Chapter VI: Emily Jane Bronte

Emily Bronte is the sphinx of our modern literature. She came into being in the family of an obscure clergyman, and she went out of it at twenty-nine years of age without leaving behind her one single significant record which was any key to her character or to her mode of thought, save only the one famous novel, _Wuthering Heights_, and a few poems--some three or four of which will live in our poetic anthologies for ever. And she made no single friend other than her sister Anne. With Anne she must have corresponded during the two or three periods of her life when she was separated from that much loved sister; and we may be sure that the correspondence was of a singularly affectionate character. Charlotte, who never came very near to her in thought or sympathy, although she loved her younger sister so deeply, addressed her in one letter 'mine own bonnie love'; and it is certain that her own letters to her two sisters, and particularly to Anne, must have been peculiarly tender and in no way lacking in abundant self-revelation. When Emily and Anne had both gone to the grave, Charlotte, it is probable, carefully destroyed every scrap of their correspondence, and, indeed, of their literary effects; and thus it is that, apart from her books and literary fragments, we know Emily only by two formal letters to her sister's friend. Beyond these there is not one scrap of information as to Emily's outlook upon life. In infancy she went with Charlotte to Cowan Bridge, and was described by the governess as 'a pretty little thing.' In girlhood she went to Miss Wooler's school at Roe Head; but there, unlike Charlotte, she made no friends. She and Anne were inseparable when at home, but of what they said to one another there is no record. The sisters must have differed in many ways. Anne, gentle and persuasive, grew up like Charlotte, devoted to the Christianity of her father and mother, and entirely in harmony with all the conditions of a parsonage. It is impossible to think that the author of 'The Old Stoic' and 'Last Lines' was equally attached to the creeds of the churches; but what Emily thought on religious subjects the world will never know. Mrs. Gaskell put to Miss Nussey this very question: 'What was Emily's religion?' But Emily was the last person in the world to have spoken to the most friendly of visitors about so sacred a theme. For a short time, as we know, Emily was in a school at Law Hill near Halifax--a Miss Patchet's. {145a} She was, for a still longer period, at the Heger Pensionnat at Brussels. Mrs. Gaskell's business was to write the life of Charlotte Bronte and not of her sister Emily; and as a result there is little enough of Emily in Mrs. Gaskell's book--no record of the Halifax and Brussels life as seen through Emily's eyes. Time, however, has brought its revenge. The cult which started with Mr. Sydney Dobell, and found poetic expression in Mr. Matthew Arnold's fine lines on her,

'Whose soul
Knew no fellow for might,
Passion, vehemence, grief,
Daring, since Byron died,' {145b}

culminated in an enthusiastic eulogy by Mr. Swinburne, who placed her in the very forefront of English women of genius.

We have said that Emily Bronte is a sphinx whose riddle no amount of research will enable us to read; and this chapter, it may be admitted, adds but little to the longed-for knowledge of an interesting personality. One scrap of Emily's handwriting, of a personal character, has indeed come to me--overlooked, I doubt not, by Charlotte when she burnt her sister's effects. I have before me a little tin box about two inches long, which one day last year Mr. Nicholls turned out from the bottom of a desk. It is of a kind in which one might keep pins or beads, certainly of no value whatever apart from its associations. Within were four little pieces of paper neatly folded to the size of a sixpence. These papers were covered with handwriting, two of them by Emily, and two by Anne Bronte. They revealed a pleasant if eccentric arrangement on the part of the sisters, which appears to have been settled upon even after they had passed their twentieth year. They had agreed to write a kind of reminiscence every four years, to be opened by Emily on her birthday. The papers, however, tell their own story, and I give first the two which were written in 1841. Emily writes at Haworth, and Anne from her situation as governess to Mr. Robinson's children at Thorp Green. At this time, at any rate, Emily was fairly happy and in excellent health; and although it is five years from the publication of the volume of poems, she is full of literary projects, as is also her sister Anne. The _Gondaland Chronicles_, to which reference is made, must remain a mystery for us. They were doubtless destroyed, with abundant other memorials of Emily, by the heart-broken sister who survived her. We have plentiful material in the way of childish effort by Charlotte and by Branwell, but there is hardly a scrap in the early handwriting of Emily and Anne. This chapter would have been more interesting if only one possessed _Solala Vernon's Life_ by Anne Bronte, or the _Gondaland Chronicles_ by Emily!

