"March 1st.
"Even at the risk of appearing very exacting7, I can't help saying that I should like a letter as long as your last, every time you write. Short notes give one the feeling of a very small piece of a very good thing to eat,—they set the appetite on edge, and don't satisfy it,—a letter leaves you more contented8; and yet, after all, I am very glad to get notes; so don't think, when you are pinched for time and materials, that it is useless to write a few lines; be assured, a few lines are very acceptable as far as they go; and though I like long letters, I would by no means have you to make a task of writing them. . . . I really should like you to come to Haworth, before I again go to B——. And it is natural and right that I should have this wish. To keep friendship in proper order, the balance of good offices must be preserved, otherwise a disquieting9 and anxious feeling creeps in, and destroys mutual10 comfort. In summer and in fine weather, your visit here might be much better managed than in winter. We could go out more, be more independent of the house and of our room. Branwell has been conducting himself very badly lately. I expect, from the extravagance of his behaviour, and from mysterious hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we shall be hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon. My health is better: I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather, more than on an uneasy mind."
"March 24th, 1847.
"It is at Haworth, if all be well, that we must next see each other again. I owe you a grudge11 for giving Miss M—— some very exaggerated account about my not being well, and setting her on to urge my leaving home as quite a duty. I'll take care not to tell you next time, when I think I am looking specially12 old and ugly; as if people could not have that privilege, without being supposed to be at the last gasp13! I shall be thirty-one next birthday. My youth is gone like a dream; and very little use have I ever made of it. What have I done these last thirty years? Precious little."
The quiet, sad year stole on. The sisters were contemplating14 near at hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused16 and faculties17 abused in the person of that brother, once their fond darling and dearest pride. They had to cheer the poor old father, into whose heart all trials sank the deeper, because of the silent stoicism of his endurance. They had to watch over his health, of which, whatever was its state, he seldom complained. They had to save, as much as they could, the precious remnants of his sight. They had to order the frugal18 household with increased care, so as to supply wants and expenditure19 utterly foreign to their self-denying natures. Though they shrank from overmuch contact with their fellow-beings, for all whom they met they had kind words, if few; and when kind actions were needed, they were not spared, if the sisters at the parsonage could render them. They visited the parish-schools duly; and often were Charlotte's rare and brief holidays of a visit from home shortened by her sense of the necessity of being in her place at the Sunday-school.
In the intervals20 of such a life as this, "Jane Eyre" was making progress. "The Professor" was passing slowly and heavily from publisher to publisher. "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" had been accepted by another publisher, "on terms somewhat impoverishing22 to the two authors;" a bargain to be alluded23 to more fully24 hereafter. It was lying in his hands, awaiting his pleasure for its passage through the press, during all the months of early summer.
The piece of external brightness to which the sisters looked during these same summer months, was the hope that the friend to whom so many of Charlotte's letters are addressed, and who was her chosen companion, whenever circumstances permitted them to be together, as well as a favourite with Emily and Anne, would be able to pay them a visit at Haworth. Fine weather had come in May, Charlotte writes, and they hoped to make their visitor decently comfortable. Their brother was tolerably well, having got to the end of a considerable sum of money which he became possessed25 of in the spring, and therefore under the wholesome26 restriction27 of poverty. But Charlotte warns her friend that she must expect to find a change in his appearance, and that he is broken in mind; and ends her note of entreating28 invitation by saying, "I pray for fine weather, that we may get out while you stay."
"Friday will suit us very well. I DO trust nothing will now arise to prevent your coming. I shall be anxious about the weather on that day; if it rains, I shall cry. Don't expect me to meet you; where would be the good of it? I neither like to meet, nor to be met. Unless, indeed, you had a box or a basket for me to carry; then there would be some sense in it. Come in black, blue, pink, white, or scarlet30, as you like. Come shabby or smart, neither the colour nor the condition signifies; provided only the dress contain E——, all will be right."
But there came the first of a series of disappointments to be borne. One feels how sharp it must have been to have wrung31 out the following words.
"May 20th.
"Your letter of yesterday did indeed give me a cruel chill of disappointment. I cannot blame you, for I know it was not your fault. I do not altogether exempt32 —— from reproach. . . . This is bitter, but I feel bitter. As to going to B——, I will not go near the place till you have been to Haworth. My respects to all and sundry33, accompanied with a large amount of wormwood and gall34, from the effusion of which you and your mother are alone excepted.—C. B.
"You are quite at liberty to tell what I think, if you judge proper. Though it is true I may be somewhat unjust, for I am deeply annoyed. I thought I had arranged your visit tolerably comfortable for you this time. I may find it more difficult on another occasion."
I must give one sentence from a letter written about this time, as it shows distinctly the clear strong sense of the writer.
"I was amused by what she says respecting her wish that, when she marries, her husband will, at least, have a will of his own, even should he be a tyrant35. Tell her, when she forms that aspiration36 again, she must make it conditional37 if her husband has a strong will, he must also have strong sense, a kind heart, and a thoroughly38 correct notion of justice; because a man with a WEAK BRAIN and a STRONG WILL, is merely an intractable brute40; you can have no hold of him; you can never lead him right. A TYRANT under any circumstances is a curse."
Meanwhile, "The Professor" had met with many refusals from different publishers; some, I have reason to believe, not over-courteously42 worded in writing to an unknown author, and none alleging43 any distinct reasons for its rejection44. Courtesy is always due; but it is, perhaps, hardly to be expected that, in the press of business in a great publishing house, they should find time to explain why they decline particular works. Yet, though one course of action is not to be wondered at, the opposite may fall upon a grieved and disappointed mind with all the graciousness of dew; and I can well sympathise with the published account which "Currer Bell" gives, of the feelings experienced on reading Messrs. Smith and Elder's letter containing the rejection of "The Professor".
"As a forlorn hope, we tried one publishing house more. Ere long, in a much shorter space than that on which experience had taught him to calculate, there came a letter, which he opened in the dreary anticipation46 of finding two hard hopeless lines, intimating that 'Messrs. Smith and Elder were not disposed to publish the MS.,' and, instead, he took out of the envelope a letter of two pages. He read it trembling. It declined, indeed, to publish that tale, for business reasons, but it discussed its merits and demerits, so courteously, so considerately, in a spirit so rational, with a discrimination so enlightened, that this very refusal cheered the author better than a vulgarly-expressed acceptance would have done. It was added, that a work in three volumes would meet with careful attention."
Mr. Smith has told me a little circumstance connected with the reception of this manuscript, which seems to me indicative of no ordinary character. It came (accompanied by the note given below) in a brown paper parcel, to 65 Cornhill. Besides the address to Messrs. Smith and Co., there were on it those of other publishers to whom the tale had been sent, not obliterated47, but simply scored through, so that Messrs. Smith at once perceived the names of some of the houses in the trade to which the unlucky parcel had gone, without success.
To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.
"July 15th, 1847.
"Gentlemen—I beg to submit to your consideration the accompanying manuscript. I should be glad to learn whether it be such as you approve, and would undertake to publish at as early a period as possible. Address, Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Brontë, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire."
Some time elapsed before an answer was returned.
A little circumstance may be mentioned here, though it belongs to a somewhat earlier period, as showing Miss Brontë's inexperience of the ways of the world, and willing deference48 to the opinion of others. She had written to a publisher about one of her manuscripts, which she had sent him, and, not receiving any reply, she consulted her brother as to what could be the reason for the prolonged silence. He at once set it down to her not having enclosed a postage-stamp in her letter. She accordingly wrote again, to repair her former omission49, and apologise for it.
To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.
"August 2nd, 1847.
"Gentlemen,—About three weeks since, I sent for your consideration a MS. entitled "The Professor", a tale by Currer Bell. I should be glad to know whether it reached your hands safely, and likewise to learn, at your earliest convenience, whether it be such as you can undertake to publish.—I am, gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"CURRER BELL.
"I enclose a directed cover for your reply."
This time her note met with a prompt answer; for, four days later, she writes (in reply to the letter which she afterwards characterised in the Preface to the second edition of "Wuthering Heights", as containing a refusal so delicate, reasonable, and courteous41, as to be more cheering than some acceptances):
"Your objection to the want of varied51 interest in the tale is, I am aware, not without grounds; yet it appears to me that it might be published without serious risk, if its appearance were speedily followed up by another work from the same pen, of a more striking and exciting character. The first work might serve as an introduction, and accustom52 the public to the author's the success of the second might thereby53 be rendered more probable. I have a second narrative54 in three volumes, now in progress, and nearly completed, to which I have endeavoured to impart a more vivid interest than belongs to "The Professor". In about a month I hope to finish it, so that if a publisher were found for "The Professor", the second narrative might follow as soon as was deemed advisable; and thus the interest of the public (if any interest was aroused) might not be suffered to cool. Will you be kind enough to favour me with your judgment55 on this plan?"
While the minds of the three sisters were in this state of suspense56, their long-expected friend came to pay her promised visit. She was with them at the beginning of the glowing August of that year. They were out on the moors57 for the greater part of the day basking58 in the golden sunshine, which was bringing on an unusual plenteousness of harvest, for which, somewhat later, Charlotte expressed her earnest desire that there should be a thanksgiving service in all the churches. August was the season of glory for the neighbourhood of Haworth. Even the smoke, lying in the valley between that village and Keighley, took beauty from the radiant colours on the moors above, the rich purple of the heather bloom calling out an harmonious59 contrast in the tawny60 golden light that, in the full heat of summer evenings, comes stealing everywhere through the dun atmosphere of the hollows. And up, on the moors, turning away from all habitations of men, the royal ground on which they stood would expand into long swells61 of amethyst-tinted hills, melting away into aerial tints62; and the fresh and fragrant63 scent64 of the heather, and the "murmur65 of innumerable bees," would lend a poignancy66 to the relish67 with which they welcomed their friend to their own true home on the wild and open hills.
