On the 29th of July, 1835, Charlotte, now a little more than nineteen years old, went as teacher to Miss W---’s. Emily accompanied her as a pupil; but she became literally¹ ill from home-sickness, and could not settle to anything, and after passing only three months at Roe² Head, returned to the parsonage and the beloved moors³.  
Miss Brontë gives the following reasons as those which prevented Emily’s remaining at school, and caused the substitution of her younger sister in her place at Miss W---’s:—
 
“My sister Emily loved the moors.  Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her;—out of a sullen⁵ hollow in a livid hill-side, her mind could make an Eden.  She found in the bleak⁶ solitude⁷ many and dear delights; and not the least and best-loved was—liberty.  Liberty was the breath of Emily’s nostrils⁸; without it she perished.  The change from her own home to a school, and from her own very noiseless, very secluded⁹, but unrestricted and unartificial mode of life, to one of disciplined routine (though under the kindest auspices), was what she failed in enduring.  Her nature proved here too strong for her fortitude¹¹.  Every morning, when she woke, the vision of home and the moors rushed on her, and darkened and saddened the day that lay before her.  Nobody knew what ailed¹⁰ her but me.  I knew only too well.  In this struggle her health was quickly broken: her white face, attenuated¹² form, and failing strength, threatened rapid decline.  I felt in my heart she would die, if she did not go home, and with this conviction obtained her recall.  She had only been three months at school; and it was some years before the experiment of sending her from home was again ventured on.”
 
This physical suffering on Emily’s part when absent from Haworth, after recurring¹⁴ several times under similar circumstances, became at length so much an acknowledged fact, that whichever was obliged to leave home, the sisters decided¹⁵ that Emily must remain there, where alone she could enjoy anything like good health.  She left it twice again in her life; once going as teacher to a school in Halifax for six months, and afterwards accompanying Charlotte to Brussels for ten.  When at home, she took the principal part of the cooking upon herself, and did all the household ironing; and after Tabby grew old and infirm, it was Emily who made all the bread for the family; and any one passing by the kitchen-door, might have seen her studying German out of an open book, propped¹⁶ up before her, as she kneaded the dough¹⁷; but no study, however interesting, interfered¹⁹ with the goodness of the bread, which was always light and excellent.  Books were, indeed, a very common sight in that kitchen; the girls were taught by their father theoretically, and by their aunt, practically, that to take an active part in all household work was, in their position, woman’s simple duty; but in their careful employment of time, they found many an odd five minutes for reading while watching the cakes, and managed the union of two kinds of employment better than King Alfred.
 
Charlotte’s life at Miss W---’s was a very happy one, until her health failed.  She sincerely loved and respected the former schoolmistress, to whom she was now become both companion and friend.  The girls were hardly strangers to her, some of them being younger sisters of those who had been her own playmates.  Though the duties of the day might be tedious and monotonous²¹, there were always two or three happy hours to look forward to in the evening, when she and Miss W--- sat together—sometimes late into the night—and had quiet pleasant conversations, or pauses of silence as agreeable, because each felt that as soon as a thought or remark occurred which they wished to express, there was an intelligent companion ready to sympathise, and yet they were not compelled to “make talk.”
 
Miss W--- was always anxious to afford Miss Brontë every opportunity of recreation in her power; but the difficulty often was to persuade her to avail herself of the invitations which came, urging her to spend Saturday and Sunday with “E.” and “Mary,” in their respective homes, that lay within the distance of a walk.  She was too apt to consider, that allowing herself a holiday was a dereliction of duty, and to refuse herself the necessary change, from something of an over-ascetic spirit, betokening²² a loss of healthy balance in either body or mind.  Indeed, it is clear that such was the case, from a passage, referring to this time, in the letter of “Mary” from which I have before given extracts.
 
