Chapter III: Shorter Extracts (2)

An author may bring himself to believe that he can bear blame with equanimity, from whatever quarter it comes; but its force is derived altogether from the character of this. To the public, one reviewer may be the same impersonal being as another; but an author has frequently a far deeper significance to attach to opinions. They are the verdicts of those whom he respects and admires, or the mere words of those for whose judgment he cares not a jot. It is this knowledge of the individual worth of the reviewer’s opinion which makes the censures of some sink so deep, and prey so heavily upon an author’s heart. And thus, in proportion to her true, firm regard for Miss Martineau, did Miss Brontë suffer under what she considered her misjudgment not merely of writing, but of character.

She had long before asked Miss Martineau to tell her whether she considered that any want of womanly delicacy or propriety was betrayed in _Jane Eyre_. And on receiving Miss Martineau’s assurance that she did not, Miss Brontë entreated her to declare it frankly if she thought there was any failure of this description in any future work of “Currer Bell’s.” The promise then given of faithful truth-speaking, Miss Martineau fulfilled when _Villette_ appeared. Miss Brontë writhed under what she felt to be injustice.

This seems a fitting place to state how utterly unconscious she was of what was, by some, esteemed coarse in her writings. One day, during that visit at the Briery when I first met her, the conversation turned upon the subject of women’s writing fiction; and someone remarked on the fact that, in certain instances, authoresses had much outstepped the line which men felt to be proper in works of this kind. Miss Brontë said she wondered how far this was a natural consequence of allowing the imagination to work too constantly; Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth and I expressed our belief that such violations of propriety were altogether unconscious on the part of those to whom reference had been made. I remember her grave, earnest way of saying, “I trust God will take from me whatever power of invention or expression I may have, before He lets me become blind to the sense of what is fitting or unfitting to be said!”

Again, she was invariably shocked and distressed when she heard of any disapproval of _Jane Eyre_ on the ground above-mentioned. Someone said to her in London, “You know, you and I, Miss Brontë, have both written naughty books!” She dwelt much on this; and, as if it weighed on her mind, took an opportunity to ask Mrs. Smith, as she would have asked a mother—if she had not been motherless from earliest childhood—whether, indeed, there was anything so wrong in _Jane Eyre_.

I do not deny for myself the existence of coarseness here and there in her works, otherwise so entirely noble. I only ask those who read them to consider her life—which has been openly laid bare before them—and to say how it could be otherwise. She saw few men; and among these few were one or two with whom she had been acquainted since early girlhood—who had shown her much friendliness and kindness—through whose family she had received many pleasures—for whose intellect she had a great respect—but who talked before her, if not to her, with as little reticence as Rochester talked to Jane Eyre. Take this in connection with her poor brother’s sad life, and the outspoken people among whom she lived—remember her strong feeling of the duty of representing life as it really is, not as it ought to be—and then do her justice for all that she was, and all that she would have been (had God spared her), rather than censure her because her circumstances forced her to touch pitch, as it were, and by it her hand was for a moment defiled. It was but skin-deep. Every change in her life was purifying her; it hardly could raise her. Again I cry, “If she had but lived!”

A Proposal of Marriage

From the _Life of Charlotte Brontë_

The difficulty that presented itself most strongly to me, when I first had the honour of being requested to write this biography, was how I could show what a noble, true, and tender woman Charlotte Brontë really was, without mingling up with her life too much of the personal history of her nearest and most intimate friends. After much consideration of this point, I came to the resolution of writing truly, if I wrote at all; of withholding nothing, though some things, from their very nature, could not be spoken of so fully as others.

One of the deepest interests of her life centres naturally round her marriage, and the preceding circumstances; but more than all other events (because of more recent date, and concerning another as intimately as herself), it requires delicate handling on my part, lest I intrude too roughly on what is most sacred to memory. Yet I have two reasons, which seem to me good and valid ones, for giving some particulars of the course of events which led to her few months of wedded life—that short spell of exceeding happiness. The first is my desire to call attention to the fact that Mr. Nicholls was one who had seen her almost daily for years; seen her as a daughter, a sister, a mistress and a friend. He was not a man to be attracted by any kind of literary fame. I imagine that this, by itself, would rather repel him when he saw it in the possession of a woman. He was a grave, reserved, conscientious man, with a deep sense of religion, and of his duties as one of its ministers.

In silence he had watched her, and loved her long. The love of such a man—a daily spectator of her manner of life for years—is a great testimony to her character as a woman.

How deep his affection was I scarcely dare to tell, even if I could in words. She did not know—she had hardly begun to suspect—that she was the object of any peculiar regard on his part, when, in this very December, he came one evening to tea. After tea she returned from the study to her own sitting-room, as was her custom, leaving her father and his curate together. Presently she heard the study door open, and expected to hear the succeeding clash of the front door. Instead, came a tap; and, “like lightning, it flashed upon me what was coming. He entered. He stood before me. What his words were you can imagine; his manner you can hardly realise, nor can I forget it. He made me, for the first time, feel what it costs a man to declare affection when he doubts response.… The spectacle of one, ordinarily so statue-like, thus trembling, stirred, and overcome, gave me a strange shock. I could only entreat him to leave me then, and promise a reply on the morrow. I asked if he had spoken to Papa. He said he dared not. I think I half led, half put him out of the room.”

So deep, so fervent, and so enduring was the affection Miss Brontë had inspired in the heart of this good man! It is an honour to her; and, as such, I have thought it my duty to speak thus much, and quote thus fully from her letter about it. And now I pass to my second reason for dwelling on a subject which may possibly be considered by some, at first sight, of too private a nature for publication. When Mr. Nicholls had left her, Charlotte went immediately to her father and told him all. He always disapproved of marriages, and constantly talked against them. But he more than disapproved at this time; he could not bear the idea of this attachment of Mr. Nicholls to his daughter. Fearing the consequences of agitation to one so recently an invalid, she made haste to give her father a promise that, on the morrow, Mr. Nicholls should have a distinct refusal. Thus quietly and modestly did she, on whom such hard judgments had been passed by ignorant reviewers, receive this vehement, passionate declaration of love—thus thoughtfully for her father and unselfishly for herself, put aside all consideration of how she should reply, excepting as he wished!

