—I won't be able to get time off to go to Brookroyd before Christmas now, so don't expect me. To be honest, I wouldn't fear going, and if it were entirely up to me, I would come. But these things are not completely in my control right now: someone else needs to be consulted; and when his wishes and p. 497judgment strongly favor a specific direction, I don't make a fuss, I just go along with it. Arthur is disappointed to let both you and me down, but he firmly believes we should wait a few more weeks before we meet. He’s probably even more convinced of this because I'm currently dealing with a cold. I didn't walk to the waterfall without consequences. Even though I changed out of my wet clothes as soon as I got home, I still felt chilled later, and that same night I ended up with a sore throat and a cold; however, I'm feeling better now, but not completely well.

‘Did I tell you that our poor little Flossy is dead?  He drooped for a single day, and died quietly in the night without pain.  The loss even of a dog was very saddening, yet perhaps no dog ever had a happier life or an easier death.

‘Did I tell you that our poor little Flossy has passed away? He seemed down for just one day and then quietly died in the night without any pain. Losing even a dog is really sad, but maybe no dog ever had a happier life or an easier death.

‘Papa continues pretty well, I am happy to say, and my dear boy flourishes.  I do not mean that he continues to grow stouter, which one would not desire, but he keeps in excellent condition.

‘Dad is doing quite well, I’m happy to say, and my dear boy is thriving. I don’t mean he’s getting heavier, which no one wants, but he’s staying in great shape.

‘You would wonder, I dare say, at the long disappearance of the French paper.  I had got such an accumulation of them unread that I thought I would not wait to send the old ones; now you will receive them regularly.  I am writing in haste.  It is almost inexplicable to me that I seem so often hurried now; but the fact is, whenever Arthur is in I must have occupations in which he can share, or which will not at least divert my attention from him—thus a multitude of little matters get put off till he goes out, and then I am quite busy.  Goodbye, dear Ellen, I hope we shall meet soon.—Yours faithfully,

‘You might be surprised by the long absence of the French newspaper. I had accumulated so many unread copies that I decided not to wait to send the old ones; now you’ll receive them regularly. I’m writing this quickly. It’s almost hard for me to understand why I feel so rushed lately; but the truth is, whenever Arthur is around, I need to have activities that he can join in on, or at least that won’t distract me from him—so a lot of little tasks get postponed until he goes out, and then I’m really busy. Goodbye, dear Ellen, I hope we can meet soon.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, December 26th, 1854.

‘Haworth, December 26th, 1854.

‘Dear Ellen,—I return the letter.  It is, as you say, very genuine, truthful, affectionate, maternal—without a taint of sham or exaggeration.  Mary will love her child without spoiling it, I think.  She does not make an uproar about her happiness either.  The longer I live the more I suspect exaggerations.  I fancy it is sometimes a sort of fashion for p. 498each to vie with the other in protestations about their wonderful felicity, and sometimes they—FIB.  I am truly glad to hear you are all better at Brookroyd.  In the course of three or four weeks more I expect to get leave to come to you.  I certainly long to see you again.  One circumstance reconciles me to this delay—the weather.  I do not know whether it has been as bad with you as with us, but here for three weeks we have had little else than a succession of hurricanes.

Dear Ellen,—I’m sending back the letter. It is, as you say, very genuine, honest, loving, and maternal—without any hint of fakeness or exaggeration. I believe Mary will love her child without spoiling it. She doesn’t make a fuss about her happiness either. The longer I live, the more I doubt exaggerations. I think it’s sometimes a trend for everyone to compete in boasting about their amazing happiness, and sometimes they—lie. I’m truly happy to hear you’re all doing better at Brookroyd. In about three or four weeks, I expect to get permission to come see you. I really miss seeing you again. One thing that makes this wait easier for me is the weather. I’m not sure if it’s been as bad for you as it has been for us, but here we’ve had almost nothing but a series of hurricanes for three weeks.

‘In your last you asked about Mr. Sowden and Sir James.  I fear Mr. Sowden has little chance of the living; he had heard nothing more of it the last time he wrote to Arthur, and in a note he had from Sir James yesterday the subject is not mentioned.

‘In your last message, you asked about Mr. Sowden and Sir James. I’m afraid Mr. Sowden doesn’t have much chance for the position; he hadn’t heard anything more about it the last time he wrote to Arthur, and in a note he received from Sir James yesterday, the topic isn’t brought up.