“Three years after—” (the period when they were at school together)—“I heard that she had gone as teacher to Miss W---’s.  I went to see her, and asked how she could give so much for so little money, when she could live without it.  She owned that, after clothing herself and Anne, there was nothing left, though she had hoped to be able to save something.  She confessed it was not brilliant, but what could she do?  I had nothing to answer.  She seemed to have no interest or pleasure beyond the feeling of duty, and, when she could get, used to sit alone, and ‘make out.’  She told me afterwards, that one evening she had sat in the dressing-room until it was quite dark, and then observing it all at once, had taken sudden fright.”  No doubt she remembered this well when she described a similar terror getting hold upon Jane Eyre.  She says in the story, “I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls—occasionally turning a fascinated eye towards the gleaming mirror—I began to recall what I had heard of dead men troubled in their graves . . . I endeavoured to be firm; shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly through the dark room; at this moment, a ray from the moon penetrated²⁴ some aperture²⁵ in the blind.  No! moon light was still, and this stirred . . . prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation²⁶, I thought the swift-darting beam was a herald²⁷ of some coming vision from another world.  My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears which I deemed the rustling²⁸ of wings; something seemed near me.” {4}
 
“From that time,” Mary adds, “her imaginations became gloomy or frightful²⁹; she could not help it, nor help thinking.  She could not forget the gloom, could not sleep at night, nor attend in the day.
 
“She told me that one night, sitting alone, about this time, she heard a voice repeat these lines:
 
“‘Come thou high and holy feeling,
Shine o’er mountain, flit o’er wave,
Gleam like light o’er dome³⁰ and shielding.’
 
“There were eight or ten more lines which I forget.  She insisted that she had not made them, that she had heard a voice repeat them.  It is possible that she had read them, and unconsciously recalled them.  They are not in the volume of poems which the sisters published.  She repeated a verse of Isaiah, which she said had inspired them, and which I have forgotten.  Whether the lines were recollected³¹ or invented, the tale proves such habits of sedentary, monotonous solitude of thought as would have shaken a feebler mind.”
 
Of course, the state of health thus described came on gradually, and is not to be taken as a picture of her condition in 1836.  Yet even then there is a despondency in some of her expressions, that too sadly reminds one of some of Cowper’s letters.  And it is remarkable³² how deeply his poems impressed her.  His words, his verses, came more frequently to her memory, I imagine, than those of any other poet.
 
“Mary” says: “Cowper’s poem, ‘The Castaway,’ was known to them all, and they all at times appreciated, or almost appropriated it.  Charlotte told me once that Branwell had done so; and though his depression was the result of his faults, it was in no other respect different from hers.  Both were not mental but physical illnesses.  She was well aware of this, and would ask how that mended matters, as the feeling was there all the same, and was not removed by knowing the cause.  She had a larger religious toleration than a person would have who had never questioned, and the manner of recommending religion was always that of offering comfort, not fiercely enforcing a duty.  One time I mentioned that some one had asked me what religion I was of (with the view of getting me for a partizan), and that I had said that that was between God and me;—Emily (who was lying on the hearth-rug) exclaimed, ‘That’s right.’  This was all I ever heard Emily say on religious subjects.  Charlotte was free from religious depression when in tolerable health; when that failed, her depression returned.  You have probably seen such instances.  They don’t get over their difficulties; they forget them, when their stomach (or whatever organ it is that inflicts³³ such misery³⁴ on sedentary people) will let them.  I have heard her condemn³⁵ Socinianism, Calvinism, and many other ‘isms’ inconsistent with Church of Englandism.  I used to wonder at her acquaintance with such subjects.”
 
“May 10th, 1836.
 
“I was struck with the note you sent me with the umbrella; it showed a degree of interest in my concerns which I have no right to expect from any earthly creature.  I won’t play the hypocrite; I won’t answer your kind, gentle, friendly questions in the way you wish me to.  Don’t deceive yourself by imagining I have a bit of real goodness about me.  My darling, if I were like you, I should have my face Zion-ward, though prejudice and error might occasionally fling a mist over the glorious vision before me—but I am not like you.  If you knew my thoughts, the dreams that absorb me, and the fiery³⁶ imagination that at times eats me up, and makes me feel society, as it is, wretchedly insipid³⁸, you would pity and I dare say despise me.  But I know the treasures of the Bible; I love and adore them.  I can see the Well of Life in all its clearness and brightness; but when I stoop down to drink of the pure waters they fly from my lips as if I were Tantalus.
 
“You are far too kind and frequent in your invitations.  You puzzle me.  I hardly know how to refuse, and it is still more embarrassing to accept.  At any rate, I cannot come this week, for we are in the very thickest melée of the Repetitions.  I was hearing the terrible fifth section when your note arrived.  But Miss Wooler says I must go to Mary next Friday, as she promised for me on Whit-Sunday; and on Sunday morning I will join you at church, if it be convenient, and stay till Monday.  There’s a free and easy proposal!  Miss W--- has driven me to it.  She says her character is implicated³⁹.”
 