There, too, they could escape from the Shadow in the house below.
Throughout this time—during all these confidences—not a word was uttered to their friend of the three tales in London; two accepted and in the press—one trembling in the balance of a publisher's judgment; nor did she hear of that other story "nearly completed," lying in manuscript in the grey old parsonage down below. She might have her suspicions that they all wrote with an intention of publication some time; but she knew the bounds which they set to themselves in their communications; nor could she, nor can any one else, wonder at their reticence68, when remembering how scheme after scheme had failed, just as it seemed close upon accomplishment69.
Mr. Brontë, too, had his suspicions of something going on; but, never being spoken to, he did not speak on the subject, and consequently his ideas were vague and uncertain, only just prophetic enough to keep him from being actually stunned71 when, later on, he heard of the success of "Jane Eyre"; to the progress of which we must now return.
To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.
"August 24th.
"I now send you per rail a MS. entitled 'Jane Eyre,' a novel in three volumes, by Currer Bell. I find I cannot prepay the carriage of the parcel, as money for that purpose is not received at the small station-house where it is left. If, when you acknowledge the receipt of the MS., you would have the goodness to mention the amount charged on delivery, I will immediately transmit it in postage stamps. It is better in future to address Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Brontë, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire, as there is a risk of letters otherwise directed not reaching me at present. To save trouble, I enclose an envelope."
"Jane Eyre" was accepted, and printed and published by October 16th.
While it was in the press, Miss Brontë went to pay a short visit to her friend at B——. The proofs were forwarded to her there, and she occasionally sat at the same table with her friend, correcting them; but they did not exchange a word on the subject.
Immediately on her return to the Parsonage, she wrote:
"September.
"I had a very wet, windy walk home from Keighley; but my fatigue72 quite disappeared when I reached home, and found all well. Thank God for it.
"My boxes came safe this morning. I have distributed the presents. Papa says I am to remember him most kindly73 to you. The screen will be very useful, and he thanks you for it. Tabby was charmed with her cap. She said, 'she never thought o' naught74 o' t' sort as Miss sending her aught, and, she is sure, she can never thank her enough for it.' I was infuriated on finding a jar in my trunk. At first, I hoped it was empty, but when I found it heavy and replete75, I could have hurled76 it all the way back to B——. However, the inscription77 A. B. softened79 me much. It was at once kind and villainous in you to send it. You ought first to be tenderly kissed, and then afterwards as tenderly whipped. Emily is just now on the floor of the bed-room where I am writing, looking at her apples. She smiled when I gave the collar to her as your present, with an expression at once well-pleased and slightly surprised. All send their love.—Yours, in a mixture of anger and love."
When the manuscript of "Jane Eyre" had been received by the future publishers of that remarkable80 novel, it fell to the share of a gentleman connected with the firm to read it first. He was so powerfully struck by the character of the tale, that he reported his impression in very strong terms to Mr. Smith, who appears to have been much amused by the admiration81 excited. "You seem to have been so enchanted82, that I do not know how to believe you," he laughingly said. But when a second reader, in the person of a clear-headed Scotchman, not given to enthusiasm, had taken the MS. home in the evening, and became so deeply interested in it, as to sit up half the night to finish it, Mr. Smith's curiosity was sufficiently83 excited to prompt him to read it for himself; and great as were the praises which had been bestowed85 upon it, he found that they had not exceeded the truth.
On its publication, copies were presented to a few private literary friends. Their discernment had been rightly reckoned upon. They were of considerable standing86 in the world of letters; and one and all returned expressions of high praise along with their thanks for the book. Among them was the great writer of fiction for whom Miss Brontë felt so strong an admiration; he immediately appreciated, and, in a characteristic note to the publishers, acknowledged its extraordinary merits.
The Reviews were more tardy87, or more cautious. The Athenaeum and the Spectator gave short notices, containing qualified88 admissions of the power of the author. The Literary Gazette was uncertain as to whether it was safe to praise an unknown author. The Daily News declined accepting the copy which had been sent, on the score of a rule "never to review novels;" but a little later on, there appeared a notice of the Bachelor of the Albany in that paper; and Messrs. Smith and Elder again forwarded a copy of "Jane Eyre" to the Editor, with a request for a notice. This time the work was accepted; but I am not aware what was the character of the article upon it.
The Examiner came forward to the rescue, as far as the opinions of professional critics were concerned. The literary articles in that paper were always remarkable for their genial89 and generous appreciation90 of merit nor was the notice of "Jane Eyre" an exception; it was full of hearty91, yet delicate and discriminating92 praise. Otherwise, the press in general did little to promote the sale of the novel; the demand for it among librarians had begun before the appearance of the review in the Examiner; the power of fascination93 of the tale itself made its merits known to the public, without the kindly finger-posts of professional criticism; and, early in December, the rush began for copies.
I will insert two or three of Miss Brontë's letters to her publishers, in order to show how timidly the idea of success was received by one so unaccustomed to adopt a sanguine94 view of any subject in which she was individually concerned. The occasions on which these notes were written, will explain themselves.
"Oct. 19th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,—The six copies of "Jane Eyre" reached me this morning. You have given the work every advantage which good paper, clear type, and a seemly outside can supply;—if it fails, the fault will lie with the author,—you are exempt.
"I now await the judgment of the press and the public.—I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
C. BELL."
MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Oct. 26th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,—I have received the newspapers. They speak quite as favourably95 of "Jane Eyre" as I expected them to do. The notice in the Literary Gazette seems certainly to have been indited96 in rather a flat mood, and the Athenaeum has a style of its own, which I respect, but cannot exactly relish; still when one considers that journals of that standing have a dignity to maintain which would be deranged97 by a too cordial recognition of the claims of an obscure author, I suppose there is every reason to be satisfied.
"Meantime a brisk sale would be effectual support under the hauteur98 of lofty critics.—I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"C. BELL."
MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Nov. 13th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,—I have to acknowledge the receipt of yours of the 11th inst., and to thank you for the information it communicates. The notice from the People's Journal also duly reached me, and this morning I received the Spectator. The critique in the Spectator gives that view of the book which will naturally be taken by a certain class of minds; I shall expect it to be followed by other notices of a similar nature. The way to detraction99 has been pointed45 out, and will probably be pursued. Most future notices will in all likelihood have a reflection of the Spectator in them. I fear this turn of opinion will not improve the demand for the book—but time will show. If "Jane Eyre" has any solid worth in it, it ought to weather a gust50 of unfavourable wind.—I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"C. BELL."
MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Nov. 30th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,—I have received the Economist101, but not the Examiner; from some cause that paper has missed, as the Spectator did on a former occasion; I am glad, however, to learn through your letter, that its notice of "Jane Eyre" was favourable100, and also that the prospects102 of the work appear to improve.
"I am obliged to you for the information respecting "Wuthering
Heights".—I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
"C. BELL."
To MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Dec. 1st, 1847.
"Gentlemen,—The Examiner reached me to-day; it had been missent on account of the direction, which was to Currer Bell, care of Miss Brontë. Allow me to intimate that it would be better in future not to put the name of Currer Bell on the outside of communications; if directed simply to Miss Brontë they will be more likely to reach their destination safely. Currer Bell is not known in the district, and I have no wish that he should become known. The notice in the Examiner gratified me very much; it appears to be from the pen of an able man who has understood what he undertakes to criticise103; of course, approbation104 from such a quarter is encouraging to an author, and I trust it will prove beneficial to the work.—I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
C. BELL.
"I received likewise seven other notices from provincial105 papers enclosed in an envelope. I thank you very sincerely for so punctually sending me all the various criticisms on "Jane Eyre"."
TO MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.
"Dec. 10th, 1847.
"Gentlemen,—I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter inclosing a bank post bill, for which I thank you. Having already expressed my sense of your kind and upright conduct, I can now only say that I trust you will always have reason to be as well content with me as I am with you. If the result of any future exertions106 I may be able to make should prove agreeable and advantageous108 to you, I shall be well satisfied; and it would be a serious source of regret to me if I thought you ever had reason to repent109 being my publishers.
"You need not apologise, Gentlemen, for having written to me so seldom; of course I am always glad to hear from you, but I am truly glad to hear from Mr. Williams likewise; he was my first favourable critic; he first gave me encouragement to persevere110 as an author, consequently I naturally respect him and feel grateful to him.
"Excuse the informality of my letter, and believe me, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,
CURRER BELL."
There is little record remaining of the manner in which the first news of its wonderful success reached and affected111 the one heart of the three sisters. I once asked Charlotte—we were talking about the description of Lowood school, and she was saying that she was not sure whether she should have written it, if she had been aware how instantaneously it would have been identified with Cowan Bridge—whether the popularity to which the novel attained112 had taken her by surprise. She hesitated a little, and then said: "I believed that what had impressed me so forcibly when I wrote it, must make a strong impression on any one who read it. I was not surprised at those who read "Jane Eyre" being deeply interested in it; but I hardly expected that a book by an unknown author could find readers."