The immediate result of Mr. Nicholls’ declaration of attachment was, that he sent in his resignation of the curacy of Haworth; and that Miss Brontë held herself simply passive, as far as words and actions went, while she suffered acute pain from the strong expressions which her father used in speaking of Mr. Nicholls, and from the too evident distress and failure of health on the part of the latter.

Charlotte Brontë’s Funeral

From the _Life of Charlotte Brontë_

I have always been much struck with a passage in Mr. Forster’s _Life of Goldsmith_. Speaking of the scene after his death, the writer says:

“The staircase of Brick Court is said to have been filled with mourners, the reverse of domestic; women without a home, without domesticity of any kind, with no friend but him they had come to weep for; outcasts of that great, solitary, wicked city, to whom he had never forgotten to be kind and charitable.”

This came into my mind when I heard of some of the circumstances attendant on Charlotte’s funeral.

Few beyond that circle of hills knew that she, whom the nations praised far off, lay dead that Easter morning. Of kith and kin she had more in the grave to which she was soon to be borne than among the living. The two mourners, stunned with their great grief, desired not the sympathy of strangers. One member out of most of the families in the parish was bidden to the funeral; and it became an act of self-denial in many a poor household to give up to another the privilege of paying their last homage to her; and those who were excluded from the formal train of mourners thronged the churchyard and church, to see carried forth, and laid beside her own people, her whom, not many months ago, they had looked at as a pale white bride, entering on a new life with trembling happy hope.

Among those humble friends who passionately grieved over the dead, was a village girl who had been betrayed some little time before, but who had found a holy sister in Charlotte. She had sheltered her with her help, her counsel, her strengthening words; had ministered to her needs in her time of trial. Bitter, bitter was the grief of this poor young woman, when she heard that her friend was sick unto death, and deep is her mourning until this day. A blind girl, living some four miles from Haworth, loved Mrs. Nicholls so dearly that, with many cries and entreaties, she implored those about her to lead her along the roads, and over the moor-paths, that she might hear the last solemn words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Such were the mourners over Charlotte Brontë’s grave.

I have little more to say. If my readers find that I have not said enough, I have said too much. I cannot measure or judge of such a character as hers. I cannot map out vices, and virtues, and debatable land. One who knew her long and well—the “Mary” of this _Life_—writes thus of her dead friend:

“She thought much of her duty, and had loftier and clearer notions of it than most people, and held fast to them with more success. It was done, it seems to me, with much more difficulty than people have of stronger nerves, and better fortunes. All her life was but labour and pain; and she never threw down the burden for the sake of present pleasure. I don’t know what use you can make of all I have said. I have written it with the strong desire to obtain appreciation for her. Yet, what does it matter? She herself appealed to the world’s judgment for her use of some of the faculties she had—not the best—but still the only ones she could turn to strangers’ benefit. They heartily, greedily enjoyed the fruits of her labours, and then found out she was much to be blamed for possessing such faculties. Why ask for a judgment on her from such a world?”

Shorter Extracts

Old Maids

From “Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras,” _Howitt’s Journal_.

“Never say aught lightly of the wife’s lot whose husband is given to drink!”

“Dear, what a preachment! I tell you what, Libbie, you’re as born an old maid as ever I saw. You’ll never be married to either drunken or sober.”

Libbie’s face went rather red, but without losing its meek expression.

“I know that as well as you can tell me; and more reason, therefore, as God has seen fit to keep me out of woman’s natural work, I should try and find work for myself. I mean,” seeing Annie Dixon’s puzzled look, “that, as I know I’m never likely to have a home of my own, or a husband that would look to me to make all straight, or children to watch over and care for, all which I take to be woman’s natural work, I must not lose time in fretting and fidgeting after marriage, but just look about me for somewhat else to do. I can see many a one misses it in this. They will hanker after what is ne’er likely to be theirs, instead of facing it out, and settling down to be old maids, and, as old maids, just looking round for the odd jobs God leaves in the world for such as old maids to do. There’s plenty of such work, and there’s the blessing of God on them as does it.” Libbie was almost out of breath at this outpouring of what had long been her inner thoughts.

Mercy for the Erring

From _Ruth_.

Frederick Denison Maurice mentioned the story of _Ruth_ in one
of his lectures, speaking of Mrs. Gaskell as “a noble-hearted
and pure-minded writer, who had given a story as true to human
experience as it is to the divinest morality.”

“Now I wish God would give me power to speak out convincingly what I believe to be His truth, that not every woman who has fallen is depraved; that many—how many the Great Judgment Day will reveal to those who have shaken off the poor, sore, penitent hearts on earth—many, many crave and hunger after a chance for virtue—the help which no man gives to them—help—that gentle, tender help which Jesus gave once to Mary Magdalen.” Mr. Benson was almost choked by his own feelings.

“Come, come, Mr. Benson, let us have no more of this morbid way of talking. The world has decided how such women are to be treated; and, you may depend upon it, there is so much practical wisdom in the world that its way of acting is right in the long run, and that no one can fly in its face with impunity, unless, indeed, they stoop to deceit and imposition.”

“I take my stand with Christ against the world,” said Mr. Benson solemnly, disregarding the covert allusion to himself. “What have the world’s ways ended in? Can we be much worse than we are?”

“Speak for yourself, if you please.”

“Is it not time to change some of our ways of thinking and acting? I declare before God, that if I believe in any one human truth, it is this—that to every woman, who, like Ruth, has sinned, should be given a chance of self-redemption—and that such a chance should be given in no supercilious or contemptuous manner, but in the spirit of the holy Christ.”

“Such as getting her into a friend’s house under false colours.”