[Picture: Facsimile of page of Emily Bronte's Diary]

_A PAPER to be opened_
_when Anne is_
25 _years old_,
_or my next birthday after_
_if_
_all be well_.

_Emily Jane Bronte_. _July the_ 30_th_, 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_.

_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_.

_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_ _have 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_.

_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_.

Anne, as I have said, writes from Thorp Green.

_July the_ 30_th_, A.D. 1841.

_This is Emily's birthday_. _She has now completed her_ 23_rd_
_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_.

_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_ _that 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_.

_How little know we what we are_
_How less what we may be_!

_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_.

_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_.

_Anne Bronte_.

Let us next take up the other two little scraps of paper. They are dated July the 30th, 1845, or Emily's twenty-seventh birthday. Many things have happened, as she says. She has been to Brussels, and she has settled definitely at home again. They are still keenly interested in literature, and we still hear of the Gondals. There is wonderfully little difference in the tone or spirit of the journals. The concluding 'best wishes for this whole house till July the 30th, 1848, and as much longer as may be,' contain no premonition of coming disaster. Yet July 1848 was to find Branwell Bronte on the verge of the grave, and Emily on her deathbed. She died on the 14th of December of that year.

_Haworth_, _Thursday_, _July_ 30_th_, 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_ 8_th_ _of February_ 1842.

_Branwell left his place at Luddenden Foot_. _C. and I returned from
Brussels_, _November_ 8_th_ 1842, _in consequence of aunt's death_.

_Branwell went to Thorp Green as a tutor_, _where Anne still
continued_, _January_ 1843.

_Charlotte returned to Brussels the same month_, _and_, _after
staying a year_, _came back again on New Year's Day_ 1844.

_Anne left her situation at Thorp Green of her own accord_, _June_
1845.

_Anne and I went our first long journey by ourselves together_,
_leaving home on the_ 30_th_ _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_ _excursion 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_.

_By mistake I find we have opened the paper on the_ 31_st_ _instead
of the_ 30_th_. _Yesterday was much such a day as this_, _but the
morning was divine_.

_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_ _hear 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_ 30_th_, _and as
much longer as may be_,--_I conclude_.

_Emily Bronte_.

Finally, I give Anne's last fragment, concerning which silence is essential. Interpretation of most of the references would be mere guess-work.

_Thursday_, _July the_ 31_st_, 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_
_Derbyshire_, _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_ _be 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_.

_Anne Bronte_.

Exactly fifty years were to elapse before these pieces of writing saw the light. The interest which must always centre in Emily Bronte amply justifies my publishing a fragment in facsimile; and it has the greater moment on account of the rough drawing which Emily has made of herself and of her dog Keeper. Emily's taste for drawing is a pathetic element in her always pathetic life. I have seen a number of her sketches. There is one in the possession of Mr. Nicholls of Keeper and Flossy, the former the bull-dog which followed her to the grave, the latter a little King Charlie which one of the Miss Robinsons gave to Anne. The sketch, however, like most of Emily's drawings, is technically full of errors. She was not a born artist, and possibly she had not the best opportunities of becoming one by hard work. Another drawing before me is of the hawk mentioned in the above fragment; and yet another is of the dog Growler, a predecessor of Keeper, which is not, however, mentioned in the correspondence. Upon Emily Bronte, the poet, I do not propose to write here. She left behind her, and Charlotte preserved, a manuscript volume containing the whole of the poems in the two collections of her verse, and there are other poems not yet published. Here, for example, are some verses in which the Gondals make a slight reappearance.

[Picture: Facsimile of two pages of Emily Bronte's Diary]

'_May_ 21_st_, 1838.

GLENEDEN'S DREAM.

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

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

'"Captive, since thou sawest the forest,
All its leaves have died away,
And another March has woven
Garlands 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."

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

'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.

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

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

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

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

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

'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.

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

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

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

'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!

'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!