The sisters had kept the knowledge of their literary ventures from their father, fearing to increase their own anxieties and disappointment by witnessing his; for he took an acute interest in all that befell his children, and his own tendency had been towards literature in the days when he was young and hopeful. It was true he did not much manifest his feelings in words; he would have thought that he was prepared for disappointment as the lot of man, and that he could have met it with stoicism; but words are poor and tardy interpreters of feelings to those who love one another, and his daughters knew how he would have borne ill-success worse for them than for himself. So they did not tell him what they were undertaking113. He says now that he suspected it all along, but his suspicions could take no exact form, as all he was certain of was, that his children were perpetually writing—and not writing letters. We have seen how the communications from their publishers were received "under cover to Miss Brontë." Once, Charlotte told me, they overheard the postman meeting Mr. Brontë, as the latter was leaving the house, and inquiring from the parson where one Currer Bell could be living, to which Mr. Brontë replied that there was no such person in the parish. This must have been the misadventure to which Miss Brontë alludes114 in the beginning of her correspondence with Mr. Aylott.
Now, however, when the demand for the work had assured success to "Jane Eyre," her sisters urged Charlotte to tell their father of its publication. She accordingly went into his study one afternoon after his early dinner, carrying with her a copy of the book, and one or two reviews, taking care to include a notice adverse115 to it.
She informed me that something like the following conversation took place between her and him. (I wrote down her words the day after I heard them; and I am pretty sure they are quite accurate.)
"Papa, I've been writing a book."
"Have you, my dear?"
"Yes, and I want you to read it."
"I am afraid it will try my eyes too much."
"But it is not in manuscript: it is printed."
"My dear! you've never thought of the expense it will be! It will be almost sure to be a loss, for how can you get a book sold? No one knows you or your name."
"But, papa, I don't think it will be a loss; no more will you, if you will just let me read you a review or two, and tell you more about it."
So she sate116 down and read some of the reviews to her father; and then, giving him the copy of "Jane Eyre" that she intended for him, she left him to read it. When he came in to tea, he said, "Girls, do you know Charlotte has been writing a book, and it is much better than likely?"
But while the existence of Currer Bell, the author, was like a piece of a dream to the quiet inhabitants of Haworth Parsonage, who went on with their uniform household life,—their cares for their brother being its only variety,—the whole reading-world of England was in a ferment117 to discover the unknown author. Even the publishers of "Jane Eyre" were ignorant whether Currer Bell was a real or an assumed name,—whether it belonged to a man or a woman. In every town people sought out the list of their friends and acquaintances, and turned away in disappointment. No one they knew had genius enough to be the author. Every little incident mentioned in the book was turned this way and that to answer, if possible, the much-vexed question of sex. All in vain. People were content to relax their exertions to satisfy their curiosity, and simply to sit down and greatly admire.
I am not going to write an analysis of a book with which every one who reads this biography is sure to be acquainted; much less a criticism upon a work, which the great flood of public opinion has lifted up from the obscurity in which it first appeared, and laid high and safe on the everlasting118 hills of fame.
Before me lies a packet of extracts from newspapers and periodicals, which Mr. Brontë has sent me. It is touching119 to look them over, and see how there is hardly any notice, however short and clumsily-worded, in any obscure provincial paper, but what has been cut out and carefully ticketed with its date by the poor, bereaved120 father,—so proud when he first read them—so desolate121 now. For one and all are full of praise of this great, unknown genius, which suddenly appeared amongst us. Conjecture122 as to the authorship ran about like wild-fire. People in London, smooth and polished as the Athenians of old, and like them "spending their time in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing," were astonished and delighted to find that a fresh sensation, a new pleasure, was in reserve for them in the uprising of an author, capable of depicting123 with accurate and Titanic124 power the strong, self-reliant, racy, and individual characters which were not, after all, extinct species, but lingered still in existence in the North. They thought that there was some exaggeration mixed with the peculiar125 force of delineation126. Those nearer to the spot, where the scene of the story was apparently127 laid, were sure, from the very truth and accuracy of the writing, that the writer was no Southeron; for though "dark, and cold, and rugged128 is the North," the old strength of the Scandinavian races yet abides129 there, and glowed out in every character depicted130 in "Jane Eyre." Farther than this, curiosity, both honourable131 and dishonourable, was at fault.
When the second edition appeared, in the January of the following year, with the dedication132 to Mr. Thackeray, people looked at each other and wondered afresh. But Currer Bell knew no more of William Makepeace Thackeray as an individual man—of his life, age, fortunes, or circumstances—than she did of those of Mr. Michael Angelo Titmarsh. The one had placed his name as author upon the title-page of Vanity Fair, the other had not. She was thankful for the opportunity of expressing her high admiration of a writer, whom, as she says, she regarded "as the social regenerator133 of his day—as the very master of that working corps134 who would restore to rectitude the warped135 state of things. . . . His wit is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius, that the mere39 lambent sheet-lightning, playing under the edge of the summer cloud, does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb."
Anne Brontë had been more than usually delicate all the summer, and her sensitive spirit had been deeply affected by the great anxiety of her home. But now that "Jane Eyre" gave such indications of success, Charlotte began to plan schemes of future pleasure,—perhaps relaxation136 from care, would be the more correct expression,—for their darling younger sister, the "little one" of the household. But, although Anne was cheered for a time by Charlotte's success, the fact was, that neither her spirits nor her bodily strength were such as to incline her to much active exertion107, and she led far too sedentary a life, continually stooping either over her book, or work, or at her desk. "It is with difficulty," writes her sister, "that we can prevail upon her to take a walk, or induce her to converse137. I look forward to next summer with the confident intention that she shall, if possible, make at least a brief sojourn138 at the sea-side." In this same letter, is a sentence, telling how dearly home, even with its present terrible drawback, lay at the roots of her heart; but it is too much blended with reference to the affairs of others to bear quotation139.
Any author of a successful novel is liable to an inroad of letters from unknown readers, containing commendation—sometimes of so fulsome140 and indiscriminating a character as to remind the recipient141 of Dr. Johnson's famous speech to one who offered presumptuous142 and injudicious praise—sometimes saying merely a few words, which have power to stir the heart "as with the sound of a trumpet," and in the high humility143 they excite, to call forth144 strong resolutions to make all future efforts worthy145 of such praise; and occasionally containing that true appreciation of both merits and demerits, together with the sources of each, which forms the very criticism and help for which an inexperienced writer thirsts. Of each of these kinds of communication Currer Bell received her full share; and her warm heart, and true sense and high standard of what she aimed at, affixed146 to each its true value. Among other letters of hers, some to Mr. G. H. Lewes have been kindly placed by him at my service; and as I know Miss Brontë highly prized his letters of encouragement and advice, I shall give extracts from her replies, as their dates occur, because they will indicate the kind of criticism she valued, and also because throughout, in anger, as in agreement and harmony, they show her character unblinded by any self-flattery, full of clear-sighted modesty147 as to what she really did well, and what she failed in, grateful for friendly interest, and only sore and irritable148 when the question of sex in authorship was, as she thought, roughly or unfairly treated. As to the rest, the letters speak for themselves, to those who know how to listen, far better than I can interpret their meaning into my poorer and weaker words. Mr. Lewes has politely sent me the following explanation of that letter of his, to which the succeeding one of Miss Brontë is a reply.
"When 'Jane Eyre' first appeared, the publishers courteously sent me a copy. The enthusiasm with which I read it, made me go down to Mr. Parker, and propose to write a review of it for Frazer's Magazine. He would not consent to an unknown novel—for the papers had not yet declared themselves—receiving such importance, but thought it might make one on 'Recent Novels: English and French'—which appeared in Frazer, December, 1847. Meanwhile I had written to Miss Brontë to tell her the delight with which her book filled me; and seem to have sermonised her, to judge from her reply."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Nov. 6th, 1847.
"Dear Sir,—Your letter reached me yesterday; I beg to assure you, that I appreciate fully the intention with which it was written, and I thank you sincerely both for its cheering commendation and valuable advice.
"You warn me to beware of melodrama149, and you exhort150 me to adhere to the real. When I first began to write, so impressed was I with the truth of the principles you advocate, that I determined151 to take Nature and Truth as my sole guides, and to follow in their very footprints; I restrained imagination, eschewed152 romance, repressed excitement; over-bright colouring, too, I avoided, and sought to produce something which should be soft, grave, and true.
"My work (a tale in one volume) being completed, I offered it to a publisher. He said it was original, faithful to nature, but he did not feel warranted in accepting it; such a work would not sell. I tried six publishers in succession; they all told me it was deficient153 in 'startling incident' and 'thrilling excitement,' that it would never suit the circulating libraries, and, as it was on those libraries the success of works of fiction mainly depended, they could not undertake to publish what would be overlooked there.
"'Jane Eyre' was rather objected to at first, on the same grounds, but finally found acceptance.
"I mention this to you, not with a view of pleading exemption154 from censure155, but in order to direct your attention to the root of certain literary evils. If, in your forthcoming article in Frazer, you would bestow84 a few words of enlightenment on the public who support the circulating libraries, you might, with your powers, do some good.
"You advise me, too, not to stray far from the ground of experience, as I become weak when I enter the region of fiction; and you say, 'real experience is perennially156 interesting, and to all men.'
"I feel that this also is true; but, dear Sir, is not the real experience of each individual very limited? And, if a writer dwells upon that solely157 or principally, is he not in danger of repeating himself, and also of becoming an egotist? Then, too, imagination is a strong, restless faculty158, which claims to be heard and exercised: are we to be quite deaf to her cry, and insensate to her struggles? When she shows us bright pictures, are we never to look at them, and try to reproduce them? And when she is eloquent159, and speaks rapidly and urgently in our ear, are we not to write to her dictation?
"I shall anxiously search the next number of Fraser for your opinions on these points.—Believe me, dear Sir, yours gratefully,
"C. BELL."