Good, kind Miss W---! however monotonous and trying were the duties Charlotte had to perform under her roof, there was always a genial⁴⁰ and thoughtful friend watching over her, and urging her to partake of any little piece of innocent recreation that might come in her way.  And in those Midsummer holidays of 1836, her friend E. came to stay with her at Haworth, so there was one happy time secured.
 
Here follows a series of letters, not dated, but belonging to the latter portion of this year; and again we think of the gentle and melancholy⁴² Cowper.
 
“My dear dear E.,
 
“I am at this moment trembling all over with excitement, after reading your note; it is what I never received before—it is the unrestrained pouring out of a warm, gentle, generous heart . . . I thank you with energy for this kindness.  I will no longer shrink from answering your questions.  I do wish to be better than I am.  I pray fervently⁴³ sometimes to be made so.  I have stings of conscience, visitings of remorse⁴⁴, glimpses of holy, of inexpressible things, which formerly⁴⁵ I used to be a stranger to; it may all die away, and I may be in utter midnight, but I implore⁴⁶ a merciful Redeemer, that, if this be the dawn of the gospel, it may still brighten to perfect day.  Do not mistake me—do not think I am good; I only wish to be so.  I only hate my former flippancy⁴⁷ and forwardness.  Oh! I am no better than ever I was.  I am in that state of horrid⁴⁸, gloomy uncertainty⁴⁹ that, at this moment, I would submit to be old, grey-haired, to have passed all my youthful days of enjoyment⁵⁰, and to be settling on the verge⁵¹ of the grave, if I could only thereby⁵² ensure the prospect⁵³ of reconciliation⁵⁴ to God, and redemption through his Son’s merits.  I never was exactly careless of these matters, but I have always taken a clouded and repulsive⁵⁵ view of them; and now, if possible, the clouds are gathering⁵⁶ darker, and a more oppressive despondency weighs on my spirits.  You have cheered me, my darling; for one moment, for an atom of time, I thought I might call you my own sister in the spirit; but the excitement is past, and I am now as wretched and hopeless as ever.  This very night I will pray as you wish me.  May the Almighty⁵⁷ hear me compassionately⁵⁸! and I humbly⁵⁹ hope he will, for you will strengthen my polluted petitions with your own pure requests.  All is bustle⁶⁰ and confusion round me, the ladies pressing with their sums and their lessons . . . If you love me, do, do, do come on Friday: I shall watch and wait for you, and if you disappoint me I shall weep.  I wish you could know the thrill of delight which I experienced, when, as I stood at the dining-room window, I saw ---, as he whirled past, toss your little packet over the wall.”
 
Huddersfield market-day was still the great period for events at Roe Head.  Then girls, running round the corner of the house and peeping between tree-stems, and up a shadowy lane, could catch a glimpse of a father or brother driving to market in his gig; might, perhaps, exchange a wave of the hand; or see, as Charlotte Brontë did from the window, a white packet tossed over the avail by come swift strong motion of an arm, the rest of the traveller’s body unseen.
 
“Weary with a day’s hard work . . . I am sitting down to write a few lines to my dear E.  Excuse me if I say nothing but nonsense, for my mind is exhausted⁶¹ and dispirited.  It is a stormy evening, and the wind is uttering a continual moaning sound, that makes me feel very melancholy.  At such times—in such moods as these—it is my nature to seek repose⁶² in some calm tranquil⁶³ idea, and I have now summoned up your image to give me rest.  There you sit, upright and still in your black dress, and white scarf, and pale marble-like face—just like reality.  I wish you would speak to me.  If we should be separated—if it should be our lot to live at a great distance, and never to see each other again—in old age, how I should conjure⁶⁴ up the memory of my youthful days, and what a melancholy pleasure I should feel in dwelling⁶⁵ on the recollection of my early friend! . . . I have some qualities that make me very miserable⁶⁶, some feelings that you can have no participation⁶⁷ in—that few, very few, people in the world can at all understand.  I don’t pride myself on these peculiarities⁶⁸.  I strive to conceal⁶⁹ and suppress them as much as I can; but they burst out sometimes, and then those who see the explosion despise me, and I hate myself for days afterwards . . . I have just received your epistle and what accompanied it.  I can’t tell what should induce you and your sisters to waste your kindness on such a one as me.  I’m obliged to them, and I hope you’ll tell them so.  I’m obliged to you also, more for your note than for your present.  The first gave me pleasure, the last something like pain.”
 