“I do not argue on Ruth’s case. In that I have acknowledged my error. I do not argue on any case. I state my firm belief, that it is God’s will that we should not dare to trample any of His creatures down to the hopeless dust; that it is God’s will that the women who have fallen should be numbered among those who have broken hearts to be bound up, not cast aside as lost beyond recall. If this be God’s will, as a thing of God it will stand; and He will open a way.”

A Clergyman’s Soliloquy

From _North and South_.

Mrs. Gaskell’s own father gave up his appointment as a
Unitarian minister from conscientious reasons, and the
beautiful character of Mr. Hale surely owes something to Mr.
Stevenson.

Mr. Travers Madge, a Unitarian minister in Manchester, and a
friend and fellow-worker of the Gaskells, also gave up his
position as a minister because he objected to being a paid
preacher.

“This is the soliloquy of one who was once a clergyman in a country parish, like me; it was written by a Mr. Oldfield, minister of Carsington, in Derbyshire, a hundred and sixty years ago, or more. His trials are over. He fought the good fight.” These last two sentences he spoke low, as if to himself. Then he read aloud:

“When thou canst no longer continue in thy work without dishonour to God, discredit to religion, foregoing thy integrity, wounding conscience, spoiling thy peace, and hazarding the loss of thy salvation; in a word, when the conditions upon which thou must continue (if thou wilt continue) in thy employments are sinful, and unwarranted by the word of God, thou mayest, yea, thou must believe that God will turn thy very silence, suspension, deprivation, and laying aside, to His glory, and the advancement of the Gospel’s interest. When God will not use thee in one kind, yet He will in another. A soul that desires to serve and honour Him shall never want opportunity to do it; nor must thou so limit the Holy One of Israel, as to think He hath but one way in which He can glorify Himself by thee. He can do it by thy silence as well as by thy preaching; thy laying aside as well as thy continuance in thy work. It is not pretence of doing God the greatest service, or performing the weightiest duty, that will excuse the least sin, though that sin capacitated or gave us the opportunity for doing that duty. Thou wilt have little thanks, O my soul! if, when thou art charged with corrupting God’s worship, falsifying thy vows, thou pretendest a necessity for it in order to a continuance in the ministry.”

As he read this, and glanced at much more which he did not read, he gained resolution for himself, and felt as if he too could be brave and firm in doing what be believed to be right; but as he ceased he heard Margaret’s low convulsive sob; and his courage sank down under the keen sense of suffering.

“Margaret, dear!” said he, drawing her closer, “think of the early martyrs; think of the thousands who have suffered.”

“But, father,” said she, suddenly lifting up her flushed, tear-wet face, “the early martyrs suffered for the truth, while you—oh! dear, dear papa!”

“I suffer for conscience’ sake, my child!” said he, with a dignity that was only tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of his character; “I must do what my conscience bids. I have borne long with self-reproach that would have roused any mind less torpid and cowardly than mine.”

My Lady Ludlow’s Tea-party

From _My Lady Ludlow_.

Mrs. Brooke is a rough diamond, to be sure. People have said that of me, I know. But, being a Galindo, I learnt manners in my youth and can take them up when I choose. But Mrs. Brooke never learnt manners, I’ll be bound. When John Footman handed her the tray with the tea-cups, she looked up at him as if she were sorely puzzled by that way of going on. I was sitting next to her, so I pretended not to see her perplexity, and put her cream and sugar in for her, and was all ready to pop it into her hands—when who should come up but that impudent lad Tom Diggles (I call him lad, for all his hair is powdered, for you know that it is not naturally grey hair) with his tray full of cakes and what not, all as good as Mrs. Medlicott could make them. By this time, I should tell you, all the parsonesses were looking at Mrs. Brooke, for she had shown her want of breeding before; and the parsonesses, who were just a step above her in manners, were very much inclined to smile at her doings and sayings. Well! what does she do but pull out a clean Bandana pocket-handkerchief, all red and yellow silk; spread it over her best silk gown—it was, like enough, a new one, for I had it from Sally, who had it from her cousin Molly, who is dairy-woman “at the Brookes’,” that the Brookes were mighty set-up with an invitation to drink tea at the Hall. There we were, Tom Diggles ever on the grin (I wonder how long it is since he was own brother to a scarecrow, only not so decently dressed), and Mrs. Parsoness of Headleigh—I forget her name, and it’s no matter, for she’s an ill-bred creature, I hope Bessy will behave herself better—was right-down bursting with laughter, and as near a hee-haw as ever a donkey was; when what does my lady do? Ay! there’s my own dear Lady Ludlow, God bless her! She takes out her own pocket-handkerchief, all snowy cambric, and lays it softly down on her velvet lap, for all the world as if she did it every day of her life, just like Mrs. Brooke, the baker’s wife; and when one got up to shake the crumbs into the fireplace, the other did just the same. But with such a grace! and such a look at us all! Tom Diggles went red all over; and Mrs. Parsoness of Headleigh scarce spoke for the rest of the evening; and the tears came into my old silly eyes; and Mr. Gray, who was before silent and awkward in a way which I tell Bessy she must cure him of, was made so happy by this pretty action of my lady’s that he talked away all the rest of the evening, and was the life of the company.

The Foxglove

From _Ruth_, 1853

Writing of the old traditions of Cheshire, Mrs. Gaskell said,
“I was once saying to an old blind country-woman how much I
admired the foxglove. She looked mysteriously solemn as she
told me they were not like other flowers; they had ‘knowledge’
in them!”

“I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales; and often in this immediate neighbourhood.”

“I do not wonder at your choice,” replied Ruth. “It is a beautiful country.”

“It is, indeed; and I have been inoculated by an old innkeeper at Conway with a love for its people, and history, and traditions. I have picked up enough of the language to understand many of their legends; and some are very fine and awe-inspiring, others very poetic and fanciful.”

Ruth was too shy to keep up the conversation by any remark of her own, although his gentle, pensive manner was very winning.

“For instance,” said he, touching a long bud-laden stem of foxglove in the hedge-side, at the bottom of which one or two crimson speckled flowers were bursting from their green sheaths, “I dare say, you don’t know what makes this foxglove bend and sway so gracefully. You think it is blown by the wind, don’t you?” He looked at her with a grave smile which did not enliven his thoughtful eyes, but gave an inexpressible sweetness to his face.

