PEN-PORTRAITS OF

                             LITERARY WOMEN

                        BY THEMSELVES AND OTHERS


                               EDITED BY

                            HELEN GRAY CONE

                                  AND

                          JEANNETTE L. GILDER

              _WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES BY THE FORMER_.


                                VOL. II.


                      CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED,
                     739 & 741 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.




                               COPYRIGHT,
                                 1887,
                            By O. M. DUNHAM.


                       Press W. L. Mershon & Co.,
                             Rahway, N. J.




CONTENTS.


                                                                   PAGE.

  HARRIET MARTINEAU,                                                  11

  AURORE DUDEVANT (GEORGE SANDS),                                     59

  ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING,                                         93

  MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI),                                          131

  CHARLOTTE BRONTË, }
  EMILY BRONTË,     }                                                179

  MARIAN EVANS CROSS (GEORGE ELIOT),                                 245




                           HARRIET MARTINEAU.

                               1802-1876.




                          HARRIET MARTINEAU.


Harriet Martineau was born at Norwich, on the 12th of June, 1802. The
Martineau family were descendants of Huguenot refugees. Harriet’s
father, Thomas Martineau, was a Norwich manufacturer; Elizabeth
Rankin was the maiden name of her mother, who is described as “a true
Northumbrian woman.” Harriet was the sixth child in a family of eight.
Her childhood was sickly, repressed, and unhappy. “My life has had no
spring,” she wrote long afterwards. At eleven years of age she was
sent to the school of a Mr. Perry, who laid a solid foundation for her
education. About two years later Mr. Perry left Norwich, and Harriet’s
education was then carried on at home under visiting masters. At
fourteen she was sent to a Bristol boarding school, where she stayed
fifteen months. After this, her keen appetite for knowledge led her to
carry on her studies at home, despite much discouragement. Like other
young women of that day, she was expected to “spend a frightful amount
of time in sewing,” and at one period could only steal the hours for
intellectual work from her sleep.

She had begun to be deaf at eight years old, and at eighteen had almost
entirely lost the sense of hearing. This was a bitter trial to her. In
1822, when she was twenty, an attachment arose between herself and a
Mr. Worthington, a student for the Unitarian ministry, and the friend
of her brother (afterward Dr. James Martineau). Worthington was poor,
and her family refused to sanction a formal engagement. Three years of
waiting and suspense followed. In June, 1826, Thomas Martineau died.
The financial crisis of the winter of 1825 had left him comparatively
poor, and he could only provide in his will “a bare maintenance” for
his wife and daughters. By this time Mr. Worthington had completed his
studies, and obtained a position; and the Martineau family, under these
altered conditions, permitted Harriet to enter into an engagement with
him. The unfortunate young man, however, was seized with a brain fever,
which left him mentally shattered, and toward the close of the year
1826 he died.

Harriet’s literary career had already begun with certain contributions
to the Monthly Repository, a Unitarian magazine. In 1823 she had
published, anonymously, a small volume of _Devotional Exercises_, and
in 1826 a book of _Addresses, Prayers, and Hymns_. In the comparative
poverty to which she was now reduced, she took up her pen with a will,
but for some time with little result. She supplied anonymous short
stories to a publisher named Houlston, and wrote for him a tale called
_Principle and Practice_, and a sequel thereto. She contributed,
without payment, to the Repository and wrote, on commission, a _Life of
Howard_, for which she never received the remuneration promised.

In June, 1829, the old Norwich house, in which, after their father’s
death, her brother Henry had remained a partner, became bankrupt. As
Mrs. Martineau and her daughters had been dependent on the profits of
the factory for the payment of their small income, they were now left
utterly without support. The other sisters became teachers; Harriet
worked with her needle by day, and wrote by night. She continued her
contributions to the Repository, for a compensation of £15 a year; and
wrote for this periodical a story called _The Hope of the Hebrews_,
which was so highly praised among the Unitarians that Mr. W. J. Fox,
the editor, advised her to publish a volume of such stories. She did
so, and it was moderately successful. She took part in a competition
for three prizes offered by a Unitarian association “for the best
essays designed to convert Roman Catholics, Jews, and Mohammedans,
respectively, to Unitarianism.” She won all three of the prizes, thus
gaining twenty-five guineas, and much honor in the sect. In the same
year, 1830, she wrote the long story, _Five Years of Youth_, and a
volume called _Traditions of Palestine_.

All this work, done with wonderful perseverance, under great
disadvantages, was presented to a limited public only, and has long
since been forgotten. But in the autumn of the year 1831 she conceived
the idea of presenting, in the shape of popular tales, the principles
of political economy. She persisted in this idea, notwithstanding the
steady refusal of the London publishers to have anything to do with the
scheme; she went to London to push the matter personally; and at last
succeeded in making an arrangement, on iron terms, with Mr. Charles
Fox, the brother of the editor of the Repository. To the great surprise
of this gentleman, and the calm satisfaction of the author, the first
numbers of ILLUSTRATIONS OF POLITICAL ECONOMY met with immediate and
immense success. The first tale was published in February, 1832, and
Harriet Martineau became famous at once.