* * * * *
 
The nervous disturbance⁷⁰, which is stated to have troubled her while she was at Miss W---’s, seems to have begun to distress⁷¹ her about this time; at least, she herself speaks of her irritable⁷² condition, which was certainly only a temporary ailment⁷³.
 
“You have been very kind to me of late, and have spared me all those little sallies of ridicule⁷⁴, which, owing to my miserable and wretched touchiness⁷⁵ of character, used formerly to make me wince⁷⁶, as if I had been touched with a hot iron; things that nobody else cares for, enter into my mind and rankle⁷⁷ there like venom⁷⁸.  I know these feelings are absurd, and therefore I try to hide them, but they only sting the deeper for concealment⁷⁹.”
 
Compare this state of mind with the gentle resignation with which she had submitted to be put aside as useless, or told of her ugliness by her school-fellows, only three years before.
 
“My life since I saw you has passed as monotonously⁸⁰ and unbroken as ever; nothing but teach, teach, teach, from morning till night.  The greatest variety I ever have is afforded by a letter from you, or by meeting with a pleasant new book.  The ‘Life of Oberlin,’ and ‘Leigh Richmond’s Domestic Portraiture,’ are the last of this description.  The latter work strongly attracted and strangely fascinated my attention.  Beg, borrow, or steal it without delay; and read the ‘Memoir of Wilberforce,’—that short record of a brief uneventful life; I shall never forget it; it is beautiful, not on account of the language in which it is written, not on account of the incidents it details, but because of the simple narrative⁸¹ it gives of a young talented sincere Christian⁸².”
 
* * * * *
 
About this time Miss W--- removed her school from the fine, open, breezy situation of Roe Head, to Dewsbury Moor⁴, only two or three miles distant.  Her new residence was on a lower site, and the air was less exhilarating to one bred in the wild hill-village of Haworth.  Emily had gone as teacher to a school at Halifax, where there were nearly forty pupils.
 
“I have had one letter from her since her departure,” writes Charlotte, on October 2nd, 1836: “it gives an appalling⁸³ account of her duties; hard labour from six in the morning to eleven at night, with only one half-hour of exercise between.  This is slavery.  I fear she can never stand it.”
 
* * * * *
 
When the sisters met at home in the Christmas holidays, they talked over their lives, and the prospect which they afforded of employment and remuneration.  They felt that it was a duty to relieve their father of the burden of their support, if not entirely⁸⁴, or that of all three, at least that of one or two; and, naturally, the lot devolved upon the elder ones to find some occupation which would enable them to do this.  They knew that they were never likely to inherit much money.  Mr. Brontë had but a small stipend⁸⁵, and was both charitable and liberal.  Their aunt had an annuity⁸⁶ of 50l., but it reverted⁸⁷ to others at her death, and her nieces had no right, and were the last persons in the world to reckon upon her savings⁸⁸.  What could they do?  Charlotte and Emily were trying teaching, and, as it seemed, without much success.  The former, it is true, had the happiness of having a friend for her employer, and of being surrounded by those who knew her and loved her; but her salary was too small for her to save out of it; and her education did not entitle her to a larger.  The sedentary and monotonous nature of the life, too, was preying⁸⁹ upon her health and spirits, although, with necessity “as her mistress,” she might hardly like to acknowledge this even to herself.  But Emily—that free, wild, untameable spirit, never happy nor well but on the sweeping⁹⁰ moors that gathered round her home—that hater of strangers, doomed⁹¹ to live amongst them, and not merely to live but to slave in their service—what Charlotte could have borne patiently for herself, she could not bear for her sister.  And yet what to do?  She had once hoped that she herself might become an artist, and so earn her livelihood⁹²; but her eyes had failed her in the minute and useless labour which she had imposed upon herself with a view to this end.
 
