Life Of Charlotte Brontë Volume 2 — 03 - Chapter 2 part 2

Any author of a successful novel is liable to an inroad of letters from unknown readers, containing commendation--sometimes of so fulsome and indiscriminating a character as to remind the recipient of Dr. Johnson's famous speech to one who offered presumptuous 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 humility they excite, to call forth strong resolutions to make all future efforts worthy 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, affixed 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 modesty as to what she really did well, and what she failed in, grateful for friendly interest, and only sore and irritable 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 melodrama, and you exhort 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 determined to take Nature and Truth as my sole guides, and to follow in their very footprints; I restrained imagination, eschewed 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 deficient 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 exemption from censure, but in order to direct your attention to the root of certain literary evils.

If, in your forthcoming article in Frazer, you would bestow 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 perennially 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 solely or principally, is he not in danger of repeating himself, and also of becoming an egotist?

Then, too, imagination is a strong, restless faculty, 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 eloquent, 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 sincerity and capability of the person rendering it.

Accordingly, she applied 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 allusions 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 fortitude; even if it goes against me, I shall not murmur; ability and honesty have a right to condemn, where they think condemnation is deserved.

From what you say, however, I trust rather to obtain at least a modified approval.

"Your account of the various surmises respecting the identity of the brothers Bell, amused me much: were the enigma 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, conjectured that the soi-disant three personages were in reality but one, who, endowed with an unduly 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 procrastination, 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 importunate, 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 perusal 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 galls 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 avow that she had scarcely more practical knowledge of the peasantry amongst whom she lived, than a nun has of the country-people that pass her convent gates.

My sister's disposition was not naturally gregarious: circumstances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion; 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 benevolent, intercourse 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, graphic, 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 tragic 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 wrought creations like Heathcliff, like Earnshaw, like Catherine.

Having formed these beings, she did not know what she had done.

If the auditor of her work, when read in manuscript, shuddered under the grinding influence of natures so relentless and implacable--of spirits so lost and fallen; if it was complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes banished 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 mellower ripeness and sunnier bloom; but on that mind time and experience alone could work; to the influence of other intellects she was not amenable."

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 immature, 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 lament 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 devoted 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 relinquishes part of the trade or business by which he has been striving to gain a livelihood; 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 humble 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 distress.

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 spoke 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 repugnance, 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 dictates of their consciences.

They might be mistaken.

They might err 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, contrived to get more money from the old quarter, and has led us a sad life.

.

.

.

Papa is harassed 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 scourge, their skeleton behind the curtain?

It remains 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 allusion 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 gratitude, because I am now sure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive.

You were not severe on 'Jane Eyre;' you were very lenient.

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 justify 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 subdued;' 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, dictating certain words, and insisting on their being used, whether vehement 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 counteract 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 sterling 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 wondrous 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 frivolous, 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 inverted commas), no eloquence, 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 destitute 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 venom from that formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive poison into purifying elixir.

"If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his kind, he would delight to exterminate; 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), diligently peruse 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 chronological order of the letters, in order to complete this portion of a correspondence which is very valuable, as showing the purely 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 doctrines propounded, but to combat them?

You acknowledge that he offers you gems 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 manly 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 quill.

However, the French pen does not far mislead Mr. Lewes; he wields 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 coteries, 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 clique, they must, I suppose, in some measure, write, talk, think, and live for that clique; a harassing 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.

Influenza 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 bestowing mere social visits on the parishioners.

They had themselves suffered from the epidemic; 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 proximity of the crowded church-yard rendered the Parsonage unhealthy, and occasioned much illness to its inmates.

Mr. Brontë represented the unsanitary state at Haworth pretty forcibly to the Board of Health; and, after the requisite visits from their officers, obtained a recommendation that all future interments in the churchyard should be forbidden, a new graveyard 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 stimulating 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 aspirations and speculations very tranquilly, 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 fictitious 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 perils, 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 civilisation, 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 spasms, cramps, 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 lust for license."

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 palatable draughts 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 vehemence and agitation 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 conjectures, emanating 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 scout 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 infinitely 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 repels and disowns every accusation 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 confessions to you on the subject.

I am at a loss to conjecture from what source this rumour 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 calumniated or let alone,--Yours faithfully,