But while gratified by appreciation as an author, she was cautious as to the person from whom she received it; for much of the value of the praise depended on the sincerity160 and capability161 of the person rendering162 it. Accordingly, she applied163 to Mr. Williams (a gentleman connected with her publishers' firm) for information as to who and what Mr. Lewes was. Her reply, after she had learnt something of the character of her future critic, and while awaiting his criticism, must not be omitted. Besides the reference to him, it contains some amusing allusions165 to the perplexity which began to be excited respecting the "identity of the brothers Bell," and some notice of the conduct of another publisher towards her sister, which I refrain from characterising, because I understand that truth is considered a libel in speaking of such people.
To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.
"Nov. 10th, 1847.
"Dear Sir,—I have received the Britannia and the Sun, but not the Spectator which I rather regret, as censure, though not pleasant, is often wholesome.
"Thank you for your information regarding Mr. Lewes. I am glad to hear that he is a clever and sincere man: such being the case, I can await his critical sentence with fortitude166; even if it goes against me, I shall not murmur; ability and honesty have a right to condemn167, where they think condemnation168 is deserved. From what you say, however, I trust rather to obtain at least a modified approval.
"Your account of the various surmises169 respecting the identity of the brothers Bell, amused me much: were the enigma170 solved, it would probably be found not worth the trouble of solution; but I will let it alone; it suits ourselves to remain quiet, and certainly injures no one else.
"The reviewer who noticed the little book of poems, in the Dublin Magazine, conjectured171 that the soi-disant three personages were in reality but one, who, endowed with an unduly172 prominent organ of self-esteem, and consequently impressed with a somewhat weighty notion of his own merits, thought them too vast to be concentrated in a single individual, and accordingly divided himself into three, out of consideration, I suppose, for the nerves of the much-to-be-astounded public! This was an ingenious thought in the reviewer,—very original and striking, but not accurate. We are three.
"A prose work, by Ellis and Acton, will soon appear: it should have been out, indeed, long since; for the first proof-sheets were already in the press at the commencement of last August, before Currer Bell had placed the MS. of "Jane Eyre" in your hands. Mr.——, however, does not do business like Messrs. Smith and Elder; a different spirit seems to preside at —— Street, to that which guides the helm at 65, Cornhill. . . . My relations have suffered from exhausting delay and procrastination173, while I have to acknowledge the benefits of a management at once business-like and gentleman-like, energetic and considerate.
"I should like to know if Mr. —— often acts as he has done to my relations, or whether this is an exceptional instance of his method. Do you know, and can you tell me anything about him? You must excuse me for going to the point at once, when I want to learn anything: if my questions are importunate174, you are, of course, at liberty to decline answering them.—I am, yours respectfully,
C. BELL."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Nov. 22nd, 1847.
"Dear Sir,—I have now read 'Ranthorpe.' I could not get it till a day or two ago; but I have got it and read it at last; and in reading 'Ranthorpe,' I have read a new book,—not a reprint—not a reflection of any other book, but a NEW BOOK.
"I did not know such books were written now. It is very different to any of the popular works of fiction: it fills the mind with fresh knowledge. Your experience and your convictions are made the reader's; and to an author, at least, they have a value and an interest quite unusual. I await your criticism on 'Jane Eyre' now with other sentiments than I entertained before the perusal175 of 'Ranthorpe.'
"You were a stranger to me. I did not particularly respect you. I did not feel that your praise or blame would have any special weight. I knew little of your right to condemn or approve. NOW I am informed on these points.
"You will be severe; your last letter taught me as much. Well! I shall try to extract good out of your severity: and besides, though I am now sure you are a just, discriminating man, yet, being mortal, you must be fallible; and if any part of your censure galls176 me too keenly to the quick—gives me deadly pain—I shall for the present disbelieve it, and put it quite aside, till such time as I feel able to receive it without torture.—I am, dear Sir, yours very respectfully,
C. BELL."
In December, 1847, "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" appeared. The first-named of these stories has revolted many readers by the power with which wicked and exceptional characters are depicted. Others, again, have felt the attraction of remarkable genius, even when displayed on grim and terrible criminals. Miss Brontë herself says, with regard to this tale, "Where delineation of human character is concerned, the case is different. I am bound to avow177 that she had scarcely more practical knowledge of the peasantry amongst whom she lived, than a nun178 has of the country-people that pass her convent gates. My sister's disposition179 was not naturally gregarious180: circumstances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion181; except to go to church, or take a walk on the hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though the feeling for the people around her was benevolent182, intercourse183 with them she never sought, nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced and yet she knew them, knew their ways, their language, and their family histories; she could hear of them with interest, and talk of them with detail minute, graphic184, and accurate; but WITH them she rarely exchanged a word. Hence it ensued, that what her mind has gathered of the real concerning them, was too exclusively confined to those tragic185 and terrible traits, of which, in listening to the secret annals of every rude vicinage, the memory is sometimes compelled to receive the impress. Her imagination, which was a spirit more sombre than sunny—more powerful than sportive—found in such traits material whence it wrought186 creations like Heathcliff, like Earnshaw, like Catherine. Having formed these beings, she did not know what she had done. If the auditor187 of her work, when read in manuscript, shuddered188 under the grinding influence of natures so relentless189 and implacable—of spirits so lost and fallen; if it was complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes banished190 sleep by night, and disturbed mental peace by day, Ellis Bell would wonder what was meant, and suspect the complainant of affectation. Had she but lived, her mind would of itself have grown like a strong tree—loftier, straighter, wider-spreading—and its matured fruits would have attained a mellower191 ripeness and sunnier bloom; but on that mind time and experience alone could work; to the influence of other intellects she was not amenable192."
Whether justly or unjustly, the productions of the two younger Miss Brontës were not received with much favour at the time of their publication. "Critics failed to do them justice. The immature193, but very real, powers revealed in 'Wuthering Heights,' were scarcely recognised; its import and nature were misunderstood; the identity of its author was misrepresented: it was said that this was an earlier and ruder attempt of the same pen which had produced 'Jane Eyre.'" . . . "Unjust and grievous error! We laughed at it at first, but I deeply lament194 it now."
Henceforward Charlotte Brontë's existence becomes divided into two parallel currents—her life as Currer Bell, the author; her life as Charlotte Brontë, the woman. There were separate duties belonging to each character—not opposing each other; not impossible, but difficult to be reconciled. When a man becomes an author, it is probably merely a change of employment to him. He takes a portion of that time which has hitherto been devoted195 to some other study or pursuit; he gives up something of the legal or medical profession, in which he has hitherto endeavoured to serve others, or relinquishes196 part of the trade or business by which he has been striving to gain a livelihood197; and another merchant or lawyer, or doctor, steps into his vacant place, and probably does as well as he. But no other can take up the quiet, regular duties of the daughter, the wife, or the mother, as well as she whom God has appointed to fill that particular place: a woman's principal work in life is hardly left to her own choice; nor can she drop the domestic charges devolving on her as an individual, for the exercise of the most splendid talents that were ever bestowed. And yet she must not shrink from the extra responsibility implied by the very fact of her possessing such talents. She must not hide her gift in a napkin; it was meant for the use and service of others. In an humble198 and faithful spirit must she labour to do what is not impossible, or God would not have set her to do it.
I put into words what Charlotte Brontë put into actions.
The year 1848 opened with sad domestic distress199. It is necessary, however painful, to remind the reader constantly of what was always present to the hearts of father and sisters at this time. It is well that the thoughtless critics, who spoke70 of the sad and gloomy views of life presented by the Brontës in their tales, should know how such words were wrung out of them by the living recollection of the long agony they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have objected to the representation of coarseness and shrank from it with repugnance200, as if such conceptions arose out of the writers, should learn, that, not from the imagination—not from internal conception—but from the hard cruel facts, pressed down, by external life, upon their very senses, for long months and years together, did they write out what they saw, obeying the stern dictates201 of their consciences. They might be mistaken. They might err15 in writing at all, when their affections were so great that they could not write otherwise than they did of life. It is possible that it would have been better to have described only good and pleasant people, doing only good and pleasant things (in which case they could hardly have written at any time): all I say is, that never, I believe, did women, possessed of such wonderful gifts, exercise them with a fuller feeling of responsibility for their use. As to mistakes, stand now—as authors as well as women—before the judgment-seat of God.
"Jan. 11th, 1848.
"We have not been very comfortable here at home lately. Branwell has, by some means, contrived202 to get more money from the old quarter, and has led us a sad life. . . . Papa is harassed203 day and night; we have little peace, he is always sick; has two or three times fallen down in fits; what will be the ultimate end, God knows. But who is without their drawback, their scourge204, their skeleton behind the curtain? It remains205 only to do one's best, and endure with patience what God sends."
I suppose that she had read Mr. Lewes' review on "Recent Novels," when it appeared in the December of the last year, but I find no allusion164 to it till she writes to him on January 12th, 1848.
"Dear Sir,—I thank you then sincerely for your generous review; and it is with the sense of double content I express my gratitude206, because I am now sure the tribute is not superfluous207 or obtrusive208. You were not severe on 'Jane Eyre;' you were very lenient209. I am glad you told me my faults plainly in private, for in your public notice you touch on them so lightly, I should perhaps have passed them over thus indicated, with too little reflection.
"I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake new works; my stock of materials is not abundant, but very slender; and, besides, neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers, are sufficiently varied to justify210 my ever becoming a frequent writer. I tell you this, because your article in Frazer left in me an uneasy impression that you were disposed to think better of the author of 'Jane Eyre' than that individual deserved; and I would rather you had a correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though I should never see you.