“I always thought it was the wind. What is it?” asked Ruth innocently.

“Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the fairies, and that it has the power of recognising them, and all spiritual beings who pass by, and that it bows in deference to them as they waft along. Its Welsh name is Maneg Ellyllyn—the good people’s glove; and hence, I imagine, our folk’s-glove or foxglove.”

“It’s a very pretty fancy,” said Ruth, much interested, and wishing that he would go on, without expecting her to reply.

A Tonic for Sorrow

From _Mary Barton_

Oh! I do think that the necessity for exertion, for some kind of action (bodily or mental) in time of distress, is a most infinite blessing, although the first efforts at such seasons are painful. Something to be done implies that there is yet hope of some good thing to be accomplished, or some additional evil that may be avoided; and by degrees the hope absorbs much of the sorrow.

It is the woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped that admit least earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, hollow mockeries of comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the trouble of sympathising with others, the one I dislike the most is the exhortation not to grieve over an event, “for it cannot be helped.” Do you think if I could help it, I would sit still with folded hands, content to mourn? Do you not believe that as long as hope remained I would be up and doing? I mourn because what has occurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me for not grieving is the very and sole reason of my grief. Give me nobler and higher reasons for enduring meekly what my Father sees fit to send, and I will try earnestly and faithfully to be patient; but mock me not, or any other mourner, with the speech: “Do not grieve, for it cannot be helped. It is past remedy.”

A New Commandment

From _Mary Barton_

I sometimes think there’s two sides to the commandment; and that we may say, “Let others do unto you, as you would do unto them,” for pride often prevents our giving others a great deal of pleasure, in not letting them be kind, when their hearts are longing to help; and when we ourselves should wish to do just the same, if we were in their place. Oh! how often I’ve been hurt, by being coldly told by persons not to trouble myself about their care, or sorrow, when I saw them in great grief, and wanted to be of comfort. Our Lord Jesus was not above letting folk minister to Him, for He knew how happy it makes one to do aught for another. It’s the happiest work on earth.

Virtue has its own Reward

From _Ruth_

People may talk as they will about the little respect that is paid to virtue, unaccompanied by the outward accidents of wealth or station; but I rather think it will be found that, in the long run, true and simple virtue always has its proportionate reward in the respect and reverence of everyone whose esteem is worth having. To be sure, it is not rewarded after the way of the world as mere worldly possessions are, with low obeisance and lip-service; but all the better and more noble qualities in the hearts of others make ready and go forth to meet it on its approach, provided only it be pure, simple, and unconscious of its own existence.

Thomas Wright the Prison Philanthropist of Manchester

From _Mary Barton_

The month was over—the honeymoon to the newly married; the exquisite convalescence to the “living mother of a living child”; “the first dark days of nothingness” to the widow and the child bereaved; the term of penance, of hard labour, and of solitary confinement, to the shrinking, shivering, hopeless prisoner.

“Sick, and in prison, and ye visited me.” Shall you, or I, receive such blessing? I know one who will. An overseer of a foundry, an aged man, with hoary hair, has spent his Sabbaths, for many years, in visiting the prisoners and the afflicted, in Manchester New Bailey; not merely advising and comforting, but putting means into their power of regaining the virtue and the peace they had lost; becoming himself their guarantee in obtaining employment, and never deserting those who have once asked help from him.[1]

[1] Vide _Manchester Guardian_ of Wednesday, March 18th, 1846; and also the Reports of Captain Williams, prison inspector.

Do the Right whatever the Consequences

From _Ruth_

It is better not to expect or calculate consequences. The longer I live, the more fully I see that. Let us try simply to do right actions, without thinking of the feelings they are to call out in others. We know that no holy or self-denying effort can fall to the ground vain and useless; but the sweep of eternity is large, and God alone knows when the effect is to be produced. We are trying to do right now, and to feel right; don’t let us perplex ourselves with endeavouring to map out how she should feel, or how she should show her feelings.

Appreciations and Testimonia

Professor Minto

“Mrs Gaskell was indeed a born story-teller, charged through and through with the story-teller’s peculiar element, a something which may be called suppressed gipsiness, a restless instinct which impelled her to be constantly making trial in imagination of various modes of life. Her imagination was perpetually busy with the vicissitudes which days and years brought round to others; she entered into their lives, laughed with them, wept with them, speculated on the cardinal incidents and circumstances, the good qualities and the ‘vicious moles of nature,’ which had made them what they were, schemed how they might have been different, and lived through the windings and turnings of their destinies, the excitement of looking forward to the unknown.…

“‘Sir,’ she seems to say to the nature-worshipper, ‘let us take a peep into some English household. Let us watch its inmates in comfort and in distress, I will tell you their history. You shall see how a Lancashire mechanic entertains his friends, how a country doctor gets on with his neighbours, how a coquettish farmer’s daughter behaves to her lovers. I have no strange experiences to reveal to you, only the life that lies at your doors; but I will show you its tragedies and its comedies. I will describe the characters of your countrymen to you, and I will tell you things about them that will interest you, some things that will make you weep and many that will make you smile.’” (_Fortnightly Review_, 1878.)

Dr. A. W. Ward

“The ‘century of praise’ which it would not be difficult to compose from the tributes, public and private, paid to the genius of Mrs. Gaskell by eminent men and women of her own generation, need hardly be invoked by its successors, to whom her writings still speak. Such a list would include, among other eulogies, those of Carlyle and Ruskin, of Dickens, who called her his ‘Scheherazade,’ and of Thackeray, of Charles Kingsley and of Matthew Arnold, of whom his sister, the late Mrs. W. E. Forster, drew a picture in his own happy manner, ‘stretched at full length on a sofa reading a Christmas tale of Mrs. Gaskell, which moves him to tears, and the tears to complacent admiration of his own sensibility.’ Lord Houghton, John Forster, George Henry Lewes, Tom Taylor, were among her declared admirers; to whom should be added among statesmen, Cobden and the late Duke of Argyll. Among Mrs. Gaskell’s female fellow-writers, Charlotte Brontë, and George Eliot, Harriet Martineau and Mrs. Beecher Stowe (_facies non omnibus una_) were at least alike to each other in their warm admiration of her. To these names should be added that of one whose praise came near home to Mrs. Gaskell’s heart—Mrs. Stanley, the mother of Dean Stanley. Among French lovers of her genius Ampère has already been mentioned, and with him should be named Guizot and Jules Simon.” (Introduction to _Mary Barton_, Knutsford Edition, 1906.)