‘You inquire too after Mrs. Gaskell.  She has not been here, and I think I should not like her to come now till summer.  She is very busy with her story of North and South.

‘You also asked about Mrs. Gaskell. She hasn’t been here, and I think I wouldn’t want her to come until summer. She is very busy with her story of North and South.

‘I must make this note short that it may not be overweight.  Arthur joins me in sincere good wishes for a happy Christmas, and many of them to you and yours.  He is well, thank God, and so am I, and he is “my dear boy,” certainly dearer now than he was six months ago.  In three days we shall actually have been married that length of time!  Good-bye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘I must keep this note brief so it doesn't become too lengthy. Arthur joins me in sending our heartfelt wishes for a happy Christmas to you and your family. He is doing well, thank God, and so am I, and he is “my dear boy,” certainly dearer to me now than he was six months ago. In three days, we will have actually been married for that long! Goodbye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘Haworth, January 19th, 1855.

‘Haworth, January 19th, 1855.

‘Dear Ellen,—Since our return from Gawthorpe we have had a Mr. Bell, one of Arthur’s cousins, staying with us.  It was a great pleasure.  I wish you could have seen him and made his acquaintance; a true gentleman by nature and cultivation is not after all an everyday thing.

Dear Ellen,—Since we returned from Gawthorpe, we’ve had a Mr. Bell, one of Arthur’s cousins, staying with us. It was a real pleasure. I wish you could have met him; a true gentleman by nature and upbringing is not something you encounter every day.

‘As to the living of Habergham or Padiham, it appears the p. 499chance is doubtful at present for anybody.  The present incumbent wishes to retract his resignation, and declares his intention of appointing a curate for two years.  I fear Mr. Sowden hardly produced a favourable impression; a strong wish was expressed that Arthur could come, but that is out of the question.

‘As for the positions in Habergham or Padiham, it looks like the p. 499opportunity is currently uncertain for anyone. The person currently holding the position wants to retract his resignation and has announced plans to appoint a curate for two years. I’m concerned that Mr. Sowden didn’t leave a good impression; there was a strong wish for Arthur to come, but that’s not possible.

‘I very much wish to come to Brookroyd, and I hope to be able to write with certainty and fix Wednesday, the 31st January, as the day; but the fact is I am not sure whether I shall be well enough to leave home.  At present I should be a most tedious visitor.  My health has been really very good since my return from Ireland till about ten days ago, when the stomach seemed quite suddenly to lose its tone; indigestion and continual faint sickness have been my portion ever since.  Don’t conjecture, dear Nell, for it is too soon yet, though I certainly never before felt as I have done lately.  But keep the matter wholly to yourself, for I can come to no decided opinion at present.  I am rather mortified to lose my good looks and grow thin as I am doing just when I thought of going to Brookroyd.  Dear Ellen, I want to see you, and I hope I shall see you well.  My love to all.—Yours faithfully,

‘I really want to come to Brookroyd, and I hope to confirm Wednesday, January 31st, as the day; but honestly, I’m not sure if I’ll be well enough to leave home. Right now, I’d be a really dull guest. My health had been quite good since I returned from Ireland until about ten days ago, when suddenly my stomach seemed to go out of whack; I’ve been dealing with indigestion and constant nausea ever since. Don’t speculate, dear Nell, because it’s too early to say, although I’ve definitely never felt this way before. But please keep this to yourself, as I can’t make any solid plans right now. I’m a bit embarrassed to be losing my looks and getting thin just when I was planning to visit Brookroyd. Dear Ellen, I want to see you, and I hope I’ll see you healthy. My love to everyone.—Yours faithfully,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘My dear Ellen,—Thank you very much for Mrs. Hewitt’s sensible clear letter.  Thank her too.  In much her case was wonderfully like mine, but I am reduced to greater weakness; the skeleton emaciation is the same.  I cannot talk.  Even to my dear, patient, constant Arthur I can say but few words at once.

My dear Ellen,—Thank you so much for Mrs. Hewitt’s clear and thoughtful letter. Please thank her too. In many ways, her situation is very similar to mine, but I feel even weaker; the extreme thinness is the same. I can't talk. Even to my dear, patient, and constant Arthur, I can only manage a few words at a time.