In November she came to live in London. She was received as a lion
in society, but abated no jot of her labor, producing every month a
number of from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty pages.
On the completion of her _Illustrations_, two years after her coming to
London, she travelled for two years in America, where she displayed, by
her affiliation with the Abolitionists, no little moral courage. She
returned to England in August, 1836, and turned her recent experiences
to account in writing, during the next six months, a three-volume
work called _Society in America_, for the first edition of which she
received £900. This was followed by her _Retrospect of Western Travel_,
which was sold for £600. She contributed to various magazines; produced
in 1838 a work called _How to Observe in Morals and Manners_, and also
some little books ordered by the Poor-Law Commissioners for a series of
‘Guides to Service.’

She began her novel, _Deerbrook_, in June, 1838, and visited Scotland
in August and September. _Deerbrook_ appeared in the spring. It is
generally considered her weakest work.

At this time Mrs. Martineau, who was becoming blind, Harriet’s
brother, Henry, and an invalid aunt, were all dependent upon Harriet
for support. Her anxiety and over-work led to a serious illness. She
started for a tour of the Continent after publishing _Deerbrook_, but
on reaching Venice, became so ill that she was obliged to return to
England. She was taken, in the autumn of 1839, to Tynemouth, where she
remained for the next five years under the care of her brother-in-law,
a physician named Greenhow. This was a period of great suffering, but
her intellectual activity was not suspended. _The Hour and the Man_,
a historical romance, appeared in November, 1840; and early in 1841,
_The Playfellow_, a series of children’s stories, containing the
famous _Crofton Boys_; in 1843, _Life in the Sick-Room_, published
anonymously, but generally recognized at once; and numerous stories and
articles in aid of various causes. In 1841 she refused, on principle,
Lord Melbourne’s offer of a pension of £150 per annum. In 1843 her
friends presented her with a testimonial of £1,400.

In June of the following year she consented to try mesmeric treatment.
In December she was so much better as to be enabled to leave Tynemouth.
For the next ten years she enjoyed perfect health. With characteristic
enthusiasm, she published the Athenæum, and subsequently in pamphlet
form, six _Letters on Mesmerism_, detailing this wonderful cure. This
open declaration of her faith in mesmerism led to a breach with Mr.
Greenhow.

Miss Martineau now purchased land near Ambleside, and took lodgings in
the village, during the winter of 1845-6, to superintend the building
of a house according to her own plans. Here she wrote her _Forest
and Game Law Tales_. In the spring she took possession of her home,
called “The Knoll.” After writing a story for the young, _The Billow
and the Rock_, she started with some friends for the East, in the
autumn of 1846, returning in October, 1847. Her life at “The Knoll”
was beneficent and busy. She engaged in farming, on a very small
scale, and wrote on the subject a book called _Health, Husbandry and
Handicraft_.

In _Eastern Life, Past and Present_, published in 1848, Miss Martineau
first allowed it to be seen that an important change had taken place in
her opinions on theology. This was in some measure due to the influence
of Mr. Henry G. Atkinson, with whom she became acquainted during her
recovery from her long illness, and who remained her dearest friend
until her death. Her next work was _Household Education_, followed, in
1850, by her important HISTORY OF THE THIRTY YEARS’ PEACE. In January,
1851, appeared _Letters on the Laws of Man’s Nature and Development_,
the joint production of herself and Mr. Atkinson. In this book her new
opinions were distinctly stated. The work was received with horror
by the orthodox press. An article on the subject in the Prospective
Review, by Dr. James Martineau, caused a breach between the brother and
sister.

Miss Martineau published soon after an introductory volume to the
HISTORY OF THE PEACE. In November, 1853, appeared her translation of
Comte’s ‘Positive Philosophy.’ At this time she contributed frequently
to periodicals. In the autumn of 1852 she visited Ireland, writing
while there a series of letters to the Daily News, which were reprinted
in a volume at the end of the year. In 1854 she prepared a _Complete
Guide to the Lakes_.

Toward the end of this year her health failed. Early in 1855 it was
the verdict of her physicians that she was suffering from enlargement
and enfeeblement of the heart, and that her life would probably not be
long. Under this impression her AUTOBIOGRAPHY was rapidly written. She
never left Ambleside again; but, contrary to expectation, lived on for
twenty-one years. She continued to write leaders for the Daily News--to
which she is said to have contributed in all over sixteen hundred
political articles--and papers and pamphlets on various subjects of
public interest. A volume of _Sketches from Life_ was issued in 1856,
and in 1859 appeared _England and Her Soldiers_, written in aid of the
army work of Florence Nightingale.

In 1868 a number of _Biographical Sketches_, originally published in
the Daily News, were collected in a volume. Before this time she had
been obliged, by increasing illness, to lay aside her literary work.
She had suffered a severe blow, in 1864, in the death of her niece,
Maria, her faithful companion and nurse. Another niece, Jane, undertook
to fill the vacant place. Miss, or rather _Mrs._ Martineau, as she
preferred to be called in her later years, was calm and cheerful to the
last. She died on the 27th of June, 1876. A tumor of slow growth was
found to have been the real cause of death.