It was the household custom among these girls to sew till nine o’clock at night.  At that hour, Miss Branwell generally went to bed, and her nieces’ duties for the day were accounted done.  They put away their work, and began to pace the room backwards⁹³ and forwards, up and down,—as often with the candles extinguished, for economy’s sake, as not,—their figures glancing into the fire-light, and out into the shadow, perpetually.  At this time, they talked over past cares and troubles; they planned for the future, and consulted each other as to their plans.  In after years this was the time for discussing together the plots of their novels.  And again, still later, this was the time for the last surviving sister to walk alone, from old accustomed habit, round and round the desolate⁹⁴ room, thinking sadly upon the “days that were no more.”  But this Christmas of 1836 was not without its hopes and daring aspirations⁹⁵.  They had tried their hands at story-writing, in their miniature magazine, long ago; they all of them “made out” perpetually.  They had likewise attempted to write poetry; and had a modest confidence that they had achieved a tolerable success.  But they knew that they might deceive themselves, and that sisters’ judgments⁹⁸ of each other’s productions were likely to be too partial to be depended upon.  So Charlotte, as the eldest⁹⁹, resolved to write to Southey.  I believe (from an expression in a letter to be noticed hereafter), that she also consulted Coleridge; but I have not met with any part of that correspondence.
 
On December 29th, her letter to Southey was despatched; and from an excitement not unnatural¹⁰⁰ in a girl who has worked herself up to the pitch of writing to a Poet Laureate and asking his opinion of her poems, she used some high-flown expressions which, probably, gave him the idea that she was a romantic young lady, unacquainted with the realities of life.
 
This, most likely, was the first of those adventurous¹⁰¹ letters that passed through the little post-office of Haworth.  Morning after morning of the holidays slipped away, and there was no answer; the sisters had to leave home, and Emily to return to her distasteful duties, without knowing even whether Charlotte’s letter had ever reached its destination.
 
Not dispirited, however, by the delay, Branwell determined¹⁰² to try a similar venture, and addressed the following letter to Wordsworth.  It was given by the poet to Mr. Quillinan in 1850, after the name of Brontë had become known and famous.  I have no means of ascertaining¹⁰³ what answer was returned by Mr. Wordsworth; but that he considered the letter remarkable may, I think, be inferred both from its preservation¹⁰⁴, and its recurrence¹⁰⁵ to his memory when the real name of Currer Bell was made known to the public.
 
“Haworth, near Bradford,
“Yorkshire, January 19, 1837.
 
“Sir,—I most earnestly entreat¹⁰⁶ you to read and pass your judgment⁹⁷ upon what I have sent you, because from the day of my birth to this the nineteenth year of my life, I have lived among secluded hills, where I could neither know what I was, or what I could do.  I read for the same reason that I ate or drank; because it was a real craving¹⁰⁷ of nature.  I wrote on the same principle as I spoke¹⁰⁸—out of the impulse and feelings of the mind; nor could I help it, for what came, came out, and there was the end of it.  For as to self-conceit, that could not receive food from flattery, since to this hour, not half a dozen people in the world know that I have ever penned a line.
 
“But a change has taken place now, sir: and I am arrived at an age wherein I must do something for myself: the powers I possess must be exercised to a definite end, and as I don’t know them myself I must ask of others what they are worth.  Yet there is not one here to tell me; and still, if they are worthless, time will henceforth be too precious to be wasted on them.
 
“Do pardon me, sir, that I have ventured to come before one whose works I have most loved in our literature, and who most has been with me a divinity of the mind, laying before him one of my writings, and asking of him a judgment of its contents.  I must come before some one from whose sentence there is no appeal; and such a one is he who has developed the theory of poetry as well as its practice, and both in such a way as to claim a place in the memory of a thousand years to come.
 
“My aim, sir, is to push out into the open world, and for this I trust not poetry alone—that might launch the vessel¹¹⁰, but could not bear her on; sensible and scientific prose, bold and vigorous efforts in my walk in life, would give a farther title to the notice of the world; and then again poetry ought to brighten and crown that name with glory; but nothing of all this can be ever begun without means, and as I don’t possess these, I must in every shape strive to gain them.  Surely, in this day, when there is not a writing poet worth a sixpence, the field must be open, if a better man can step forward.
 