‘These last two days I have been somewhat better, and p. 500have taken some beef-tea, a spoonful of wine and water, a mouthful of light pudding at different times.

‘These last two days I’ve felt a bit better, and p. 500I've had some beef tea, a spoonful of wine mixed with water, and a bit of light pudding at different times.

‘Dear Ellen, I realise full well what you have gone through and will have to go through with poor Mercy.  Oh, may you continue to be supported and not sink.  Sickness here has been terribly rife.  Kindest regards to Mr. and Mrs. Clapham, your mother, Mercy.  Write when you can.—Yours,

‘Dear Ellen, I completely understand what you’ve been through and what you will still face with poor Mercy. Oh, I hope you keep finding support and don’t fall into despair. Illness has been quite common here. Please send my best wishes to Mr. and Mrs. Clapham, your mother, and Mercy. Write whenever you can.—Yours,

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

‘C. B. Nicholls.’

Extracted from the District Probate Registry at York attached to Her Majesty’s High Court of Justice.

Extracted from the District Probate Registry in York, related to Her Majesty’s High Court of Justice.

In the name of God.  Amen.  I, Charlotte Nicholls, of Haworth in the parish of Bradford and county of York, being of sound and disposing mind, memory, and understanding, but mindful of my own mortality, do this seventeenth day of February, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and fifty-five, make this my last Will and Testament in manner and form following, that is to say: In case I die without issue I give and bequeath to my husband all my property to be his absolutely and entirely, but, In case I leave issue I bequeath to my husband the interest of my property during his lifetime, and at his death I desire that the principal should go to my surviving child or children; should there be more than one child, share and share alike.  And I do hereby make and appoint my said husband, Arthur Bell Nicholls, clerk, sole executor of this my last Will and Testament; In witness whereof I have to this my last Will and Testament subscribed my hand, the day and year first above written—Charlotte Nicholls.  Signed and acknowledged by the said testatrix Charlotte Nicholls, as and for her last Will and Testament in the presence of us, who, at her request, in her presence and in presence of each other, have at the same time hereunto p. 501subscribed our names as witnesses thereto: Patrick Brontë, B.A.  Incumbent of Haworth, Yorkshire; Martha Brown.

In the name of God. Amen. I, Charlotte Nicholls, of Haworth in the parish of Bradford and county of York, being of sound mind, memory, and understanding, but aware of my own mortality, do this seventeenth day of February, in the year of our Lord eighteen fifty-five, make this my last Will and Testament in the following way: if I die without children, I give and bequeath all my property to my husband to keep completely, but, if I have children, I bequeath my husband the interest from my property during his lifetime, and upon his death, I wish for the principal to go to my surviving child or children; if there is more than one child, they will share equally. And I hereby appoint my husband, Arthur Bell Nicholls, clerk, as the sole executor of this my last Will and Testament; in witness whereof, I have signed my name, on the day and year first mentioned above—Charlotte Nicholls. Signed and acknowledged by the said testatrix Charlotte Nicholls, as her last Will and Testament in the presence of us, who, at her request, in her presence and in the presence of each other, have simultaneously hereunto p. 501subscribed our names as witnesses: Patrick Brontë, B.A. Incumbent of Haworth, Yorkshire; Martha Brown.

The eighteenth day of April 1855, the Will of Charlotte Nicholls, late of Haworth in the parish of Bradford in the county of York (wife of the Reverend Arthur Bell Nicholls, Clerk in Holy Orders) (having bona notabilia within the province of York).  Deceased was proved in the prerogative court of York by the oath of the said Arthur Bell Nicholls (the husband), the sole executor to whom administration was granted, he having been first sworn duly to administer.

On April 18, 1855, the Will of Charlotte Nicholls, formerly of Haworth in the parish of Bradford in the county of York (wife of the Reverend Arthur Bell Nicholls, Clerk in Holy Orders) (having significant assets within the province of York). Her estate was validated in the prerogative court of York by the oath of the said Arthur Bell Nicholls (her husband), the sole executor to whom administration was granted, having been first sworn to administer properly.

FOOTNOTES

‘Haworth, nr. Keighley, January 16th, 1858.

‘Haworth, nr. Keighley, January 16th, 1858.