Probably no one ever lived of whom more varied opinions were
entertained. One saw her as harsh, dry, and egotistical; another
as tender, full of humor, self-sacrificing, carried away by noble
enthusiasms. Wit had its fling at this singular figure. Hartley
Coleridge said of her, aptly, that she was “a monomaniac about _every_
thing.” “After all, she is a trump!” exclaims George Eliot. It is
sufficiently certain that she was Quixotic, in a noble sense, and
disinterested. In need, she refused a pension; she vaunted rather than
suppressed unpopular opinions; a descendant of the Huguenots, and
herself without religion, she gallantly broke a lance with Charlotte
Brontë for the Roman Catholics; and he must be prejudiced indeed
who could refuse the tribute of admiration to her dogged, steady,
soldier-like determination.

  “Hail to the steadfast soul,
  Which, unflinching and keen,
  Wrought to erase from its depth
  Mist and illusion and fear!
  Hail to the spirit which dared
  Trust its own thoughts, before yet
  Echoed her back by the crowd!
  Hail to the courage which gave
  Voice to its creed, ere the creed
  Won consecration from time!”[1]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Repressed and morbid childhood.]

Never was poor mortal cursed with a more beggarly nervous system. The
long hours of indigestion by day and nightmare terrors are mournful
to think of now.... Sometimes the dim light of the windows, in the
night, seemed to advance till it pressed upon my eyeballs, and then
the windows would seem to recede to an infinite distance. If I laid
my hand under my head on the pillow, the hand seemed to vanish almost
to a point, while the head grew as big as a mountain. Sometimes I was
panic-struck at the head of the stairs, and was sure I could never get
down; and I could never cross the yard to the garden without flying
and panting, and fearing to look behind, because a wild beast was
after me. The starlight sky was the worst; it was always coming down,
to stifle and crush me, and rest upon my head. I do not remember any
dread of thieves or ghosts in particular; but things as I actually saw
them were dreadful to me; and it now appears to me that I had scarcely
any respite from the terror. My fear of persons was as great as any
other.... Our house was in a narrow street; and all its windows, except
two or three at the back, looked eastwards. It had no sun in the front
rooms, except before breakfast in summer. One summer morning I went
into the drawing-room, which was not much used in those days, and saw
a sight which made me hide my face in a chair, and scream with terror.
The drops of the lustres on the mantel-piece, on which the sun was
shining, were somehow set in motion, and the prismatic colors danced
vehemently on the walls. I thought they were alive--imps of some sort;
and I never dared go into that room alone in the morning, from that
time forward. I am afraid I must own that my heart has beat, all my
life long, at the dancing of prismatic colors on the wall.

It is evident enough that my temper must have been very bad. It seems
to me now that it was downright devilish, except for a placability
which used to annoy me sadly. My temper might have been early made a
thoroughly good one, by the slightest indulgence shown to my natural
affections, and any rational dealing with my faults; but I was almost
the youngest of a large family, and subject, not only to the rule
of severity to which all were liable, but also to the rough and
contemptuous treatment of the elder children, who meant no harm, but
injured me irreparably. I had no self-respect, and an unbounded need
of approbation and affection. My capacity for jealousy was something
frightful.... I tried for a long course of years--I should think from
about eight to fourteen--to pass a single day without crying. I was a
persevering child; and I know I tried hard, but I failed.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Spartan training.]

The first words of encouragement she ever received, came to her in the
guise of severity. She was suffering from a fly having got into her
eye. “Harriet,” said the mother, firmly grasping her for the operation,
“I know that you have resolution, and you must stand still till I get
it out.” Thus conjured, the startled, nervous little creature never
stirred till the obstruction was removed. And was she, the trembling
little one, “with cheeks pale as clay,” “flat white forehead, over
which the hair grew low,” “eyes hollow,--eyes light, large, and full,
generally red with crying,--a thoroughly scared face,”--was _she_,
then, _resolute_? She ran to the great gateway, near the street, and
beckoned to a playmate, to tell her what her mother had said. “Is
_that_ all you have made me come to hear?” It was the first encouraging
word she had ever heard, and she could find no one with whom to share
the new joy. Till now she had never thought herself worth anything
whatever.

MARIA WESTON CHAPMAN: ‘Memorials of Harriet Martineau.’
(‘Autobiography,’ _vol. ii._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Early religious feeling.]