Susanna Winkworth

“When we first knew Mrs. Gaskell she had not yet become celebrated, but from the earliest days of our intercourse with her we were struck with her genius, and used to say to each other that we were sure she could write books, or do anything else in the world that she liked. And the more we knew of her, the more we admired her. She was a noble-looking woman, with a queenly presence, and her high, broad, serene brow and finely-cut, mobile features, were lighted up by a constantly varying play of expression as she poured forth her wonderful talk. It was like the gleaming ripple and rush of a clear, deep stream in sunshine. Though one of the most brilliant persons I ever saw, she had none of the restlessness and eagerness that spoils so much of our conversation nowadays. There was no hurry or high pressure about her, but she seemed always surrounded by an atmosphere of ease, leisure, and playful geniality, that drew out the best side of everyone who was in her company.

“When you were with her, you felt as if you had twice the life in you that you had at ordinary times. All her great intellectual gifts—her quick, keen observation, her marvellous memory, her wealth of imaginative power, her rare felicity of instinct, her graceful and racy humour—were so warmed and brightened by sympathy and feeling, that while actually with her, you were less conscious of her power than of her charm.

“No one ever came near her in the gift of telling a story. In her hands the simplest incident—a meeting in the street, a talk with a factory-girl, a country walk, an old family history—became picturesque and vivid and interesting. Her fun, her pathos, her graphic touches, her sympathetic insight were inimitable.” (_Memorials of two sisters: Susanna and Catherine Winkworth_, 1908.)

Thomas Seccombe

“Her novels are perenially fresh. They do not fatigue, or sear, or narcotise. We return to them with an unfading and constant delight. Her books engender a feeling of gratitude towards the writer along with a strong sentimental regret—regret that a life so happy, so sympathetic, so well balanced, and, in short so beautiful, could not have been prolonged, that her vivid mind and pen should not have irradiated our particular generation.

“Could you imagine England personified as a sentient and intelligent being, on the death of Elizabeth Gaskell, as on the death of Charles Lamb or Walter Scott, you would expect her to draw a long sigh as one feeling sensibly poorer for a loss that never could be repaired. You may think this to be a deliberate exaggeration, but it certainly is not. So far as artistic perfection is attainable in such a formless and chaotic thing as the modern novel, it is my deliberate belief that Mrs. Gaskell has no absolute rival in the measure of complete success which she was enabled to achieve.…

“If you ask for the normal type of English novel in the highest degree of perfection to which it ever attained, I should certainly be inclined to say take _Mary Barton_, _North and South_, _Sylvia’s Lovers_, and _Wives and Daughters_. Not one of them altogether or entirely attained to the perfection of which Mrs. Gaskell herself was capable. But they fully and adequately reveal her power and likewise her intention of subordinating herself in some degree to a form of the potentialities and limitations of which alike, it seems to me, she had an intuition surpassing the utmost efforts of any of her greater contemporaries.” (Introduction to _Sylvia’s Lovers_, 1910.)

Lady Ritchie

“Mrs. Gaskell put herself into her stories; her emotions, her amusements all poured out from a full heart, and she retold the experience of her own loyal work among the poor, of her playtime among the well-to-do. And as she knew more and more she told better and better what she had lived through. She told the story of those she had known, of those she had loved—so, at least, it seems to some readers, coming after long years and re-reading more critically, perhaps, with new admiration. Another fact about her is that she faced the many hard problems of her life’s experience—faced them boldly, and set the example of writing to the point. It has been followed by how many with half her knowledge and insight, and without her generous purpose, taking grim subjects for art’s sake rather than for humanity’s sake, as she did.” (_Blackstick Papers_, 1908.)

Frederick Greenwood

“The kindly spirit which thinks no ill looks out of her pages irradiate; and while we read them, we breathe the purer intelligence that prefers to deal with emotions and passions which have a living root in minds within the pale of salvation, and not with those that rot without it. This spirit is more especially declared in _Cousin Phillis_ and _Wives and Daughters_—their author’s latest works; they seem to show that for her the end of life was not descent among the clods of the valley, but ascent into the purer air of the heaven-aspiring hills.

“We are saying nothing of the merely intellectual qualities displayed in these later works. Twenty years to come, that may be thought the more important question of the two; in the presence of her grave we cannot think so; but it is true, all the same, that as mere works of art and observation, these later novels of Mrs. Gaskell’s are among the finest of our time. There is a scene in _Cousin Phillis_—where Holman, making hay with his men, ends the day with a psalm—which is not excelled as a picture in all modern fiction; and the same may be said of that chapter of this last story in which Roger smokes a pipe with the Squire after the quarrel with Osborne. There is little in either of these scenes, or in a score of others which succeed each other like gems in a cabinet, which the ordinary novel-maker could ‘seize.’ There is no ‘material’ for _him_ in half a dozen farming men singing hymns in a field, or a discontented old gentleman smoking tobacco with his son; still less could he avail himself of the miseries of a little girl sent to be happy in a fine house full of fine people; but it is just in such things as these that true genius appears brightest and most unapproachable.” (_Cornhill Magazine_, 1865.)

Miss Catherine J. Hamilton

“For purity of tone, earnestness of spirit, depth of pathos, and lightness of touch, Mrs. Gaskell has not left her superior in fiction.

“One who knew her said: ‘She was what her books show her to have been, a wise, good woman.’