"If I ever DO write another book, I think I will have nothing of what you call 'melodrama;' I think so, but I am not sure. I THINK, too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out of Miss Austen's 'mild eyes,' 'to finish more and be more subdued211;' but neither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or, at least, when they write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them, which becomes their master—which will have its own way—putting out of view all behests but its own, dictating212 certain words, and insisting on their being used, whether vehement213 or measured in their nature; new-moulding characters, giving unthought of turns to incidents, rejecting carefully-elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and adopting new ones.
"Is it not so? And should we try to counteract214 this influence? Can we indeed counteract it?
"I am glad that another work of yours will soon appear; most curious shall I be to see whether you will write up to your own principles, and work out your own theories. You did not do it altogether in 'Ranthorpe'—at least not in the latter part; but the first portion was, I think, nearly without fault; then it had a pith, truth, significance in it, which gave the book sterling215 value; but to write so, one must have seen and known a great deal, and I have seen and known very little.
"Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point.
What induced you to say that you would have rather written "Pride and
Prejudice,' or 'Tom Jones,' than any of the 'Waverley Novels'?
"I had not seen 'Pride and Prejudice' till I read that sentence of yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate, daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully-fenced, highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These observations will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk.
"Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even 'Consuelo,' which is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous216 excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is sagacious and profound;—Miss Austen is only shrewd and observant.
"Am I wrong—or, were you hasty in what you said? If you have time, I should be glad to hear further on this subject; if not, or if you think the questions frivolous217, do not trouble yourself to reply.—I am, yours respectfully,
C. BELL."
To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.
"Jan. 18th, 1848.
"Dear Sir,—I must write one more note, though I had not intended to trouble you again so soon. I have to agree with you, and to differ from you.
"You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the 'influence'; well, I accept your definition of what the effects of that influence should be; I recognise the wisdom of your rules for its regulation. . . .
"What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I must familiarise my mind with the fact, that 'Miss Austen is not a poetess, has no "sentiment" (you scornfully enclose the word in inverted218 commas), no eloquence219, none of the ravishing enthusiasm of poetry,'—and then you add, I MUST 'learn to acknowledge her as ONE OF THE GREATEST ARTISTS, OF THE GREATEST PAINTERS OF HUMAN CHARACTER, and one of the writers with the nicest sense of means to an end that ever lived.'
"The last point only will I ever acknowledge.
"Can there be a great artist without poetry?
"What I call—what I will bend to, as a great artist then—cannot be destitute220 of the divine gift. But by POETRY, I am sure, you understand something different to what I do, as you do by 'sentiment.' It is POETRY, as I comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George Sand, and makes out of something coarse, something Godlike. It is 'sentiment,' in my sense of the term—sentiment jealously hidden, but genuine, which extracts the venom221 from that formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive222 poison into purifying elixir223.
"If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his kind, he would delight to exterminate224; as it is, I believe, he wishes only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without 'sentiment,' without Poetry, maybe IS sensible, real (more REAL than TRUE), but she cannot be great.
"I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass over me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that will be, as I have no access to a circulating library), diligently225 peruse226 all Miss Austen's works, as you recommend. . . . You must forgive me for not always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, yours gratefully,
C. BELL."
I have hesitated a little, before inserting the following extract from a letter to Mr. Williams, but it is strikingly characteristic; and the criticism contained in it is, from that circumstance, so interesting (whether we agree with it or not), that I have determined to do so, though I thereby displace the chronological227 order of the letters, in order to complete this portion of a correspondence which is very valuable, as showing the purely228 intellectual side of her character.
To W. S. WILLIAMS, BSQ.
"April 26th, 1848.
"My dear Sir,—I have now read 'Rose, Blanche, and Violet,' and I will tell you, as well as I can, what I think of it. Whether it is an improvement on 'Ranthorpe' I do not know, for I liked 'Ranthorpe' much; but, at any rate, it contains more of a good thing. I find in it the same power, but more fully developed.
"The author's character is seen in every page, which makes the book interesting—far more interesting than any story could do; but it is what the writer himself says that attracts far more than what he puts into the mouths of his characters. G. H. Lewes is, to my perception, decidedly the most original character in the book. . . . The didactic passages seem to me the best—far the best—in the work; very acute, very profound, are some of the views there given, and very clearly they are offered to the reader. He is a just thinker; he is a sagacious observer; there is wisdom in his theory, and, I doubt not, energy in his practice. But why, then, are you often provoked with him while you read? How does he manage, while teaching, to make his hearer feel as if his business was, not quietly to receive the doctrines229 propounded230, but to combat them? You acknowledge that he offers you gems231 of pure truth; why do you keep perpetually scrutinising them for flaws?
"Mr. Lewes, I divine, with all his talents and honesty, must have some faults of manner; there must be a touch too much of dogmatism; a dash extra of confidence in him, sometimes. This you think while you are reading the book; but when you have closed it and laid it down, and sat a few minutes collecting your thoughts, and settling your impressions, you find the idea or feeling predominant in your mind to be pleasure at the fuller acquaintance you have made with a fine mind and a true heart, with high abilities and manly232 principles. I hope he will not be long ere he publishes another book. His emotional scenes are somewhat too uniformly vehement: would not a more subdued style of treatment often have produced a more masterly effect? Now and then Mr. Lewes takes a French pen into his hand, wherein he differs from Mr. Thackeray, who always uses an English quill233. However, the French pen does not far mislead Mr. Lewes; he wields234 it with British muscles. All honour to him for the excellent general tendency of his book!
"He gives no charming picture of London literary society, and especially the female part of it; but all coteries235, whether they be literary, scientific, political, or religious, must, it seems to me, have a tendency to change truth into affectation. When people belong to a clique236, they must, I suppose, in some measure, write, talk, think, and live for that clique; a harassing237 and narrowing necessity. I trust, the press and the public show themselves disposed to give the book the reception it merits, and that is a very cordial one, far beyond anything due to a Bulwer or D'Israeli production."
Let us return from Currer Bell to Charlotte Brontë. The winter in Haworth had been a sickly season. Influenza238 had prevailed amongst the villagers, and where there was a real need for the presence of the clergyman's daughters, they were never found wanting, although they were shy of bestowing240 mere social visits on the parishioners. They had themselves suffered from the epidemic241; Anne severely, as in her case it had been attended with cough and fever enough to make her elder sisters very anxious about her.
There is no doubt that the proximity242 of the crowded church-yard rendered the Parsonage unhealthy, and occasioned much illness to its inmates243. Mr. Brontë represented the unsanitary state at Haworth pretty forcibly to the Board of Health; and, after the requisite244 visits from their officers, obtained a recommendation that all future interments in the churchyard should be forbidden, a new graveyard245 opened on the hill-side, and means set on foot for obtaining a water-supply to each house, instead of the weary, hard-worked housewives having to carry every bucketful, from a distance of several hundred yards, up a steep street. But he was baffled by the rate-payers; as, in many a similar instance, quantity carried it against quality, numbers against intelligence. And thus we find that illness often assumed a low typhoid form in Haworth, and fevers of various kinds visited the place with sad frequency.
In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was dethroned. The quick succession of events at that time called forth the following expression of Miss Brontë's thoughts on the subject, in a letter addressed to Miss Wooler, and dated March 31st.
"I remember well wishing my lot had been cast in the troubled times of the late war, and seeing in its exciting incidents a kind of stimulating246 charm, which it made my pulses beat fast to think of I remember even, I think; being a little impatient, that you would not fully sympathise with my feelings on those subjects; that you heard my aspirations247 and speculations248 very tranquilly250, and by no means seemed to think the flaming swords could be any pleasant addition to Paradise. I have now out-lived youth; and, though I dare not say that I have outlived all its illusions—that the romance is quite gone from life—the veil fallen from truth, and that I see both in naked reality—yet, certainly, many things are not what they were ten years ago: and, amongst the rest, the pomp and circumstance of war have quite lost in my eyes their fictitious251 glitter. I have still no doubt that the shock of moral earthquakes wakens a vivid sense of life, both in nations and individuals; that the fear of dangers on a broad national scale, diverts men's minds momentarily from brooding over small private perils252, and for the time gives them something like largeness of views; but, as little doubt have I, that convulsive revolutions put back the world in all that is good, check civilisation253, bring the dregs of society to its surface; in short, it appears to me that insurrections and battles are the acute diseases of nations, and that their tendency is to exhaust, by their violence, the vital energies of the countries where they occur. That England may be spared the spasms254, cramps255, and frenzy-fits now contorting the Continent, and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray. With the French and Irish I have no sympathy. With the Germans and Italians I think the case is different; as different as the love of freedom is from the lust256 for license257."
Her birthday came round. She wrote to the friend whose birthday was within a week of hers; wrote the accustomed letter; but, reading it with our knowledge of what she had done, we perceive the difference between her thoughts and what they were a year or two ago, when she said "I have done nothing." There must have been a modest consciousness of having "done something" present in her mind, as she wrote this year:—
"I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone—gone,—and will never come back: can't help it. . . . It seems to me, that sorrow must come some time to everybody, and those who scarcely taste it in their youth, often have a more brimming and bitter cup to drain in after life; whereas, those who exhaust the dregs early, who drink the lees before the wine, may reasonably hope for more palatable258 draughts259 to succeed."
The authorship of "Jane Eyre" was as yet a close secret in the Brontë family; not even this friend, who was all but a sister knew more about it than the rest of the world. She might conjecture, it is true, both from her knowledge of previous habits, and from the suspicious fact of the proofs having been corrected at B——, that some literary project was afoot; but she knew nothing, and wisely said nothing, until she heard a report from others, that Charlotte Brontë was an author—had published a novel! Then she wrote to her; and received the two following letters; confirmatory enough, as it seems to me now, in their very vehemence260 and agitation261 of intended denial, of the truth of the report.