Intensely religious I certainly was from a very early age. The
religion was of a bad sort enough, as might be expected from the
urgency of my needs; but I doubt whether I could have got through
without it. I pampered my vain-glorious propensities by dreams of
divine favor, to make up for my utter deficiency of self-respect;
and I got rid of otherwise incessant remorse by a most convenient
confession and repentance, which relieved my nerves without at all, I
suspect, improving my conduct.... While I was afraid of everybody I
saw, I was not in the least afraid of God.... The Sundays began to be
marked days, and pleasantly marked, on the whole. I do not know why
crocuses were particularly associated with Sunday at that time, but
probably my mother might have walked in the garden with us some early
spring Sunday. My idea of heaven was of a place gay with yellow and
lilac crocuses. My love of gay colors was very strong.... The Octagon
Chapel at Norwich [Unitarian], has some curious windows in the roof;
not skylights, but letting in light indirectly. I used to sit staring
up at those windows, and looking for angels to come for me and take
me to heaven, in sight of all the congregation,--the end of the world
being sure to happen while we were at chapel. I was thinking of this,
and of the hymns, the whole of the time, it now seems to me. It was
very shocking to me that I could not pray at chapel. I believe that I
never did in my life. I prayed abundantly when I was alone, but it was
impossible to do it in any other way, and the hypocrisy of appearing to
do so was a long and sore trouble to me.

[Sidenote: Finds Milton at seven.]

[Sidenote: Shakespeare at thirteen.]

When I was seven years old, ... I was kept from chapel one Sunday
afternoon by some ailment or other. When the house door closed
behind the chapel-goers I looked at the books on the table. The
ugliest-looking of them was turned down open, and my turning it up
was one of the leading incidents of my life. That plain, clumsy,
calf-bound volume was ‘Paradise Lost,’ and the common bluish paper,
with its old-fashioned type, became as a scroll out of heaven to me.
The first thing I saw was “Argument,” which I took to mean a dispute,
and supposed to be stupid enough, but there was something about Satan
cleaving Chaos which made me turn to the poetry; and my mental destiny
was fixed for the next seven years. That volume was henceforth never to
be found but by asking me for it, till a young acquaintance made me a
present of a little Milton of my own. In a few months, I believe, there
was hardly a line in ‘Paradise Lost’ that I could not have instantly
turned to. I sent myself to sleep by repeating it; and when my curtains
were drawn back in the morning, descriptions of heavenly light rushed
into my memory. I think this must have been my first experience of
moral relief through intellectual resource. I am sure I must have been
somewhat happier from that time forward.... My beloved hour of the
day was when the cloth was drawn, and I stole away from the dessert
and read Shakespeare by firelight, in winter, in the drawing-room. My
mother was kind enough to allow this breach of good family manners;
and again, at a subsequent time, when I took to newspaper reading
very heartily. I have often thanked her for this forbearance since.
Our newspaper was the _Globe_, in its best days, when, without
ever mentioning Political Economy, it taught it, and viewed public
affairs in its light.... I was all the while becoming a political
economist without knowing it, and, at the same time, a sort of walking
concordance of Milton and Shakespeare.

[Sidenote: Political Economy at fifteen.]

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Deafness.]

Her deafness, which was the most commonly known of her deficiencies of
sensation, was not her earliest deprivation of a sense. She was never
able to smell, that she could remember; and as smell and taste are
intimately joined together, and a large part of what we believe to be
flavor is really odor, it naturally followed that she was also nearly
destitute of the sense of taste. Thus, two of the avenues by which the
mind receives impressions from the outer world were closed to her all
her life, and a third was also stopped before she reached womanhood.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’ (Famous Women Series.)
Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Lack of the sense of taste.]

She had no sense of taste whatever. “Once,” she told me, when I was
expressing my pity for this deprivation of hers, “I tasted a leg of
mutton, and it was delicious. I was going out, as it happened, that
day, to dine, and, I am ashamed to say, that I looked forward to the
pleasures of the table with considerable eagerness; but nothing came
of it--the gift was withdrawn as suddenly as it came.” The sense of
smell was also denied her, as it was to Wordsworth; in his case, too,
curiously enough, it was vouchsafed to him, she told me, upon one
occasion only. “He once smelled a bean-field and thought it heaven.”

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’ New York: Harper & Bros.,
1884.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Practical education.]

“I could make shirts and puddings,” she declares, “and iron, and mend,
and get my bread by my needle, if necessary--as it was necessary, for
a few months, before I won a better place and occupation with my pen.”
During the winter which followed the failure of the old Norwich house
she spent the entire daylight hours poring over fancy work, by which
alone she could with certainty earn money. But she did not lay aside
the sterner implement of labor for that bright little bread-winner, the
needle. After dark she began a long day’s literary labor in her own
room.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Happy result of family loss of income.]

In a very short time, my two sisters at home and I began to feel the
blessing of a wholly new freedom. I, who had been obliged to write
before breakfast, or in some private way, had henceforth liberty to
do my own work in my own way; for we had lost our gentility. Many
and many a time since have we said that, but for that loss of money,
we might have lived on in the ordinary provincial method of ladies
with small means, sewing and economizing, and growing narrower every
year; whereas, by being thrown, while it was yet time, on our own
resources, we have worked hard and usefully, won friends, reputation
and independence, seen the world abundantly, abroad and at home, and,
in short, have truly lived instead of vegetated.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Manner of life during period immediately following.]

Every night that winter, I believe, I was writing till two, or even
three, in the morning, obeying always the rule of the house of being
present at the breakfast table as the clock struck eight. Many a time
I was in such a state of nervous exhaustion and distress that I was
obliged to walk to and fro in the room before I could put on paper the
last line of a page, or the last half sentence of an essay or review.
Yet I was very happy. The deep-felt sense of progress and expansion
was delightful; and so was the exertion of all my faculties, and, not
least, that of will, to overcome my obstructions, and force my way to
that power of public speech of which I believed myself more or less
worthy.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Discouragement in regard to Political Economy Tales.]