‘Sir,—Your letter which I have received this morning gives both to Mr. Nicholls and me great uneasiness.  It would seem that application has been made to the Duke of Devonshire for money to aid the subscription in reference to the expense of apparatus for heating our church and schools.  This has been done without our knowledge, and most assuredly, had we known it, would have met with our strongest opposition.  We have no claim on the Duke.  His Grace honour’d us with a visit, in token of his respect for the memory of the dead, and his liberality and munificence are well and widely known; and the mercenary, taking an unfair advantage of these circumstances, have taken a step which both Mr. Nicholls and I utterly regret and condemn.  In answer to your query, I may state that the whole expense for both the schools and church is about one hundred pounds; and that after what has been and may be subscribed, there may fifty pounds remain as a debt.  But this may, and ought, to be raised by the inhabitants, in the next year after the depression of trade shall, it is hoped, have passed away.  I have written to His Grace on the subject—I remain, sir, your obedient servant,

Sir,—I received your letter this morning, and it has raised significant concern for both Mr. Nicholls and me. It seems that someone has approached the Duke of Devonshire for funds to support the heating system in our church and schools without our knowledge. Had we been informed, we would have firmly opposed this. We have no right to the Duke's assistance. His Grace visited us out of respect for the deceased, and his generosity is well known; taking advantage of this situation is something both Mr. Nicholls and I strongly disapprove of. In response to your question, I can inform you that the total cost for both the schools and church is about one hundred pounds; depending on the subscriptions received, we may have about fifty pounds remaining as a debt. However, this amount should be covered by the local residents once the economic downturn has, hopefully, passed in the coming year. I have written to His Grace about this issue. I remain, sir, your obedient servant,

‘P. Brontë.

‘P. Brontë.

‘Sir Joseph Paxton, Bart.,
  ‘Hardwick Hall,
      ‘Chesterfield.’

‘Sir Joseph Paxton, Bart.,
  ‘Hardwick Hall,
      ‘Chesterfield.’

When Baptized. When Baptized.	Child’s Christian Name. Child's First Name.	Parent’s Name (Christian). Parent's Name (Christian).	Parent’s Name (Surname). Parent’s Name (Last Name).	Abode. Home.	Quality, Trade or Profession. Quality, Occupation.	By whom the Ceremony was Performed. Who Led the Ceremony.
1816 29th June 1816 29th June	Charlotte daughter of Charlotte, daughter of	The Rev. Patrick and Maria. Rev. Patrick and Maria	Brontë Brontë	Thornton Thornton	Minister of Thornton Thornton's Minister	Wm. Morgan Minster of Christ Church Bradford. Wm. Morgan Minister of Christ Church Bradford.
1817 July 23 1817 *July* 23	Patrick Branwell son of Patrick Branwell, son of	Patrick and Maria. Patrick and Maria.	Brontë Brontë	Thornton Thornton	Minister Minister	Jno. Fennell officiating Minister. Rev. Jno. Fennell
1818 20th August 1818 August 20th	Emily Jane daughter of Emily Jane, daughter of	The Rev. Patrick and Maria. Rev. Patrick and Maria.	Brontë A.B. Brontë A.B.	Thornton Parsonage Thornton Parsonage	Minister of Thornton Thornton's Minister	Wm. Morgan Minster of Christ Church Bradford. Wm. Morgan Minister of Christ Church Bradford.
1820 March 25th 1820 March 25	Anne daughter of Anne, daughter of	The Rev. Patrick and Maria. Rev. Patrick and Maria.	Brontë Brontë	Minister of Haworth Haworth Minister		Wm. Morgan Minster of Christ Church Bradford. Wm. Morgan, Pastor of Christ Church Bradford.

‘In July 1824 the Rev. Mr. Brontë arrived at Cowan Bridge with two of his daughters, Maria and Elizabeth, 12 and 10 years of age.  The children were delicate; both had but recently recovered from the measles and whooping-cough—so recently, indeed, that doubts were entertained whether they could be admitted with safety to the other pupils.  They were received, however, and went on so well that in September their father returned, bringing with him two more of his children—Charlotte, 9 [she was really but 8] and Emily, 6 years of age.  During both these visits Mr. Brontë lodged at the school, sat at the same table with the children, saw the whole routine of the establishment, and, so far as I have ever known, was satisfied with everything that came under his observation.