“What I send you is the Prefatory Scene of a much longer subject, in which I have striven to develop strong passions and weak principles struggling with a high imagination and acute feelings, till, as youth hardens towards age, evil deeds and short enjoyments¹¹¹ end in mental misery and bodily ruin.  Now, to send you the whole of this would be a mock upon your patience; what you see, does not even pretend to be more than the description of an imaginative child.  But read it, sir; and, as you would hold a light to one in utter darkness—as you value your own kindheartedness—return me an answer, if but one word, telling me whether I should write on, or write no more.  Forgive undue¹¹² warmth, because my feelings in this matter cannot be cool; and believe me, sir, with deep respect,
 
“Your really humble¹¹³ servant,
“P. B. Brontë”
 
The poetry enclosed seems to me by no means equal to parts of the letter; but, as every one likes to judge for himself, I copy the six opening stanzas—about a third of the whole, and certainly not the worst.
 
So where he reigns¹¹⁴ in glory bright,
Above those starry¹¹⁵ skies of night,
Amid his Paradise of light
   Oh, why may I not be?
 
Oft when awake on Christmas morn,
In sleepless¹¹⁶ twilight¹¹⁷ laid forlorn,
Strange thoughts have o’er my mind been borne,
   How he has died for me.
 
And oft within my chamber¹¹⁸ lying,
Have I awaked myself with crying
From dreams, where I beheld¹¹⁹ Him dying
   Upon the accursed Tree.
 
And often has my mother said,
While on her lap I laid my head,
She feared for time I was not made,
   But for Eternity¹²⁰.
 
So “I can read my title clear,
To mansions¹²¹ in the skies,
And let me bid farewell to fear,
   And wipe my weeping eyes.”
 
I’ll lay me down on this marble stone,
And set the world aside,
To see upon her ebon throne
   The Moon in glory ride.
 
Soon after Charlotte returned to Dewsbury Moor, she was distressed¹²² by hearing that her friend “E.” was likely to leave the neighbourhood for a considerable length of time.
 
“Feb. 20th.
 
“What shall I do without you?  How long are we likely to be separated?  Why are we to be denied each other’s society?  It is an inscrutable fatality¹²³.  I long to be with you, because it seems as if two or three days, or weeks, spent in your company would beyond measure strengthen me in the enjoyment of those feelings which I have so lately begun to cherish.  You first pointed¹²⁴ out to me that way in which I am so feebly endeavouring to travel, and now I cannot keep you by my side, I must proceed sorrowfully alone.  Why are we to be divided?  Surely, it must be because we are in danger of loving each other too well—of losing sight of the Creator in idolatry of the creature.  At first, I could not say ‘Thy will be done!’  I felt rebellious¹²⁵, but I knew it was wrong to feel so.  Being left a moment alone this morning, I prayed fervently to be enabled to resign myself to every decree of God’s will, though it should be dealt forth¹⁰⁹ by a far severer hand than the present disappointment; since then I have felt calmer and humbler, and consequently happier.  Last Sunday I took up my Bible in a gloomy state of mind: I began to read—a feeling stole over me such as I have not known for many long years—a sweet, placid¹²⁶ sensation, like those, I remember, which used to visit me when I was a little child, and, on Sunday evenings in summer, stood by the open window reading the life of a certain French nobleman, who attained¹²⁸ a purer and higher degree of sanctity than has been known since the days of the early martyrs¹²⁹.”
 
“E.’s” residence was equally within a walk from Dewsbury Moor as it had been from Roe Head; and on Saturday afternoons both “Mary” and she used to call upon Charlotte, and often endeavoured to persuade her to return with them, and be the guest of one of them till Monday morning; but this was comparatively seldom.  Mary says:—“She visited us twice or thrice when she was at Miss W---’s.  We used to dispute about politics and religion.  She, a Tory and clergyman’s daughter, was always in a minority of one in our house of violent Dissent¹³⁰ and Radicalism¹³¹.  She used to hear over again, delivered with authority, all the lectures I had been used to give her at school on despotic aristocracy, mercenary priesthood, &c.  She had not energy to defend herself; sometimes she owned to a little truth in it, but generally said nothing.  Her feeble health gave her her yielding manner, for she could never oppose any one without gathering up all her strength for the struggle.  Thus she would let me advise and patronise most imperiously, sometimes picking out any grain of sense there might be in what I said, but never allowing any one materially to interfere¹⁸ with her independence of thought and action.  Though her silence sometimes left one under the impression that she agreed when she did not, she never gave a flattering opinion, and thus her words were golden, whether for praise or blame.”
 