[Sidenote: Her singular resolution.]

When Harriet called upon Mr. W. J. Fox to show him her circular
inviting subscribers for the series, she found that Mr. Charles Fox
had decided to say that he would not publish more than two numbers,
unless a thousand copies of No. 1 were sold in the first fortnight!...
Mr. Fox lived at Dalston. When Harriet left his house, after receiving
this unreasonable and discouraging ultimatum, she “set out to walk the
four miles and a half to the Brewery” [_i. e._, to a house attached
to Whitbread’s establishment, where she was a guest]. “I could not
afford to ride, more or less; but, weary already, I now felt almost
too ill to walk at all. On the road, not far from Shoreditch, I became
too giddy to stand without some support, and I leaned over some dirty
palings, pretending to look at a cabbage-bed, but saying to myself,
as I stood with closed eyes, ‘My book will do yet.’” That very night
she wrote the long, thoughtful, and collected preface to her work.
After she had finished it she sat over the fire in her bedroom, in
the deepest depression; she cried, with her feet on the fender, till
four o’clock, and then she went to bed and cried there till six, when
she fell asleep. But if any person supposes that because the feminine
temperament finds a relief in tears, the fact argues weakness, they
will be instructed by hearing that she was up by half-past eight,
continuing her work, as firmly resolved as ever that it should be
published.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Calm reception of her success.]

To the best of my recollection, I waited ten days from the day of
publication, before I had another line from the publisher. My mother,
judging from his ill-humor, inferred that he had good news to tell:
whereas I supposed the contrary. My mother was right; and I could now
be amused at his last attempts to be discouraging, in the midst of
splendid success. At the end of those ten days, he sent with his letter
a copy of my first number, desiring me to make, with all speed, any
corrections I might wish to make, as he had scarcely any copies left.
He added that the demand led him to propose that we should now print
two thousand. A postscript informed me that since he wrote the above,
he had found that we should want three thousand. A second postscript
proposed four thousand, and a third, five thousand. The letter was
worth having, now it had come. There was immense relief in this; but I
remember nothing like intoxication--like any painful reaction whatever.
I remember walking up and down the grass-plot in the garden (I think it
was on the tenth of February), feeling that my cares were over. And so
they were. I think I may date my release from pecuniary care from that
tenth of February, 1832.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Manner of life in London.]

Her course in London was as follows: She wrote in the morning, rising,
and making her own coffee, at seven, and going to work immediately
after breakfast, until two. From two till four she saw visitors. Having
an immense acquaintance, she declined undertaking to make morning
calls; but people might call upon her any afternoon. She was charged
with vanity about this arrangement; but, with the work on her hands and
the competition for her company, she really could not do differently.
Still, Sydney Smith suggested a better plan; he told her she should
“hire a carriage and engage an inferior authoress to go round in it
and drop the cards!” After any visitors left, she went out for her
daily “duty walk,” and returned to glance over the newspapers, and to
dress for dinner. Almost invariably she dined out, her host’s or some
other friend’s carriage being commonly sent to fetch her. One or two
evening parties would conclude the day, unless the literary pressure
was extreme, in which case she would sometimes write letters after
returning home. During the whole time of writing her series, she was
satisfied with from five to six hours’ sleep out of the twenty-four,
and though she was not a teetotaller, but drank wine at dinner, still
she took no sort of stimulant to help her in her work.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Carlyle’s first impression of her.]

Two or three days ago ... there came to call on us a Miss Martineau,
whom you have, perhaps, often heard of in the _Examiner_. A hideous
portrait was given of her in _Fraser_ one month.[2] She is a notable
literary woman of her day; has been travelling in America these two
years, and is now come home to write a book about it. She pleased us
far beyond expectation. She is very intelligent-looking, really of
pleasant countenance; was full of talk, though, unhappily, deaf almost
as a post, so that you have to speak to her through an ear-trumpet.
She must be some five-and-thirty. As she professes very “favorable
sentiments” towards this side of the street, I mean to cultivate her a
little.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to his mother_. ‘Thomas Carlyle: A History of
His Life in London,’ by James Anthony Froude, M. A. New York: Charles
Scribner’s Sons, 1884.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Personal appearance.]

How well I remember the first sight of her, so long ago! We first
saw her at church--Dr. Channing’s. It was a presence one did not
speedily tire of looking on--most attractive and impressive; yet the
features were plain, and only saved from seeming heavily moulded by
her thinness. She was rather taller and more strongly made than most
American ladies. Her complexion was neither fair nor sallow, nor yet of
the pale, intellectual tone that is thought to belong to authorship.
It was the hue of one severely tasked, but not with literary work.
She had rich, brown, abundant hair, folded away in shining waves
from the middle of a forehead totally unlike the flat one described
by those who knew her as a child. It was now low over the eyes, like
the Greek brows, and embossed rather than graven by the workings of
thought. The eyes themselves were light and full, of a grayish greenish
blue, varying in color with the time of day, or with the eye of the
beholder--_les yeux pers_ of the old French romance writers. They were
steadily and quietly alert, as if constantly seeing something where
another would have found nothing to notice. Her habitual expression
was one of serene and self-sufficing dignity--the look of perfect and
benevolent repose that comes to them whose long, unselfish struggle to
wring its best from life has been crowned with complete victory. You
might walk the livelong day, in any city streets, and not meet such a
face of simple, cheerful strength, with so much light and sweetness in
its play of feature.