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

There are, indeed, a few fragments, all written in that tiny handwriting which the girls affected, and bearing various dates from 1833 to 1840. A new edition of Emily's poems, will, by virtue of these verses, have a singular interest for her admirers. With all her gifts as a poet, however, it is by _Wuthering Heights_ that Emily Bronte is best known to the world; and the weirdness and force of that book suggest an inquiry concerning the influences which produced it. Dr. Wright, in his entertaining book, _The Brontes in Ireland_, recounts the story of Patrick Bronte's origin, and insists that it was in listening to her father's anecdotes of his own Irish experiences that Emily obtained the weird material of _Wuthering Heights_. It is not, of course, enough to point out that Dr. Wright's story of the Irish Brontes is full of contradictions. A number of tales picked up at random from an illiterate peasantry might very well abound in inconsistencies, and yet contain some measure of truth. But nothing in Dr. Wright's narrative is confirmed, save only the fact that Patrick Bronte continued throughout his life in some slight measure of correspondence with his brothers and sisters--a fact rendered sufficiently evident by a perusal of his will. Dr. Wright tells of many visits to Ireland in order to trace the Bronte traditions to their source; and yet he had not--in his first edition--marked the elementary fact that the registry of births in County Down records the existence of innumerable Bruntys and of not a single Bronte. Dr. Wright probably made his inquiries with the stories of Emily and Charlotte well in mind. He sought for similar traditions, and the quick-witted Irish peasantry gave him all that he wanted. They served up and embellished the current traditions of the neighbourhood for his benefit, as the peasantry do everywhere for folklore enthusiasts. Charlotte Bronte's uncle Hugh, we are told, read the _Quarterly Review_ article upon _Jane Eyre_, and, armed with a shillelagh, came to England, in order to wreak vengeance upon the writer of the bitter attack. He landed at Liverpool, walked from Liverpool to Haworth, saw his nieces, who 'gathered round him,' and listened to his account of his mission. He then went to London and made abundant inquiries--but why pursue this ludicrous story further? In the first place, the _Quarterly Review_ article was published in December 1848--after Emily was dead, and while Anne was dying. Very soon after the review appeared Charlotte was informed of its authorship, and references to Miss Rigby and the _Quarterly_ are found more than once in her correspondence with Mr. Williams. {158}

This is a lengthy digression from the story of Emily's life, but it is of moment to discover whether there is any evidence of influences other than those which her Yorkshire home afforded. I have discussed the matter with Miss Ellen Nussey, and with Mr. Nicholls. Miss Nussey never, in all her visits to Haworth, heard a single reference to the Irish legends related by Dr. Wright, and firmly believes them to be mythical. Mr. Nicholls, during the six years that he lived alone at the parsonage with his father-in-law, never heard one single word from Mr. Bronte--who was by no means disposed to reticence--about these stories, and is also of opinion that they are purely legendary.

It has been suggested that Emily would have been guilty almost of a crime to have based the more sordid part of her narrative upon her brother's transgressions. This is sheer nonsense. She wrote _Wuthering Heights_ because she was impelled thereto, and the book, with all its morbid force and fire, will remain, for all time, as a monument of the most striking genius that nineteenth century womanhood has given us. It was partly her life in Yorkshire--the local colour was mainly derived from her brief experience as a governess at Halifax--but it was partly, also, the German fiction which she had devoured during the Brussels period, that inspired _Wuthering Heights_.

Here, however, are glimpses of Emily Bronte on a more human side.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_March_ 25_th_, 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.

'C. BRONTE.'

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_April_ 5_th_, 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--don't disappoint me. Best
regards to your mother and sisters.--Yours, somewhat irritated,

'C. BRONTE.'

Earlier than this Emily had herself addressed a letter to Miss Nussey, and, indeed, the two letters from Emily Bronte to Ellen Nussey which I print here are, I imagine, the only letters of Emily's in existence. Mr. Nicholls informs me that he has never seen a letter in Emily's handwriting. The following letter is written during Charlotte's second stay in Brussels, and at a time when Ellen Nussey contemplated joining her there--a project never carried out.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_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.

'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.

