Chapter 7

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