MARIA WESTON CHAPMAN: ‘Memorials of Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her best portrait described.]

It was while she was in the United States that the first portrait of
her which I have seen was painted. She herself did not like it, calling
the attitude melodramatic; but her sister Rachel, I am told, always
declared that it was the only true portrait of Harriet that was ever
taken. At this point, then, some idea of her person may be given. She
was somewhat above the middle height, and at this time had a slender
figure. The face in the portrait is oval; the forehead rather broad,
as well as high, but not either to a remarkable degree. The most
noticeable peculiarity of the face is found in a slight projection of
the lower lip. The nose is straight, not at all turned up at the end,
but yet with a definite tip to it. The eyes are a clear gray, with a
calm, steadfast, yet sweet gaze; indeed, there is an appealing look in
them. The hair is of so dark a brown as to appear nearly black. A tress
of it (cut off twenty years later than this American visit, when it
had turned snow-white), has been given to me; and I find the treasured
relic to be of exceptionally fine texture--a sure sign of a delicate
and sensitive nervous organization. Her hands and feet were small. She
was certainly not beautiful; besides the slight projection of the lower
lip, the face has the defect of the cheeks sloping in too much towards
the chin. But she was not strikingly plain, either. The countenance in
this picture has a look both of appealing sweetness and of strength in
reserve; and one feels that with such beauty of expression, it could
not fail to be attractive to those who looked upon it with sympathy.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “A strange phenomenon.”]

Miss Martineau’s Book on America is out.... I have read it for the
good authoress’s sake, whom I love much. She is one of the strangest
phenomena to me. A genuine little poetess, buckramed, swathed like a
mummy into Socinian and Political Economy formulas; and yet verily
alive in the inside of that! “God has given a Prophet to every People
in its own speech,” say the Arabs. Even the English Unitarians were one
day to have their poet, and the best that could be said for them, too,
was to be said. I admire this good lady’s integrity, sincerity; her
quick, sharp discernment to the depth it goes: her love also is great;
nay, in fact it is too great: the host of illustrious obscure mortals
whom she produces on you, of Preachers, Pamphleteers, Antislavers, Able
Editors, and other Atlases bearing (unknown to us), the world on their
shoulder, is absolutely more than enough.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to Emerson_, June, 1837. ‘Correspondence of T.
Carlyle and R. W. Emerson.’ Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her admiration of Carlyle.]

You cannot fancy what way he (Carlyle), is making with the fair
intellects here! There is Harriet Martineau presents him with her
ear-trumpet, with a pretty, blushing air of coquetry, which would
almost convince me out of belief in her identity!

JANE W. CARLYLE: _Letter to John Sterling_. ‘Letters and Memorials
of Jane Welsh,’ edited by James Anthony Froude. New York: Charles
Scribner’s Sons, 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her conversation.]

She is the most continual talker I ever heard; it is really like the
babbling of a brook, and very lively and sensible, too; and all the
while she talks she moves the bowl of her ear-trumpet from one auditor
to another, so that it becomes quite an organ of intelligence and
sympathy between her and yourself. The ear-trumpet seems a sensible
part of her, like the antennæ of some insects. If you have any little
remark to make, you drop it in; and she helps you to make remarks by
this delicate little appeal of the trumpet, as she slightly directs it
towards you; and if you have nothing to say, the appeal is not strong
enough to embarrass you.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: ‘Passages from the English Note-Books.’ Boston:
James R. Osgood & Co., 1873.

       *       *       *       *       *

He [Southey] was speaking of Miss Martineau patiently, but without
respect, describing her as “talking more glibly than any woman he had
ever seen, and with such a notion of her own infallibility.”

HENRY F. CHORLEY: ‘Autobiography, Memoir, and Letters.’ London: 1873.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Pertinent anecdote of Sydney Smith.]

When he was so ill that all his friends were full of anxiety about him,
M---- having called to see him, and affectionately asking what sort of
night he had passed, Sydney Smith replied, “Oh, horrid, horrid, my dear
fellow! I dreamt I was chained to a rock and being talked to death by
Harriet Martineau and Macaulay.”

FRANCES ANN KEMBLE: ‘Records of Later Life.’ New York: Henry Holt &
Co., 1882.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mr. Payn’s account of her conversation and character.]

The author of the ‘Vestiges of Creation’ said to me once, in his
dry, humorous way, “Your friend, Miss Martineau, has been giving me
the address in town where she gets _all her ear-trumpets_. Why, good
heavens! what does she want of them? Does she mean to say that she ever
wore one ear-trumpet out in all her life in listening to what anybody
had to say?”