“Mary’s” father was a man of remarkable intelligence, but of strong, not to say violent prejudices, all running in favour of Republicanism and Dissent.  No other county but Yorkshire could have produced such a man.  His brother had been a détenu in France, and had afterwards voluntarily taken up his residence there.  Mr. T. himself had been much abroad, both on business and to see the great continental¹³³ galleries of paintings.  He spoke French perfectly¹³⁴, I have been told, when need was; but delighted usually in talking the broadest Yorkshire.  He bought splendid engravings of the pictures which he particularly admired, and his house was full of works of art and of books; but he rather liked to present his rough side to any stranger or new-comer; he would speak his broadest, bring out his opinions on Church and State in their most startling forms, and, by and by, if he found his hearer could stand the shock, he would involuntarily show his warm kind heart, and his true taste, and real refinement¹³⁵.  His family of four sons and two daughters were brought up on Republican principles; independence of thought and action was encouraged; no “shams” tolerated.  They are scattered¹³⁶ far and wide: Martha, the younger daughter, sleeps in the Protestant cemetery¹³⁷ at Brussels; Mary is in New Zealand; Mr. T. is dead.  And so life and death have dispersed¹³⁸ the circle of “violent Radicals¹³⁹ and Dissenters” into which, twenty years ago, the little, quiet, resolute¹⁴⁰ clergyman’s daughter was received, and by whom she was truly loved and honoured.
 
January and February of 1837 had passed away, and still there was no reply from Southey.  Probably she had lost expectation and almost hope when at length, in the beginning of March, she received the letter inserted in Mr. C. C. Southey’s life of his Father, vol. iv. p. 327.
 
After accounting¹⁴¹ for his delay in replying to hers by the fact of a long absence from home, during which his letters had accumulated, whence “it has lain unanswered till the last of a numerous file, not from disrespect or indifference¹⁴² to its contents, but because in truth it is not an easy task to answer it, nor a pleasant one to cast a damp over the high spirits and the generous desires of youth,” he goes on to say: “What you are I can only infer from your letter, which appears to be written in sincerity¹⁴³, though I may suspect that you have used a fictitious¹⁴⁴ signature.  Be that as it may, the letter and the verses bear the same stamp, and I can well understand the state of mind they indicate.
 
* * * * *
 
“It is not my advice that you have asked as to the direction of your talents, but my opinion of them, and yet the opinion may be worth little, and the advice much.  You evidently possess, and in no inconsiderable degree, what Wordsworth calls the ‘faculty¹⁴⁵ of verse.’  I am not depreciating¹⁴⁶ it when I say that in these times it is not rare.  Many volumes of poems are now published every year without attracting public attention, any one of which if it had appeared half a century ago, would have obtained a high reputation for its author.  Whoever, therefore, is ambitious of distinction in this way ought to be prepared for disappointment.
 
“But it is not with a view to distinction that you should cultivate this talent, if you consult your own happiness.  I, who have made literature my profession, and devoted¹⁴⁷ my life to it, and have never for a moment repented¹⁴⁸ of the deliberate choice, think myself, nevertheless, bound in duty to caution every young man who applies as an aspirant¹⁴⁹ to me for encouragement and advice, against taking so perilous¹⁵⁰ a course.  You will say that a woman has no need of such a caution; there can be no peril¹⁵¹ in it for her.  In a certain sense this is true; but there is a danger of which I would, with all kindness and all earnestness, warn you.  The day dreams in which you habitually¹⁵² indulge are likely to induce a distempered state of mind; and in proportion as all the ordinary uses of the world seem to you flat and unprofitable, you will be unfitted for them without becoming fitted for anything else.  Literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life, and it ought not to be.  The more she is engaged in her proper duties, the less leisure will she have for it, even as an accomplishment¹⁵³ and a recreation.  To those duties you have not yet been called, and when you are you will be less eager for celebrity¹⁵⁴.  You will not seek in imagination for excitement, of which the vicissitudes¹⁵⁵ of this life, and the anxieties from which you must not hope to be exempted¹⁵⁶, be your state what it may, will bring with them but too much.
 
“But do not suppose that I disparage¹⁵⁷ the gift which you possess; nor that I would discourage you from exercising it.  I only exhort¹⁵⁸ you so to think of it, and so to use it, as to render it conducive¹⁵⁹ to your own permanent good.  Write poetry for its own sake; not in a spirit of emulation¹⁶⁰, and not with a view to celebrity; the less you aim at that the more likely you will be to deserve and finally to obtain it.  So written, it is wholesome¹⁶¹ both for the heart and soul; it may be made the surest means, next to religion, of soothing¹⁶² the mind and elevating it.  You may embody¹⁶³ in it your best thoughts and your wisest feelings, and in so doing discipline and strengthen them.
 