"April 28th, 1848.
"Write another letter, and explain that last note of yours distinctly. If your allusions are to myself, which I suppose they are, understand this,—I have given no one a right to gossip about me, and am not to be judged by frivolous conjectures262, emanating263 from any quarter whatever. Let me know what you heard, and from whom you heard it."
"May 3rd, 1848.
"All I can say to you about a certain matter is this: the report—if report there be—and if the lady, who seems to have been rather mystified, had not dreamt what she fancied had been told to her—must have had its origin in some absurd misunderstanding. I have given NO ONE a right either to affirm, or to hint, in the most distant manner, that I was 'publishing'—(humbug!) Whoever has said it—if any one has, which I doubt—is no friend of mine. Though twenty books were ascribed to me, I should own none. I scout264 the idea utterly. Whoever, after I have distinctly rejected the charge, urges it upon me, will do an unkind and an ill-bred thing. The most profound obscurity is infinitely265 preferable to vulgar notoriety; and that notoriety I neither seek nor will have. If then any B—an, or G—an, should presume to bore you on the subject,—to ask you what 'novel' Miss Brontë has been 'publishing,' you can just say, with the distinct firmness of which you are perfect mistress when you choose, that you are authorised by Miss Brontë to say, that she repels266 and disowns every accusation267 of the kind. You may add, if you please, that if any one has her confidence, you believe you have, and she has made no drivelling confessions268 to you on the subject. I am at a loss to conjecture from what source this rumour269 has come; and, I fear, it has far from a friendly origin. I am not certain, however, and I should be very glad if I could gain certainty. Should you hear anything more, please let me know. Your offer of 'Simeon's Life' is a very kind one, and I thank you for it. I dare say Papa would like to see the work very much, as he knew Mr. Simeon. Laugh or scold A—— out of the publishing notion; and believe me, through all chances and changes, whether calumniated270 or let alone,—Yours faithfully,
C. BRONTË."
The reason why Miss Brontë was so anxious to preserve her secret, was, I am told, that she had pledged her word to her sisters that it should not be revealed through her.
The dilemmas271 attendant on the publication of the sisters' novels, under assumed names, were increasing upon them. Many critics insisted on believing, that all the fictions published as by three Bells were the works of one author, but written at different periods of his development and maturity272. No doubt, this suspicion affected the reception of the books. Ever since the completion of Anne Brontë's tale of "Agnes Grey", she had been labouring at a second, "The Tenant273 of Wildfell Hall." It is little known; the subject—the deterioration274 of a character, whose profligacy275 and ruin took their rise in habits of intemperance276, so slight as to be only considered "good fellowship"—was painfully discordant277 to one who would fain have sheltered herself from all but peaceful and religious ideas. "She had" (says her sister of that gentle "little one"), "in the course of her life, been called on to contemplate278 near at hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused and faculties abused; hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and dejected nature; what she saw sunk very deeply into her mind; it did her harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to be a duty to reproduce every detail (of course, with fictitious characters, incidents, and situations), as a warning to others. She hated her work, but would pursue it. When reasoned with on the subject, she regarded such reasonings as a temptation to self-indulgence. She must be honest; she must not varnish279, soften78, or conceal280. This well-meant resolution brought on her misconstruction, and some abuse, which she bore, as it was her custom to bear whatever was unpleasant with mild steady patience. She was a very sincere and practical Christian281, but the tinge282 of religious melancholy283 communicated a sad shade to her brief blameless life."
In the June of this year, 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall' was sufficiently near its completion to be submitted to the person who had previously284 published for Ellis and Acton Bell.
In consequence of his mode of doing business, considerable annoyance285 was occasioned both to Miss Brontë and to them. The circumstances, as detailed286 in a letter of hers to a friend in New Zealand, were these:—One morning, at the beginning of July, a communication was received at the Parsonage from Messrs. Smith and Elder, which disturbed its quiet inmates not a little, as, though the matter brought under their notice was merely referred to as one which affected their literary reputation, they conceived it to have a bearing likewise upon their character. "Jane Eyre" had had a great run in America, and a publisher there had consequently bid high for early sheets of the next work by "Currer Bell." These Messrs. Smith and Elder had promised to let him have. He was therefore greatly astonished, and not well pleased, to learn that a similar agreement had been entered into with another American house, and that the new tale was very shortly to appear. It turned out, upon inquiry288, that the mistake had originated in Acton and Ellis Bell's publisher having assured this American house that, to the best of his belief, "Jane Eyre", "Wuthering Heights", and "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" (which he pronounced superior to either of the other two) were all written by the same author.
Though Messrs. Smith and Elder distinctly stated in their letter that they did not share in such "belief," the sisters were impatient till they had shown its utter groundlessness, and set themselves perfectly289 straight. With rapid decision, they resolved that Charlotte and Anne should start, for London, that very day, in order to prove their separate identity to Messrs. Smith and Elder, and demand from the credulous290 publisher his reasons for a "belief" so directly at variance291 with an assurance which had several times been given to him. Having arrived at this determination, they made their preparations with resolute292 promptness. There were many household duties to be performed that day; but they were all got through. The two sisters each packed up a change of dress in a small box, which they sent down to Keighley by an opportune293 cart; and after early tea they set off to walk thither294—no doubt in some excitement; for, independently of the cause of their going to London, it was Anne's first visit there. A great thunderstorm overtook them on their way that summer evening to the station; but they had no time to seek shelter. They only just caught the train at Keighley, arrived at Leeds, and were whirled up by the night train to London.
About eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, they arrived at the Chapter Coffee-house, Paternoster Row—a strange place, but they did not well know where else to go. They refreshed themselves by washing, and had some breakfast. Then they sat still for a few minutes, to consider what next should be done.
When they had been discussing their project in the quiet of Haworth Parsonage the day before, and planning the mode of setting about the business on which they were going to London, they had resolved to take a cab, if they should find it desirable, from their inn to Cornhill; but that, amidst the bustle295 and "queer state of inward excitement" in which they found themselves, as they sat and considered their position on the Saturday morning, they quite forgot even the possibility of hiring a conveyance296; and when they set forth, they became so dismayed by the crowded streets, and the impeded297 crossings, that they stood still repeatedly, in complete despair of making progress, and were nearly an hour in walking the half-mile they had to go. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Williams knew that they were coming; they were entirely298 unknown to the publishers of "Jane Eyre", who were not, in fact, aware whether the "Bells" were men or women, but had always written to them as to men.
On reaching Mr. Smith's, Charlotte put his own letter into his hands; the same letter which had excited so much disturbance299 at Haworth Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. "Where did you get this?" said he,—as if he could not believe that the two young ladies dressed in black, of slight figures and diminutive300 stature301, looking pleased yet agitated302, could be the embodied303 Currer and Acton Bell, for whom curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain. An explanation ensued, and Mr. Smith at once began to form plans for their amusement and pleasure during their stay in London. He urged them to meet a few literary friends at his house; and this was a strong temptation to Charlotte, as amongst them were one or two of the writers whom she particularly wished to see; but her resolution to remain unknown induced her firmly to put it aside.
The sisters were equally persevering304 in declining Mr. Smith's invitations to stay at his house. They refused to leave their quarters, saying they were not prepared for a long stay.
When they returned back to their inn, poor Charlotte paid for the excitement of the interview, which had wound up the agitation and hurry of the last twenty-four hours, by a racking headache and harassing sickness. Towards evening, as she rather expected some of the ladies of Mr. Smith's family to call, she prepared herself for the chance, by taking a strong dose of sal-volatile, which roused her a little, but still, as she says, she was "in grievous bodily case," when their visitors were announced, in full evening costume. The sisters had not understood that it had been settled that they were to go to the Opera, and therefore were not ready. Moreover, they had no fine elegant dresses either with them, or in the world. But Miss Brontë resolved to raise no objections in the acceptance of kindness. So, in spite of headache and weariness, they made haste to dress themselves in their plain high-made country garments.
Charlotte says, in an account which she gives to her friend of this visit to London, describing the entrance of her party into the Opera-house:—
"Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us, as we stood by the box-door, which was not yet opened, with a slight, graceful305 superciliousness306, quite warranted by the circumstances. Still I felt pleasurably excited in spite of headache, sickness, and conscious clownishness; and I saw Anne was calm and gentle, which she always is. The performance was Rossini's 'Barber of Seville,'—very brilliant, though I fancy there are things I should like better. We got home after one o'clock. We had never been in bed the night before; had been in constant excitement for twenty-four hours; you may imagine we were tired. The next day, Sunday, Mr. Williams came early to take us to church; and in the afternoon Mr. Smith and his mother fetched us in a carriage, and took us to his house to dine.
"On Monday we went to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, the National
Gallery, dined again at Mr. Smith's, and then went home to tea with Mr.
Williams at his house.
"On Tuesday morning, we left London, laden307 with books Mr. Smith had given us, and got safely home. A more jaded308 wretch309 than I looked, it would be difficult to conceive. I was thin when I went, but I was meagre indeed when I returned, my face looking grey and very old, with strange deep lines ploughed in it—my eyes stared unnaturally310. I was weak and yet restless. In a while, however, these bad effects of excitement went off, and I regained311 my normal condition."