In July 1824, Rev. Mr. Brontë arrived at Cowan Bridge with two of his daughters, Maria and Elizabeth, who were 12 and 10 years old. The children were delicate; they had just recovered from measles and whooping cough—so recently, in fact, that there were worries about whether they could safely join the other students. However, they were accepted and did so well that in September, their father returned with two more of his children—Charlotte, who was 9 [though she was actually only 8], and Emily, who was 6. During both visits, Mr. Brontë stayed at the school, ate at the same table as the children, observed the school's routine, and, as far as I know, was pleased with everything he saw.

‘“The two younger children enjoyed uniformly good health.”  Charlotte was a general favourite.  To the best of my recollection she was never under disgrace, however slight; punishment she certainly did not experience while she was at Cowan Bridge.

“The two younger kids were generally healthy.” Charlotte was a favorite among everyone. As far as I remember, she was never in trouble, not even a little; she definitely didn’t face any punishment while she was at Cowan Bridge.

‘In size, Charlotte was remarkably diminutive; and if, as has been recently asserted, she never grew an inch after leaving the Clergy Daughters’ School, she must have been a literal dwarf, and could not have obtained a situation as teacher in a school at Brussels, or anywhere else; the idea is absurd.  In respect of the treatment of the pupils at Cowan Bridge, I will say that neither Mr. Brontë’s daughters nor any other of the children were denied a sufficient quantity of food.  Any statement to the contrary is entirely false.  The daily dinner consisted of meat, vegetables, and pudding, in abundance; the children were permitted, and expected, to ask for whatever they desired, and were never limited.

Charlotte was quite small; and if, as has been suggested recently, she didn’t grow at all after leaving the Clergy Daughters’ School, she would have been a literal dwarf and couldn't have gotten a teaching job in a school in Brussels or anywhere else; that idea is absurd. Regarding how the pupils were treated at Cowan Bridge, I want to clarify that neither Mr. Brontë’s daughters nor any of the other kids lacked enough food. Any claims to the contrary are completely false. The daily dinners included plenty of meat, vegetables, and pudding; the children were allowed and expected to ask for whatever they wanted, and they were never restricted.

‘It has been remarked that the food of the school was such that none but starving children could eat it; and in support of this statement reference is made to a certain occasion when the medical attendant was consulted about it.  In reply to this, let me say that during the spring of 1825 a low fever, although not an alarming one, prevailed in the school, and the managers, naturally anxious to ascertain whether any local cause occasioned the epidemic, took an opportunity to ask the physician’s opinion of the food that happened to be then on the table.  I recollect that he spoke rather scornfully of a baked rice pudding; but as the ingredients of this dish were chiefly, rice, sugar, and milk, its effects could hardly have been so serious as have been affirmed.  I thus furnish you with the simple fact from which those statements have been manufactured.

It has been claimed that the food at the school was so terrible that only starving children could eat it; and to support this, there was a specific instance when the doctor was consulted about it. In response to this, let me mention that during the spring of 1825, a mild fever, though not severe, was going around the school. The managers, understandably worried about any local causes for the outbreak, took the opportunity to ask the doctor's opinion on the food being served at that time. I remember he spoke rather dismissively about a baked rice pudding; but since the main ingredients of this dish were just rice, sugar, and milk, its effects couldn't have been as serious as claimed. So, I present you with the simple fact from which those claims arose.

‘I have not the least hesitation in saying that, upon the whole, the comforts were as many and the privations as few at Cowan Bridge as can well be found in so large an establishment.  How far young or delicate children are able to contend with the necessary evils of a public school is, in my opinion, a very grave question, and does not enter into the present discussion.

I have no doubt in saying that overall, the comforts were plentiful and the hardships were minimal at Cowan Bridge, as can be found in such a large institution. How well young or fragile children can deal with the inevitable challenges of a public school is, in my opinion, an important question, and it’s not part of the current discussion.

‘The younger children in all larger institutions are liable to be oppressed; but the exposure to this evil at Cowan Bridge was not more than in other schools, but, as I believe, far less.  Then, again, thoughtless servants will occasionally spoil food, even in private families; and in public schools they are likely to be still less particular, unless they are well looked after.