“Farewell, madam.  It is not because I have forgotten that I was once young myself, that I write to you in this strain; but because I remember it.  You will neither doubt my sincerity nor my good will; and however ill what has here been said may accord with your present views and temper, the longer you live the more reasonable it will appear to you.  Though I may be but an ungracious adviser¹⁶⁴, you will allow me, therefore, to subscribe¹⁶⁵ myself, with the best wishes for your happiness here and hereafter, your true friend,
 
“ROBERT SOUTHEY.”
 
* * * * *
 
I was with Miss Brontë when she received Mr. Cuthbert Southey’s note, requesting her permission to insert the foregoing letter in his father’s life.  She said to me, “Mr. Southey’s letter was kind and admirable; a little stringent¹⁶⁶, but it did me good.”
 
It is partly because I think it so admirable, and partly because it tends to bring out her character, as shown in the following reply, that I have taken the liberty of inserting the foregoing extracts from it.
 
“Sir, March 16th.
 
“I cannot rest till I have answered your letter, even though by addressing you a second time I should appear a little intrusive¹⁶⁷; but I must thank you for the kind and wise advice you have condescended¹⁶⁸ to give me.  I had not ventured to hope for such a reply; so considerate in its tone, so noble in its spirit.  I must suppress what I feel, or you will think me foolishly enthusiastic.
 
“At the first perusal¹⁷⁰ of your letter, I felt only shame and regret that I had ever ventured to trouble you with my crude rhapsody; I felt a painful heat rise to my face when I thought of the quires of paper I had covered with what once gave me so much delight, but which now was only a source of confusion; but after I had thought a little and read it again and again, the prospect seemed to clear.  You do not forbid me to write; you do not say that what I write is utterly¹⁷¹ destitute¹⁷² of merit.  You only warn me against the folly¹⁷³ of neglecting real duties for the sake of imaginative pleasures; of writing for the love of fame; for the selfish excitement of emulation.  You kindly¹⁷⁴ allow me to write poetry for its own sake, provided I leave undone¹⁷⁵ nothing which I ought to do, in order to pursue that single, absorbing, exquisite¹⁷⁶ gratification.  I am afraid, sir, you think me very foolish.  I know the first letter I wrote to you was all senseless trash from beginning to end; but I am not altogether the idle dreaming being it would seem to denote.  My father is a clergyman of limited, though competent income, and I am the eldest of his children.  He expended¹⁷⁷ quite as much in my education as he could afford in justice to the rest.  I thought it therefore my duty, when I left school, to become a governess.  In that capacity I find enough to occupy my thoughts all day long, and my head and hands too, without having a moment’s time for one dream of the imagination.  In the evenings, I confess, I do think, but I never trouble any one else with my thoughts.  I carefully avoid any appearance of preoccupation and eccentricity¹⁷⁸, which might lead those I live amongst to suspect the nature of my pursuits.  Following my father’s advice—who from my childhood has counselled me, just in the wise and friendly tone of your letter—I have endeavoured not only attentively¹⁷⁹ to observe all the duties a woman ought to fulfil, but to feel deeply interested in them.  I don’t always succeed, for sometimes when I’m teaching or sewing I would rather be reading or writing; but I try to deny myself; and my father’s approbation¹⁸⁰ amply rewarded me for the privation.  Once more allow me to thank you with sincere gratitude¹⁸¹.  I trust I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in print: if the wish should rise, I’ll look at Southey’s letter, and suppress it.  It is honour enough for me that I have written to him, and received an answer.  That letter is consecrated¹⁸²; no one shall ever see it, but papa and my brother and sisters.  Again I thank you.  This incident, I suppose, will be renewed no more; if I live to be an old woman, I shall remember it thirty years hence as a bright dream.  The signature which you suspected of being fictitious is my real name.  Again, therefore, I must sign myself,
 
“C. Brontë.
 
“P.S.—Pray, sir, excuse me for writing to you a second time; I could not help writing, partly to tell you how thankful I am for your kindness, and partly to let you know that yo............