The impression Miss Brontë made upon those with whom she first became acquainted during this visit to London, was of a person with clear judgment and fine sense; and though reserved, possessing unconsciously the power of drawing out others in conversation. She never expressed an opinion without assigning a reason for it; she never put a question without a definite purpose; and yet people felt at their ease in talking with her. All conversation with her was genuine and stimulating; and when she launched forth in praise or reprobation313 of books, or deeds, or works of art, her eloquence was indeed burning. She was thorough in all that she said or did; yet so open and fair in dealing314 with a subject, or contending with an opponent, that instead of rousing resentment315, she merely convinced her hearers of her earnest zeal287 for the truth and right.
Not the least singular part of their proceedings316 was the place at which the sisters had chosen to stay.
Paternoster Row was for many years sacred to publishers. It is a narrow flagged street, lying under the shadow of St. Paul's; at each end there are posts placed, so as to prevent the passage of carriages, and thus preserve a solemn silence for the deliberations of the "Fathers of the Row." The dull warehouses317 on each side are mostly occupied at present by wholesale318 stationers; if they be publishers' shops, they show no attractive front to the dark and narrow street. Half-way up, on the left-hand side, is the Chapter Coffee-house. I visited it last June. It was then unoccupied. It had the appearance of a dwelling-house, two hundred years old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient country towns; the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had heavy beams running across them; the walls were wainscotted breast high; the staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much space in the centre of the house. This then was the Chapter Coffee-house, which, a century ago, was the resort of all the booksellers and publishers; and where the literary hacks319, the critics, and even the wits, used to go in search of ideas or employment. This was the place about which Chatterton wrote, in those delusive320 letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he was starving in London. "I am quite familiar at the Chapter Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there." Here he heard of chances of employment; here his letters were to be left.
Years later, it became the tavern321 frequented by university men and country clergymen, who were up in London for a few days, and, having no private friends or access into society, were glad to learn what was going on in the world of letters, from the conversation which they were sure to hear in the Coffee-room. In Mr. Brontë's few and brief visits to town, during his residence at Cambridge, and the period of his curacy in Essex, he had stayed at this house; hither he had brought his daughters, when he was convoying them to Brussels; and here they came now, from very ignorance where else to go. It was a place solely frequented by men; I believe there was but one female servant in the house. Few people slept there; some of the stated meetings of the Trade were held in it, as they had been for more than a century; and, occasionally country booksellers, with now and then a clergyman, resorted to it; but it was a strange desolate place for the Miss Brontës to have gone to, from its purely business and masculine aspect. The old "grey-haired elderly man," who officiated as waiter seems to have been touched from the very first with the quiet simplicity322 of the two ladies, and he tried to make them feel comfortable and at home in the long, low, dingy323 room up-stairs, where the meetings of the Trade were held. The high narrow windows looked into the gloomy Row; the sisters, clinging together on the most remote window-seat, (as Mr. Smith tells me he found them, when he came, that Saturday evening, to take them to the Opera,) could see nothing of motion, or of change, in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and close, although the whole breadth of the Row was between. The mighty324 roar of London was round them, like the sound of an unseen ocean, yet every footfall on the pavement below might be heard distinctly, in that unfrequented street. Such as it was, they preferred remaining at the Chapter Coffee-house, to accepting the invitation which Mr. Smith and his mother urged upon them, and, in after years, Charlotte says:—
"Since those days, I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine squares; but I love the City far better. The City seems so much more in earnest; its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things, sights, sounds. The City is getting its living—the West End but enjoying its pleasure. At the West End you may be amused; but in the City you are deeply excited." (Villette, vol. i. p. 89.)
Their wish had been to hear Dr. Croly on the Sunday morning, and Mr. Williams escorted them to St. Stephen's, Walbrook; but they were disappointed, as Dr. Croly did not preach. Mr. Williams also took them (as Miss Brontë has mentioned) to drink tea at his house. On the way thither, they had to pass through Kensington Gardens, and Miss Brontë was much "struck with the beauty of the scene, the fresh verdure of the turf, and the soft rich masses of foliage325." From remarks on the different character of the landscape in the South to what it was in the North, she was led to speak of the softness and varied intonation326 of the voices of those with whom she conversed327 in London, which seem to have made a strong impression on both sisters. All this time those who came in contact with the "Miss Browns" (another pseudonym328, also beginning with B), seem only to have regarded them as shy and reserved little country-women, with not much to say. Mr. Williams tells me that on the night when he accompanied the party to the Opera, as Charlotte ascended329 the flight of stairs leading from the grand entrance up to the lobby of the first tier of boxes, she was so much struck with the architectural effect of the splendid decorations of that vestibule and saloon, that involuntarily she slightly pressed his arm, and whispered, "You know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing." Indeed, it must have formed a vivid contrast to what they were doing and seeing an hour or two earlier the night before, when they were trudging330 along, with beating hearts and high-strung courage, on the road between Haworth and Keighley, hardly thinking of the thunder-storm that beat about their heads, for the thoughts which filled them of how they would go straight away to London, and prove that they were really two people, and not one imposter. It was no wonder that they returned to Haworth utterly fagged and worn out, after the fatigue and excitement of this visit.
The next notice I find of Charlotte's life at this time is of a different character to anything telling of enjoyment331.
"July 28th.
"Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems much shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us, have sad nights with him. He sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night. But has not every house its trial?"
While her most intimate friends were yet in ignorance of the fact of her authorship of "Jane Eyre," she received a letter from one of them, making inquiries332 about Casterton School. It is but right to give her answer, written on August 28th, 1848.
"Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I will write without further delay. It often happens that when we linger at first in answering a friend's letter, obstacles occur to retard333 us to an inexcusably late period. In my last, I forgot to answer a question which you asked me, and was sorry afterwards for the omission. I will begin, therefore, by replying to it, though I fear what information I can give will come a little late. You said Mrs. —— had some thoughts of sending —— to school, and wished to know whether the Clergy239 Daughters' School at Casterton was an eligible334 place. My personal knowledge of that institution is very much out of date, being derived335 from the experience of twenty years ago. The establishment was at that time in its infancy336, and a sad rickety infancy it was. Typhus fever decimated the school periodically; and consumption and scrofula, in every variety of form bad air and water, bad and insufficient337 diet can generate, preyed338 on the ill-fated pupils. It would not THEN have been a fit place for any of Mrs. ——'s children; but I understand it is very much altered for the better since those days. The school is removed from Cowan Bridge (a situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque—low, damp, beautiful with wood and water) to Casterton. The accommodations, the diet, the discipline, the system of tuition—all are, I believe, entirely altered and greatly improved. I was told that such pupils as behaved well, and remained at the school till their education was finished, were provided with situations as governesses, if they wished to adopt the vocation339 and much care was exercised in the selection, it was added, that they were also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on leaving Casterton. . . . The oldest family in Haworth failed lately, and have quitted the neighbourhood where their fathers resided before them for, it is said, thirteen generations. . . . Papa, I am most thankful to say, continues in very good health, considering his age; his sight, too, rather, I think, improves than deteriorates340. My sisters likewise are pretty well."
But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed341 household, and gathering342 blackness every hour.
On October the 9th, she thus writes:—
"The past three weeks have been a dark interval21 in our humble home. Branwell's constitution had been failing fast all the summer; but still, neither the doctors nor himself thought him so near his end as he was. He was entirely confined to his bed but for one single day, and was in the village two days before his death. He died, after twenty minutes' struggle, on Sunday morning, September 24th. He was perfectly conscious till the last agony came on. His mind had undergone the peculiar change which frequently precedes death, two days previously; the calm of better feelings filled it; a return of natural affection marked his last moments. He is in God's hands now; and the All-Powerful is likewise the All-Merciful. A deep conviction that he rests at last—rests well, after his brief, erring343, suffering, feverish344 life—fills and quiets my mind now. The final separation, the spectacle of his pale corpse345, gave me more acute bitter pain than I could have imagined. Till the last hour comes, we never how know much we can forgive, pity, regret a near relative. All his vices346 were and are nothing now. We remember only his woes347. Papa was acutely distressed348 at first, but, on the whole, has borne the event well. Emily and Anne are pretty well, though Anne is always delicate, and Emily has a cold and cough at present. It was my fate to sink at the crisis, when I should have collected my strength. Headache and sickness came on first on the Sunday; I could not regain312 my appetite. Then internal pain attacked me. I became at once much reduced. It was impossible to touch a morsel349. At last, bilious350 fever declared itself. I was confined to bed a week,—a dreary week. But, thank God! health seems now returning. I can sit up all day, and take moderate nourishment351. The doctor said at first, I should be very slow in recovering, but I seem to get on faster than he anticipated. I am truly MUCH BETTER."
I have heard, from one who attended Branwell in his last illness, that he resolved on standing up to die. He had repeatedly said, that as long as there was life there was strength of will to do what it chose; and when the last agony came on, he insisted on assuming the position just mentioned. I have previously stated, that when his fatal attack came on, his pockets were found filled with old letters from the woman to whom he was attached. He died! she lives still,—in May Fair. The Eumenides, I suppose, went out of existence at the time when the wail352 was heard, "Great Pan is dead." I think we could better have spared him than those awful Sisters who sting dead conscience into life.
I turn from her for ever. Let us look once more into the Parsonage at
Haworth.
"Oct. 29th, 1848.
"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 blessings353 as we have, and not pine after those that are out of our reach. I feel much more uneasy about my sister than myself just now. Emily's cold and cough are very obstinate354. I fear she has pain in her chest, and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing, when she has moved at all quickly. She looks 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 Anne's great delicacy355 of constitution. The late sad event has, I feel, made me more apprehensive356 than common. I cannot help feeling much depressed357 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 invalids358 of late; sudden changes of temperature, and cold penetrating359 winds have been frequent here. Should the atmosphere become more settled, perhaps a favourable effect might be produced on the general health, and these harassing colds and coughs be removed. Papa has not quite escaped, but he has so far stood it better than any of us. You must not mention my going to —— this winter. I could not, and would not, leave home on any account. Miss —— 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. God restore health and strength to all who need it!"