“She was even more than wise or good, she had that true poetic feeling which exalts whatever it touches, and makes nothing common or unclean. She had that clear insight which sees all and believes in the best.” (_Women Writers_, Second Series.)

Richard D. Graham

“Mrs. Gaskell through all the toils and excitements of authorship remained a true woman in the sweetest and worthiest meaning of the name. In all the ordinary relations of life she was admirable, neglecting no social or domestic duty, shrinking from every attempt to lionise her, and charming no less by her personal attractions and the grace of her manner, than by the sweetness of her disposition.” (_The Masters of Victorian Literature._)

Edna Lyall

“Of all the novelists of Queen Victoria’s reign there is not one to whom the present writer turns with such a sense of love and gratitude as to Mrs. Gaskell. This feeling is undoubtedly shared by thousands of men and women, for about all the novels there is that wonderful sense of sympathy, that broad human interest which appeals to readers of every description.”

(_Women Novelists of Queen Victoria’s Reign._)

G. Barnett Smith

“We were struck in reading her various volumes with this fact—that there is really less in them than there is in most other authors which she herself could wish to be altered. In fact, there is no purer author in modern times. And what has she lost by being pure? Has she failed to give a fair representation of any class of human beings whom she professes to depict? Not one; and her work stands now as an excellent model for those who would avoid the tendencies of the sensuous school, and would seek another basis upon which to acquire a reputation which should have some chances of durability. The author of _Wives and Daughters_ will never cease to hold a high place in our regard. Could she do so we should despair for the future of fiction in England. Hers was one of those spirits which led the way to a purer day.” (_Cornhill Magazine, February, 1874._)

Clement K. Shorter

“Mrs. Gaskell as an artist has clearly used other experiences than those that Knutsford offered, and, transmuting all through her kindly and generous nature, has given us the delightful pure idyll (_Cranford_) that we know, the most tenderly humorous book that our literature has seen since Goldsmith wrote. One of the great distinctions of Mrs. Gaskell is in the kindliness of her humour; she is, strange to say, the only woman novelist who is entirely kindly, benevolently humorous.… This benevolent humour of Mrs. Gaskell is to be found in all her books, and it is to be found above all in _Cranford_.” (Introduction to _Cranford_. The World’s Classics, 1906.)

Bibliography

Bibliography of Mrs. Gaskell’s Works in Chronological Order

1837. Sketches among the Poor. _Blackwood’s Magazine._ January.

1840. Clopton Hall. _Howitt’s Visits to Remarkable Places._

1847. Libbie Marsh’s Three Eras. _Howitt’s Journal_, I.

Sexton’s Hero. _Howitt’s Journal_, II.

1848. Christmas Storms and Sunshine. _Howitt’s Journal_, III.

MARY BARTON. A tale of Manchester Life. 2 vols. London.
Chapman & Hall. Fifth Edition 1854; German Edition 1849;
French Translation 1856. Has been published by at least
a dozen publishers since the copyright ran out.

1849. Hand and Heart. _Sunday School Penny Magazine._

1850. Lizzie Leigh. _Household Words._ March 30.

Well of Pen Morfa. _Household Words._ November 16 and 23.

The Heart of John Middleton. _Household Words._ December 28.

THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. Chapman & Hall. Republished in 1892.

1851. Mr. Harrison’s Confessions. _Ladies’ Companion._ February,
March, April.

Disappearances. _Household Words._ June 7.

Cranford. _Household Words._ December 13, 1851, to May, 1853.

1852. The Schah’s English Gardener. _Household Words._ June 19.

The Old Nurse’s Story. _Household Words._ Christmas Number.

Bessy’s Troubles at Home. _Sunday School Penny Magazine._
January.

1853. Cumberland Sheep-shearers. _Household Words._ January 22.

CRANFORD. Chapman & Hall. 1 vol.

Cheap editions 1853-5; French Translation 1856; German
Translation 1857. Republished by more than twenty
publishers in England and America since the copyright
ran out.

Morton Hall. _Household Words._ November 19 and 26.

Traits and Stories of Huguenots. _Household Words._
December 10.

My French Master. _Household Words._ December 17 and 24.

The Squire’s Story. _Household Words._ Christmas Number.

Introduction to The Scholar’s Story. _Household Words._
Christmas Number.

RUTH, a novel. Chapman & Hall. 3 vols. Third Edition 1855;
American Edition 1855; French Translation 1856. Published
by three other publishers in 1857 1861, 1872. Reissued
after the copyright ceased by three different publishers.

1854. Modern Greek Songs. _Household Words._ February 25.

Company Manners. _Household Words._ May 20.

North and South. _Household Words._ September 2, 1854, to
January 27, 1855.

LIZZIE LEIGH. Chapman and Hall. 1 vol. German Edition 1855.

1855. An Accused Race. _Household Words._ August 25.

Half a Lifetime Ago. _Household Words._ October 6, 13, 20.

NORTH AND SOUTH. Chapman & Hall. 2 vols. Second Edition 1855;
Fourth Edition 1859; American Edition 1864; French Edition
1859. Reissued by two publishers after the copyright ran out.

1856. The Poor Chare. _Household Words._ December 13 and 27.

1857. LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË. Smith, Elder & Co. 2 vols.
Third Edition revised and corrected 1857; American Edition
1857; Cheap Edition 1860; French Edition 1877. After the
copyright ran out it was reissued in the Haworth Edition
in 1900 with introduction and notes by Clement Shorter.
Thornton Edition with introduction by B. W. Willett and
notes by Temple Scott, 1901. Republished by three other
publishers.

Edited MABEL VAUGHAN by Miss Cummins and wrote Preface.
Sampson Low & Co.

1858. Doom of the Griffiths. _Harper’s Magazine._ January.

My Lady Ludlow. _Household Words._ June 19 to September 25.

Right at Last (under title of Sin of a Father). _Household
Words._ November 27.

The Half Brothers. _Dublin University Magazine._ November.