The younger children in all large institutions are likely to face mistreatment; however, the extent of this issue at Cowan Bridge was not worse than in other schools, and I believe it was actually much better. Moreover, careless staff can sometimes ruin food, even in private homes; in public schools, they are often even less attentive unless they are closely monitored.

‘But in this respect the institution in question compares very favourably with other and more expensive schools, as from personal experience I have reason to know.—A.H., August 1855.’—From A Vindication of the Clergy Daughters’ School and the Rev. W. Carus Wilson from the Remarks in ‘The Life of Charlotte Brontë,’ by the Rev. H. Shepheard, M.A.  London: Seeley, Jackson, and Halliday, 1857.

In this regard, the institution in question compares very favorably with other, more expensive schools, as I know from personal experience.—A.H., August 1855.—From A Vindication of the Clergy Daughters’ School and the Rev. W. Carus Wilson from the Remarks in ‘The Life of Charlotte Brontë,’ by the Rev. H. Shepheard, M.A. London: Seeley, Jackson, and Halliday, 1857.

‘Dear Aunt,—I have heard nothing of Miss Wooler 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. White, 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 on the continent.  They say schools in England are so numerous, competition so great, that without some such step towards attaining superiority we shall probably have a very hard struggle, and may fail in the end.  They say, moreover, that the loan of £100, which you have been so kind as to offer us, will, perhaps, not be all required now, as Miss Wooler 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 insuring a more speedy repayment both of interest and principal.

Dear Aunt,—I haven't heard from Miss Wooler since I accepted her offer. I can't understand why she's been quiet, unless something unexpected is holding things up. In the meantime, Mr. and Mrs. White, among others, have suggested a plan that I want to share with you. My friends think that if I want to achieve lasting success, I should wait six more months before starting the school and find a way to spend that time in a school on the continent. They believe that schools in England are so numerous, and the competition so fierce, that without taking steps to gain an advantage, we might struggle and ultimately fail. They also mentioned that the £100 loan you kindly offered might not be entirely necessary at this moment since Miss Wooler will provide the furniture. Plus, they suggest that if this venture is going to be worthwhile and successful, at least half of that amount should be invested as I’ve outlined to ensure quicker repayment of both the interest and the principal.

‘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 travelling, would be £5; living is there 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.  Martha Taylor is now staying in Brussels, at a first-rate establishment there.  I should not think of going to the Château de Kockleberg, 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 Consul, would be able to secure me a cheap and 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 in time be introduced to connections far more improving, polished, and cultivated, than any I have yet known.

'I wouldn't go to France or Paris. I'd go to Brussels in Belgium. The trip there, at the highest travel expense, would cost £5; living there is just a bit more than half as expensive as in England, and the educational opportunities are as good or even better than elsewhere in Europe. In six months, I could get really familiar with French. I could make significant progress in Italian and even pick up a bit of German, assuming my health stays as good as it is now. Martha Taylor is currently in Brussels, staying at a great place. I wouldn’t think about going to the Château de Kockleberg, where she lives, since the rates are far too high; but if I wrote to her, she, with help from Mrs. Jenkins, the wife of the British Consul, could find me an affordable and decent place to stay with respectable protection. I would get to see her often; she would show me around the city; and with the assistance of her cousins, I would likely meet people who are much more cultured and refined than anyone I’ve known so far.'

‘These are advantages which would turn to vast account, when we actually commenced a school—and, if Emily could share them with me, only for a single half-year, 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 favour, it is often done in style; and depend upon it £50, or £100, 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 it a wild and ambitious scheme; but who ever 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 go 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 your kindness.  With love to all, and the hope that you are all well,—Believe me, dear aunt, your affectionate niece,

'These would be tremendous advantages when we finally start a school—and if Emily could join us for just six months, we could establish ourselves in a way that's impossible right now. I mention Emily instead of Anne because Anne may have her chance later if our school is successful. I'm sure you'll understand the significance of what I'm saying; you always want to spend your money wisely; you don't like making cheap purchases; when you help someone, you do it well; and believe me, spending £50 or £100 on this would be a smart investment. Of course, I know there’s no one else I could approach about this except you. I’m completely convinced that if we get this opportunity, it would set us up for life. Papa might think this is a crazy and ambitious plan, but who has ever succeeded without ambition? When he left Ireland for Cambridge University, he was just as ambitious as I am now. I want us all to succeed. I know we have talents, and I want them to be used properly. I’m turning to you, Aunt, for help. I believe you won’t say no. I promise that if you agree, it won’t be my fault if you ever regret your kindness. Sending love to everyone and hoping you’re all doing well—Believe me, dear Aunt, your loving niece,

‘Miss Branwell.        C. Brontë.’