'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,

'EMILY J. BRONTE.'

The next letter is written at the time that Charlotte is staying with her friend at Mr. Henry Nussey's house at Hathersage in Derbyshire.

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'HAWORTH, _February_ 9_th_, 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 only 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,

'EMILY J. BRONTE.'

_Wuthering Heights_ and _Agnes Grey_, 'by Ellis and Acton Bell,' were published together in three volumes in 1847. The former novel occupied two volumes, and the latter one. By a strange freak of publishing, the book was issued as _Wuthering Heights_, vol. I. and II., and _Agnes Grey_, vol. III., in deference, it must be supposed, to the passion for the three volume novel. Charlotte refers to the publication in the next letter, which contained as inclosure the second preface to _Jane Eyre_--the preface actually published. {161} An earlier preface, entitled 'A Word to the _Quarterly_,' was cancelled.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_December_ 21_st_, 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.

'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 and inclination. I know your time is too fully
occupied and too valuable to be often at the service of any one
individual.

'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,

'C. BELL.'

When _Jane Eyre_ was performed at a London theatre--and it has been more than once adapted for the stage, and performed many hundreds of times in England and America--Charlotte Bronte wrote to her friend Mr. Williams as follows:--

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_February_ 5_th_, 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.

'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.

'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}

'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,

'CURRER BELL.'

I print the above letter here because of its sequel, which has something to say of Ellis--of Emily Bronte.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_February_ 15_th_, 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!

'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!

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

'As to my next book, I suppose it will grow to maturity in time, 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.

'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?

'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?

'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 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.

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

'CURRER BELL.'

A short time afterwards the illness came to Emily from which she died the same year. Branwell died in September 1848, and a month later Charlotte writes with a heart full of misgivings:--

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_October_ 29_th_, 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 truly 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,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_November_ 2_nd_, 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.

'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.

'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 be 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 am sorry I cannot claim for the name Bronte 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.

'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.

'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}

'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,

'C. BRONTE.'

The next letter gives perhaps the most interesting glimpse of Emily that has been afforded us.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_November_ 22_nd_, 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 homoeopathy--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: Homoeopathy 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.

'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 was 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 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.

'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 must abruptly bid you good-bye for the present.--Yours sincerely,

'CURRER BELL.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_December_ 7_th_, 1848.

'MY DEAR SIR,--I duly received Dr. Curie's work on Homoeopathy, 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.

'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.

'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 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 author
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 manoeuvring 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.

'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.

'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.

'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_.

'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.

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

'C. BRONTE.'

The next four letters speak for themselves.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_December_ 9_th_, 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 Homoeopathy, 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.

'Not knowing Dr. Epps's address, I send the inclosed statement of her
case through your hands. {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,

'C. BRONTE.'

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_December_ 15_th_, 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 any 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.

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

'C. BRONTE.'

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

'_December_ 21_st_, 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.'

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_December_ 25_th_, 1848.

'MY DEAR SIR,--I will write to you more at length when my heart can
find a little rest--now I can only thank you very briefly for your
letter, which seemed to me eloquent in its sincerity.

'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.

'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.

'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.

'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,

'C. BRONTE.'

And then there are these last pathetic references to the beloved sister.

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

'_January_ 2_nd_, 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.

'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,

'C. BRONTE.'

'_March_ 3_rd_, 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 she 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.

'C. BRONTE.'

'_November_ 19_th_, 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.

'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.

'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 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.

'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.

'The _Sun_, the _Morning Herald_, and the _Critic_ came this morning.
None of them express disappointment from _Shirley_, or on the whole
compare her disadvantageously with _Jane_. It strikes me that those
worthies--the _Athenaeum_, _Spectator_, _Economist_, made haste to be
first with their notices that they might give the tone; if so, their
manoeuvre has not yet quite succeeded.

'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,

'C. BRONTE.

'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.'

The last words that I have to say concerning Emily are contained in a letter to me from Miss Ellen Nussey.

'So very little is known of Emily Bronte,' she writes, 'that every
little detail awakens an interest. Her extreme reserve seemed
impenetrable, yet she was intensely lovable; she invited confidence
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 heart 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.'