She was, no doubt, masterful in argument (which is probably all that
he meant to imply), but I always found her very ready to listen, and
especially to any tale of woe or hardship which it lay in her power
to remedy. Her conversation, indeed, was by no means monologue, and
rarely have I known a social companion more bright and cheery; but her
talk, when not engaged in argument, was, which is unusual in a woman,
very anecdotal. She had known more interesting and eminent persons than
most men, and certainly than any woman, of her time; the immense range
of her writings--political, religious, and social--had caused her to
make acquaintances with people of the most different opinions, and of
all ranks, while among the large circle of her personal acquaintance
her motherly qualities, her gentleness, and (on delicate domestic
questions), her good judgment, made her the confidante of many persons,
especially young people; which enlarged her knowledge of human life to
an extraordinary degree. I never knew a woman whose nature was more
essentially womanly than that of Harriet Martineau, or one who was more
misunderstood in that respect by the world at large.

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Recollections of her long illness at Tynemouth.]

On the sofa where I stretched myself, after my drive to Tynemouth,
on the sixteenth of March, 1840, I lay for nearly five years, till
obedience to a newly-discovered law of nature raised me up and sent
me forth into the world again, for another ten years of strenuous
work, and almost undisturbed peace and enjoyment of mind and heart....
During the whole of my illness, comforts and pleasures were lavishly
supplied to me. Sydney Smith said that everybody who sent me game,
fruit, and flowers, was sure of heaven, provided always that they
punctually paid the dues of the Church of England. If so, many of my
friends are safe. Among other memorials of that time, which are still
preserved and prized, are drawings sent me by the Miss Nightingales,
and an envelope-case (in daily use), from the hands of the immortal
Florence. I was one of the sick to whom she first ministered, and it
happened through my friendship with some of her family.... I did not
think I could have wished so much for anything as I wished to see
foliage. I had not seen a tree for above five years, except a scrubby
little affair that stood above the haven at Tynemouth. An old friend
sent me charming colored sketches of old trees in Sherwood Forest, and
an artist who was an entire stranger to me, Mr. McIan, stayed away
from a day’s excursion, at a friend’s house in the country, to paint
me a breezy tree. For months the breezy tree was pinned up on the wall
before me, sending many a breeze through my mind.... During many a
summer evening, while I lay on my window-couch, and my guest of the day
sat beside me, overlooking the purple sea, or watching for the moon to
rise up from it, like a planet growing into a sun, things were said,
high and deep, which are fixed into my memory now, like stars in a dark
firmament. Now a philosopher, now a poet, now a moralist, opened to me
speculation, vision or conviction.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Correspondence with Elizabeth Barrett.]

I have had a great pleasure, lately, in some correspondence with Miss
Martineau, the noblest female intelligence between the seas,--“as sweet
as spring, as ocean deep.” She is in a hopeless anguish of body, and
serene triumph of spirit, with at once no hope and all hope.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: _Letter to R. H. Horne._ ‘Letters of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, addressed to Richard Hengist Horne.’ New York: James
Miller, 1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Prompt relief by mesmerism.]

Within one minute, the twilight and phosphoric lights appeared; and,
in two or three more, a delicious sensation of ease spread through
me--a cool comfort, before which all pain and distress gave way, oozing
out, as it were, at the soles of my feet. During that hour, and almost
the whole evening, I could no more help exclaiming with pleasure than
a person in torture crying out with pain. I became hungry, and ate
with relish for the first time for five years. There was no heat,
oppression or sickness during the seance, nor any disorder afterwards.
During the whole evening, instead of the lazy, hot ease of opiates,
under which pain is felt to lie in wait, I experienced something of
the indescribable sensations of health, which I had quite lost and
forgotten.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: _Letters on Mesmerism_, quoted by Mrs. Fenwick
Miller in her ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Subsequent good health.]

Saw a brown-faced looking woman watching for the coach--thought I
knew the face--looked out of window--it was Miss Martineau.... Walked
with her to her newly built, or building house, a most commodious,
beautifully-situated and desirable residence in all respects. I could
not but look with wonder at the brown hue of health upon her face, and
see her firm and almost manly stride as she walked along with me to Fox
How, Dr. Arnold’s place.

W. C. MACREADY: _Diary_, 1846. ‘Macready’s Reminiscences and Selections
from his Diaries and Letters,’ edited by Sir Frederick Pollock, Bart.
New York: Macmillan & Co., 1875.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Carlyle’s later impression.]

Miss Martineau was here and is gone--to Norwich, after which to
Egypt--broken into utter weariness, a mind reduced to these three
elements: imbecility, dogmatism, and unlimited hope. I never in my life
was more heartily bored by any creature.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter_ in ‘Thomas Carlyle: A History of his Life in
London.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Change of opinions harshly stated.]