‘Miss Branwell.        C. Brontë.’

Jane Eyre Jane Eyre	Mrs. Bernard-Beere Ms. Bernard-Beere
Lady Ingram Lady Ingram	Miss Carlotta Leclercq Ms. Carlotta Leclercq
Blanche Ingram Blanche Ingram	Miss Kate Bishop Ms. Kate Bishop
Mary Ingram Mary Ingram	Miss Maggie Hunt Ms. Maggie Hunt
Miss Beechey Miss Beechey	Miss Nellie Jordan Nellie Jordan
Mrs. Fairfax Mrs. Fairfax	Miss Alexes Leighton Miss Alexes Leighton
Grace Poole Grace Poole	Miss Masson Miss Masson
Bertha Bertha	Miss D’Almaine Ms. D’Almaine
Adele Adele	Mdlle. Clemente Colle Ms. Clemente Colle
Mr. Rochester Mr. Rochester	Mr. Charles Kelly Mr. Charles Kelly
Lord Desmond Lord Desmond	Mr. A. M. Denison Mr. A. M. Denison
Rev. Mr. Price Rev. Mr. Price	Mr. H. E. Russel Mr. H. E. Russell
Nat Lee Nat Lee	Mr. H. H. Cameron Mr. H. H. Cameron
James James	Mr. C. Stevens Mr. C. Stevens

‘December 9th, 1848.

‘December 9th, 1848.

‘The patient, respecting whose case Dr. Epps is consulted, and for whom his opinion and advice are requested, is a female in her 29th year.  A peculiar reserve of character renders it difficult to draw from her all the symptoms of her malady, but as far as they can be ascertained they are as follows:—

‘The patient that Dr. Epps is being consulted about, and for whom his opinion and advice are requested, is a 29-year-old woman. Her distinctly reserved personality makes it challenging to fully understand her symptoms, but from what we can gather, they are as follows:—

‘Expectoration accompanies the cough.  The shortness of breath is aggravated by the slightest exertion.  The patient’s sleep is supposed to be tolerably good at intervals, but disturbed by paroxysms of coughing.  Her resolution to contend against illness being very fixed, she has never consented to lie in bed for a single day—she sits up from 7 in the morning till 10 at night.  All medical aid she has rejected, insisting that Nature should be left to take her own course.  She has taken no medicine, but occasionally, a mild aperient and Locock’s cough wafers, of which she has used about 3 per diem, and considers their effect rather beneficial.  Her diet, which she regulates herself, is very simple and light.

‘Coughing comes with the expectoration. The shortness of breath worsens with even the smallest activity. The patient’s sleep is said to be decent at times, but it’s often interrupted by coughing fits. She is very determined to fight her illness and has never agreed to stay in bed for even one day—she is up from 7 in the morning until 10 at night. She has refused all medical help, insisting that Nature should take its course. She hasn’t taken any medicine, but occasionally uses a mild laxative and Locock’s cough wafers, taking about 3 a day, and feels they help her a bit. Her diet, which she manages herself, is very simple and light.

‘The patient has hitherto enjoyed pretty good health, though she has never looked strong, and the family constitution is not supposed to be robust.  Her temperament is highly nervous.  She has been accustomed to a sedentary and studious life.

‘The patient has generally enjoyed good health, although she has never seemed very strong, and the family history isn't robust. Her temperament is quite sensitive. She has been accustomed to a sedentary and academic lifestyle.

‘If Dr. Epps can, from what has here been stated, give an opinion on the case and prescribe a course of treatment, he will greatly oblige the patient’s friends.

‘If Dr. Epps can offer an opinion on the case and recommend a treatment plan based on what has been discussed here, it would be a great help to the patient’s friends.

‘Address—Miss Brontë, Parsonage, Haworth, Bradford, Yorks.’

‘Address—Miss Brontë, Parsonage, Haworth, Bradford, Yorks.’

INDEX

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