Manchester Marriage. _Household Words._ Christmas Number.

1859. Lois the Witch. _All the Year Round._ October 8 and 22.

The Ghost in the Garden Room. _All the Year Round._ Christmas
Number. (Reprinted under title of The Crooked Branch.)

ROUND THE SOFA. London: Sampson Low & Co. 2 vols. French
Translation 1860; Second French Edition 1865.

1860. RIGHT AT LAST AND OTHER TALES. Sampson Low & Co. American
Edition Harper & Brothers.

Curious if True. _Cornhill Magazine._ February.

1861. The Grey Woman. _All the Year Round._ January 5, 12, 19.

MY LADY LUDLOW AND OTHER TALES. London: Sampson Low & Co.
New Edition 1866; American Edition 1867.

1862. Six Weeks at Heppenheim. _Cornhill Magazine._ May.

Preface to GARIBALDI AT CAPRERA. Macmillan & Co.

1863. A Dark Night’s Work. _All the Year Round._ January 24 to
March 21.

A DARK NIGHT’S WORK. German Translation 1865; English
Editions published 1863 and 1871. Smith, Elder & Co.

An Italian Institution. _All the Year Round._ March 21.

The Cage at Cranford. _All the Year Round._ November 28.

Cousin Phillis. _Cornhill Magazine._ November, 1863, to
February, 1864.

Crowley Castle. _All the Year Round._ Christmas Number.

SYLVIA’S LOVERS. London: Smith, Elder & Co. 3 vols. German
Translation 1864; French Translation 1865. Since the
copyright ran out it has been republished in a cheap
edition.

Robert Gould Shaw. _Macmillan’s Magazine._ December.

1864. French Life. _Fraser’s Magazine._ April, May, June.

Wives and Daughters. _Cornhill Magazine._ August, 1864,
to January, 1866.

1865. COUSIN PHILLIS AND OTHER TALES. London: Smith, Elder &
Co. French Translation 1866; German Edition 1867.

THE GREEN WOMAN AND OTHER TALES. London: Smith, Elder & Co.

1866. WIVES AND DAUGHTERS. London: Smith, Elder & Co. 3
vols. American Edition 1866; German Translation 1867;
French Translation 1868.

1906. Two Fragments of Ghost Stories printed for the first time
in COUSIN PHILLIS, Knutsford Edition.

Short poem “On Visiting the Grave of my Stillborn Little
Girl,” written in 1836 and published for the first time
in the biographical introduction to MARY BARTON, Knutsford
Edition.

Collected Editions of Mrs. Gaskell’s Works

First Collected Edition, 1872-3. 7 vols. London: Smith, Elder &
Co.

_Novels and Tales_, 1878-82. 7 vols. London: Smith, Elder & Co.

_Novels and Tales_, new edition, 1891-2.

i. Wives and Daughters.
ii. North and South.
iii. Sylvia’s Lovers.
iv. Cranford and Other Tales.
v. Mary Barton and Other Tales.
vi. Ruth and Other Tales.
vii. Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales.

_Novels and Tales_, 1892-4. 8 vols. Pocket Edition. Smith,
Elder & Co.

i. Wives and Daughters.
ii. North and South.
iii. Sylvia’s Lovers.
iv. Cranford and Other Tales.
v. Mary Barton and Other Tales.
vi. Ruth and Other Tales.
vii. A Dark Night’s Work and Other Tales.
viii. My Lady Ludlow and Other Tales.

_Works_, 1906. 8 vols. Knutsford Edition edited by Dr. A. W.
Ward, with an introduction to each volume.

i. Mary Barton and Other Tales.
ii. Cranford and Other Tales.
iii. Ruth and Other Tales.
iv. North and South.
v. My Lady Ludlow and Other Tales.
vi. Sylvia’s Lovers, etc.
vii. Cousin Phillis and Other Tales.
viii. Wives and Daughters.

_Works_, 1906-10. The World’s Classics. London: H. Frowde;
edited by Clement K. Shorter, with an introduction to each
volume.

i. Mary Barton.
ii. Ruth.
iii. Cranford and Other Tales.
iv. North and South.
v. Sylvia’s Lovers.
vi. Wives and Daughters.
vii. Cousin Phillis and Other Tales.

_Works_, 1906. Everyman’s Library. London: J. M. Dent & Co.;
edited by Ernest Rhys.

i. Cranford, with forewords.
ii. Life of Charlotte Brontë, with an introduction by May Sinclair.
iii. Sylvia’s Lovers, with an introduction by Mrs. Ellis H. Chadwick.

_Works_, 1909. The Queen’s Treasures Series. London: G. Bell &
Sons.

i. Cousin Phillis, with preface by Thomas Seccombe.
ii. Sylvia’s Lovers, with preface by Thomas Seccombe.

A fuller biography of Mrs. Gaskell’s works may be found in _Mrs. Gaskell: Haunts, Homes, and Stories_, by Mrs. Ellis H. Chadwick (Pitman).

Iconography

1829. Marble Bust of Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson, sculptured by
David Dunbar, Edinburgh.

1832. Miniature of Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson, painted by
Thompson, Edinburgh.

1851. Drawing by George Richmond, R.A.

1864. Drawing by Samuel Laurence.

1864. Photograph by Alexander McGlashon, Edinburgh.

1907. Bronze Medallion in the Gaskell Tower, Knutsford, by
Cavaliere Achille, Rome. Copied from Edinburgh Photograph.

1895. Marble Replica of Edinburgh Bust by Hamo Thorneycroft in
the Christie Library, Manchester University.

1910. Stone Replica of Manchester bust in Gaskell Tower,
Knutsford.

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

* * * * *

_A Selection from_
Herbert & Daniel’s List

_Second Edition_] THE IDEAL BIRTHDAY PRESENT [_Fifth Thousand_

=For Her Namesake. An Anthology of Poetical Addresses by Devout Lovers to Gentle Maidens.= Edited by STEPHEN LANGTON.