I go on now with her own affecting words in the biographical notice of her sisters.
"But a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape which to anticipate is dread360; to look back on grief. In the very heat and burden of the day, the labourers failed over their work. My sister Emily first declined. . . . Never in all her life had she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. . . . Day by day, when I, saw with what a front she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish361 of wonder and love: I have seen nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone. The awful point was that, while full of ruth for others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was inexorable to the flesh; from the trembling hands, the unnerved limbs, the fading eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate362, was a pain no words can render."
In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday succeeding Branwell's death. She made no complaint; she would not endure questioning; she rejected sympathy and help. Many a time did Charlotte and Anne drop their sewing, or cease from their writing, to listen with wrung hearts to the failing step, the laboured breathing, the frequent pauses, with which their sister climbed the short staircase; yet they dared not notice what they observed, with pangs363 of suffering even deeper than hers. They dared not notice it in words, far less by the caressing365 assistance of a helping366 arm or hand. They sat, still and silent.
"Nov. 23rd, 1848.
"I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied yet. She is VERY ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your impression would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid367 aspect I have not beheld368. The deep tight cough continues; the breathing after the least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompanied by pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowed it be to felt, was found to beat 115 per minute. In this state she resolutely369 refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation of her feelings, she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is, and has been for some weeks, exquisitely370 painful. God only knows how all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been forced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable. But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in the world."
When a doctor had been sent for, and was in the very house, Emily refused to see him. Her sisters could only describe to him what symptoms they had observed; and the medicines which he sent she would not take, denying that she was ill.
"Dec. 10th, 1848.
"I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now interests me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I hardly know what to think myself. Hope and fear fluctuate daily. The pain in her side and chest is better; the cough, the shortness of breath, the extreme emaciation371 continue. I have endured, however, such tortures of uncertainty372 on this subject that, at length, I could endure it no longer; and as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continues immutable,—as she declares 'no poisoning doctor' shall come near her,—I have written unknown to her, to an eminent373 physician in London, giving as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as I could draw up, and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a day or two. I am thankful to say, that my own health at present is very tolerable. It is well such is the case; for Anne, with the best will in the world to be useful, is really too delicate to do or bear much. She, too, at present, has frequent pains in the side. Papa is also pretty well, though Emily's state renders him very anxious.
"The ——s (Anne Brontë's former pupils) were here about a week ago. They are attractive and stylish-looking girls. They seemed overjoyed to see Anne: when I went into the room, they were clinging round her like two children—she, meantime, looking perfectly quiet and passive. . . . I. and H. took it into their heads to come here. I think it probable offence was taken on that occasion,—from what cause, I know not; and as, if such be the case, the grudge must rest upon purely imaginary grounds,—and since, besides, I have other things to think about, my mind rarely dwells upon the subject. If Emily were but well, I feel as if I should not care who neglected, misunderstood, or abused me. I would rather you were not of the number either. The crab-cheese arrived safely. Emily has just reminded me to thank you for it: it looks very nice. I wish she were well enough to eat it."
But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Brontë's shiver at recalling the pang364 she felt when, after having searched in the little hollows and sheltered crevices374 of the moors for a lingering spray of heather—just one spray, however withered—to take in to Emily, she saw that the flower was not recognised by the dim and indifferent eyes. Yet, to the last, Emily adhered tenaciously375 to her habits of independence. She would suffer no one to assist her. Any effort to do so roused the old stern spirit. One Tuesday morning, in December, she arose and dressed herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for herself, and even endeavouring to take up her employment of sewing: the servants looked on, and knew what the catching376, rattling377 breath, and the glazing378 of the eye too surely foretold379; but she kept at her work; and Charlotte and Anne, though full of unspeakable dread, had still the faintest spark of hope. On that morning Charlotte wrote thus—probably in the very presence of her dying sister:—
"Tuesday.
"I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of hope to say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician's opinion was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine, which she would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. I pray for God's support to us all. Hitherto He has granted it."
The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse: she could only whisper in gasps380. Now, when it was too late, she said to Charlotte, "If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now." About two o'clock she died.
"Dec. 21st, 1848.
"Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will 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 eternity381. 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 that she has left.
"God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel382 at, through such agony as I had not conceived. I now look at Anne, and wish she were well and strong; but she is neither; nor is papa. Could you now come to us for a few days? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tell me if you could come next week, and by what train. I would try to send a gig for you to Keighley. You will, I trust, find us tranquil249. Try to come. I never so much needed the consolation383 of a friend's presence. Pleasure, of course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what your kind heart would teach you to find in doing good to others."
As the old, bereaved father and his two surviving children followed the coffin384 to the grave, they were joined by Keeper, Emily's fierce, faithful bull-dog. He walked alongside of the mourners, and into the church, and stayed quietly there all the time that the burial service was being read. When he came home, he lay down at Emily's chamber385 door, and howled pitifully for many days. Anne Brontë drooped386 and sickened more rapidly from that time; and so ended the year 1848.
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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severely
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utterly
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inclement
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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harass
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exacting
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contented
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disquieting
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mutual
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grudge
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specially
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gasp
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contemplating
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err
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misused
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faculties
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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21
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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22
impoverishing
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| v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的现在分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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25
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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28
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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29
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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30
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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31
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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32
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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33
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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34
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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35
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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36
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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37
conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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38
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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39
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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40
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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41
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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42
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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43
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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44
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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45
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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46
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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47
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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48
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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49
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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50
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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51
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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52
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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53
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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54
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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55
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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56
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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57
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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59
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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60
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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61
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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62
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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63
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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64
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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65
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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66
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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67
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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68
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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69
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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70
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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71
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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73
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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74
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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75
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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76
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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77
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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78
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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79
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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80
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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81
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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82
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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83
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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84
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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85
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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87
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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88
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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89
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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90
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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91
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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92
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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93
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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94
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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95
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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96
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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98
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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99
detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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100
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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101
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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102
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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103
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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104
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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105
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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106
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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107
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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108
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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109
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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110
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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111
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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112
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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113
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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114
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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116
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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117
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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118
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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119
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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120
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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121
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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122
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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123
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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124
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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125
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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126
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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127
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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128
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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129
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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130
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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131
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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132
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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133
regenerator
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| n.收革者，交流换热器，再生器；蓄热器 | |
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134
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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135
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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136
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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137
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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138
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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139
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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140
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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141
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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142
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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143
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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144
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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145
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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146
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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147
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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148
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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149
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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150
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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151
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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152
eschewed
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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154
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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155
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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156
perennially
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| adv.经常出现地；长期地；持久地；永久地 | |
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157
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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158
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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159
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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160
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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161
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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162
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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163
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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164
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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165
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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166
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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167
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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168
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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169
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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170
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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171
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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173
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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174
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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175
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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176
galls
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的第三人称单数 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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177
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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178
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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179
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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180
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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181
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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182
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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183
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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184
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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185
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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186
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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187
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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188
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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189
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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190
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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192
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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193
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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194
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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195
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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196
relinquishes
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 )； 放弃 | |
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197
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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198
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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199
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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200
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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201
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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202
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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203
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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204
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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205
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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206
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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207
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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208
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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209
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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210
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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211
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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212
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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213
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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214
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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215
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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216
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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217
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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218
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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219
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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220
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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221
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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222
corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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223
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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224
exterminate
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| v.扑灭，消灭，根绝 | |
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225
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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226
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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227
chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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228
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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229
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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230
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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232
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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233
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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234
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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235
coteries
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| n.（有共同兴趣的）小集团( coterie的名词复数 ) | |
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236
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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237
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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238
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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239
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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240
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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241
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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242
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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243
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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244
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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245
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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246
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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247
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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248
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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249
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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250
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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251
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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252
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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253
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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254
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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255
cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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256
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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257
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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258
palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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259
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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260
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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261
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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262
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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263
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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264
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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265
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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266
repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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267
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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268
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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269
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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270
calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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271
dilemmas
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| n.左右为难( dilemma的名词复数 )；窘境，困境 | |
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272
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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273
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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274
deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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275
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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276
intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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277
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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278
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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279
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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280
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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281
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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282
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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283
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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284
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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285
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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286
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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287
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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288
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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289
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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290
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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291
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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292
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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293
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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294
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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295
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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296
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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297
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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298
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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299
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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300
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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301
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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302
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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303
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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304
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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305
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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306
superciliousness
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|
| n.高傲，傲慢 | |
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307
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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308
jaded
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|
| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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309
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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310
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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311
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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312
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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313
reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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314
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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315
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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316
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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317
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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318
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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319
hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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320
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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321
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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322
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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323
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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324
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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325
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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326
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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327
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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328
pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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329
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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330
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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331
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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332
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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333
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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334
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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335
derived
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|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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336
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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337
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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338
preyed
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|
| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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339
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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340
deteriorates
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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341
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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342
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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343
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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344
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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345
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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346
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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347
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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348
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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349
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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350
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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351
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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352
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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353
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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354
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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355
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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356
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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357
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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358
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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359
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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360
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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361
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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362
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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363
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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364
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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365
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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366
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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367
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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368
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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369
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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370
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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371
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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372
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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373
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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374
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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375
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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376
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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377
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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378
glazing
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| n.玻璃装配业；玻璃窗；上釉；上光v.装玻璃( glaze的现在分词 )；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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379
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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380
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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381
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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382
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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383
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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384
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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385
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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386
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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