‘The most fastidious of lovers will find something to please
him in this industrious collection of passages of verse—a
maiden of a different name being the chosen subject of each of
them.’—_Times._

‘Made with excellent taste and most attractively
produced.’—_The Lady._

_UNIFORM WITH ABOVE_

A Series of Dainty Anthologies

_Each with Decorated End Papers and Cover Designs_

Fcap 8vo. =3s. 6d. net; leather 5s. net.=

=The Book of the Seven Ages.= Edited by HENRY W. CLARKE.

=An Artist’s Day-Book.= Edited by THOMAS BURKE.

=The Charm of India.= Edited by CLAUD FIELD.

=An Anthology of Poetic Prose.= _By_ PROFESSOR COWL, of Bristol University.

=Music in Poetry and Prose.= Edited by ADA INGPEN.

POETRY

=A Book of Verse by Living Women.= With an Introduction _by_ LADY MARGARET SACKVILLE. _List of Authors_—Anonymous, Jane Barlow, Anna Bunston, Frances Cornford, Olive Custance (Lady Alfred Douglas), Michael Field, Mrs Hamilton-King, Emily Hickey, Winifred Lucas (Mrs Le Bailly), Eva M. Martin, Annie Matheson, Alice Meynell, Rosa Mulholland, Dolly Radford, Mary Robinson, Lady Margaret Sackville, Dora Sigerson Shorter, Cicely Fox Smith, Elinor Sweetman, Laurence Alma Tadema, Rachel Annand Taylor, Hon. Grace Tollemache, Rosalind Travers, Katharine Tynan, Rosamund Marriott Watson, Margaret L. Woods—Bibliography. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth, =3s. 6d. net;= leather, =5s. net.=

‘This dainty volume is full of good things. The selection is
one of the best I have ever seen.’ —C.K. S. in the _Sphere_.

‘The volume is proof indisputable of a widespread intellectual
and poetic vitality amongst our contemporaries of the sweeter
sex.’—_Yorkshire Observer._

=Eyes of Youth: A Book of Verse= _By_ PADRAIC COLUM, HON. MRS LYTTON, SHANE LESLIE, VIOLA AND OLIVIA MEYNELL, HON. MRS LINDSAY, HUGH AUSTIN, MONICA SALEEBY, MAURICE HEALY AND FRANCIS MEYNELL. With four Early Poems by FRANCIS THOMPSON, now first published in book form. The Foreword by G. K. CHESTERTON. Crown 8vo. =3s. 6d. net.=

‘Most of the contents show a pure and modest poetic purpose;
and the whole helps one to realise that much good verse is
being written in quietness by people who write it for its own
sake.’—_Times._

‘It is not possible to cite all the “variety verging on
quaintness” represented in this interesting little book,
which may be commended to the notice of all interested in
poetry.’—_Daily Telegraph._

=The Porch of Paradise. An Allegorical Poem.= _By_ ANNA BUNSTON, Author of _Mingled Wine_. Crown 8vo. =3s. 6d. net.=

‘A poem of high endeavour and sustained accomplishment.’—_T.
P.’s Weekly._

ESSAYS

=Adventures in Prose. A Book of Essays.= _By_ HENRY NOEL BRAILSFORD. Crown 8vo. =5s. net.=

CONTENTS

I.—ON CATS

A Policy towards Cats—The State and the Cat—On the Purring of
Cats—The Black Cat and Christopher Wren.

II.—ON BOOKS

On a Great Novel—On Burns and Bacchanalian Verse—The Country
House—The Truth of Midnight.

III.—ON MUSIC

‘Chopin Villa’—The Spell of Old Music—On Handel’s Largo—The Sea
in Music—Of Fauns and Oboes.

IV.—ON VARIOUS THEMES

The Decay of Melodrama—Micromania—Little Jim—The Okapi and
the Financier—Inspiration of Grandfathers—The Goatherds—The
Sport of War—An Indian Saint—On Waterproof Skins—Confessions
of a Juror—On Faddists—On Great Families—A Remonstrance with
Moralists—On Cycling in London—The Modern Peep-show.

V.—EASTERN SKETCHES

Osman Digna—Doolie’s Traitor—The Sultan’s Birthday—A Book of
Martyrs—The Lady of the Bridge—A Levantine Messiah.

=Studies in Arcady. And other Essays from a Country Parsonage.= _By_ R. L. GALES. Crown 8vo. =5s. net.=

CONTENTS

I.—STUDIES IN ARCADY

The Literature of the People—Dicta of the Poor—More Dicta of
the Poor—Village Theology—The Labourer’s Listlessness—The
Humours of Parish Visiting—Thrift on Fifteen Shillings a Week—A
Goodly Heritage—Professor Jack’s ‘Mad Shepherd’s’—A Sunday
Dinner Table.

II.—FOLK-LORE AND TRADITION

The Christian Lore of Angels—The Devil in Christian Legend
and Tradition—Judas in Legend and Folk-lore—Spiders in Legend
and Folk-lore—Birds in Christian Legend and Symbol—The
Christian Tradition in Shakespeare—Christian Dogma and
Folk-lore—Christian Popular Poetry—Easter Traditions—On the Ox
and the Ass of the Nativity—A Green Heaven—On Nursery Rhymes.

III—SPEECH AND LANGUAGE

Some Old-fashioned Phrases—On Victorian English—The Destruction
of Dialect—On Proverbs—The Names of the Days of the Week—On the
Names of Flowers—Beautiful Words.

IV.—DISCUSSIONS AND DIGRESSIONS

Catholicism and Happiness—Life Living Creatures—Christian
and Romantic—On Pan-cakes and Pan-pipes—Christmas Beer in
Workhouses—Arts and Mysteries.

‘Whether he gossips of beautiful words, or the names of
flowers, or old-fashioned phrases, or Catholicism and
happiness, or the ox and the ass of the Nativity, or birds in
Christian legend and symbol, or thrift on 15s. per week, he
gives one the impression of a real good sort; a parson who is
also a scholar. Men are scarce; and so are good books. Here is
a good book by a man.’—_Sunday Chronicle._