On Wednesday, Mr. Henry Bright came over to dine. He visited Miss
Martineau, at Ambleside, and found her very entertaining, and in a
very singular state of doctrine--for she now professes to believe
and declare that there is no God and no future life! He says it is
wholly impossible to argue with her, because she is so opinionative
and dogmatical, and has such a peculiar advantage in putting down
her ear-trumpet when she does not choose to hear any reply to her
assertions. She has been making some beautiful designs for the windows
of her brother’s church, in Liverpool, which are accepted and to be
painted thereupon; but she is at enmity with her brother, and has no
intercourse with him.

MRS. HAWTHORNE: _Letter to her Father._

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the drawbacks of this wretched weather is that I have not yet
been able to get to Ambleside to see Miss Martineau. When she has
dined with us, or been at all to Liverpool, I have always missed her
by being at Cambridge; and I own myself a little curious to hear from
her, _viva voce_, some of her experiences. Her latest “craze” (to use
a word of DeQuincey’s), is the establishment of a shop in London for
the sale of--in plain English--infidel literature. She complained most
bitterly, the other day, to my brother-in-law, that whenever her book
on ‘Man’s Nature and Development’ is inquired for, the shopman pulls
it stealthily out from under the counter, as if ashamed of selling it,
and fearful lest some bystander be scandalized. So that there’s to be a
shop in a central situation, full of Miss Martineau and August Comte,
and Froude, who wrote the ‘Nemesis of Faith’; and Frank Newman, who
wrote ‘Phases of Faith,’ and (as Clough said), the world is to receive
the unbiassed truth: “That there’s no God, and Harriet is his Prophet.”

HENRY BRIGHT: _Letter to Nathaniel Hawthorne_. ‘Nathaniel Hawthorne and
his Wife: a Biography,’ by Julian Hawthorne. Boston: James R. Osgood &
Co., 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Stated by herself.]

I have no objection to words, when, as you do, people understand
things; but I am not an atheist, according to the settled meaning of
the term. An atheist is “one who rests in second causes,” who supposes
things that he knows to be made or occasioned by other things that he
knows. This seems to me complete nonsense; and this Bacon condemns as
the stupidity of atheism. I cannot conceive the absence of a First
Cause; but then, I contend, that it is not a person; _i. e._, that it
is to the last degree improbable, and that there is no evidence of its
being so. Now, though the superficial, ignorant and prejudiced will not
see this distinction, you will; and it will be clear to you what scope
is left for awe and reverence under my faith.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: _Letter to Charlotte Brontë_, in ‘Memorials of
Harriet Martineau,’ by Maria Weston Chapman.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Florence Nightingale’s testimony to Martineau’s religious
feeling.]

I think, contradictory as it may seem, she had the truest and deepest
religious feeling I have ever known.... To the last, her religious
feeling--in the sense of good working out of evil, of a Supreme Wisdom
penetrating and moulding the whole universe; the natural subordination
of intellect to purposes of good, even were these merely the small
purposes of social or domestic life;--all this, which supposes
something without ourselves, higher, and deeper, and better than
ourselves, and more permanent, that is, eternal, was so strong in
her--so strong that one could scarcely explain her (apparently only)
losing sight of that Supreme Wisdom and Goodness in her later years.

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE: _Letter to Maria Weston Chapman_, published in
the latter’s ‘Memorials of Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “The Lady Oracle.”]

Her form and features were repellent; she was the Lady Oracle in all
things, and from her throne, the sofa, pronounced verdicts from which
there was no appeal. Hers was a hard nature: it had neither geniality,
indulgence nor mercy. Always a physical sufferer, so deaf that a
trumpet was constantly at her ear; plain of person--a drawback of
which she could not have been unconscious--and awkward of form; she
was entirely without the gifts that attract man to woman: even her
friendships seem to have been cut out of stone; she may have excited
admiration, indeed, but from the affections that render woman only a
little lower than the angels she was entirely estranged.

S. C. HALL: ‘Retrospect of a Long Life.’ New York: D. Appleton & Co.,
1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Hawthorne’s account of Miss Martineau, 1854.]

I saw Miss Martineau a few weeks since. She is a large, robust, elderly
woman, and plainly dressed, but withal, she has so kind, cheerful
and intelligent a face that she is pleasanter to look at than most
beauties. Her hair is of a decided gray, and she does not shrink from
calling herself old.... All her talk was about herself and her affairs;
but it did not seem like egotism, because it was so cheerful and free
from morbidness. And this woman is an Atheist; and thinks that the
principle of life will become extinct when her body is laid in the
grave! I will not think so, were it only for her own sake. What! only a
few weeds to spring out of her mortality, instead of her intellect and
sympathies flowering and fruiting forever!

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: ‘Passages from the English Note-Books.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her home, “The Knoll.”]

The beauty of the scenery led her to fix upon the English lakes for
the locality in which to make her home, and, finding no suitable house
vacant, she resolved to build one for herself. She purchased two acres
of land, within half-a-mile of the village of Ambleside; borrowed some
money on mortgage from a well-to-do cousin; had the plans drawn out
under her own instructions, and watched the house being built so that
it should suit her own tastes.

It is a pretty little gabled house, built of gray stone, and stands
upon a small, rocky eminence--whence its name, “The Knoll.” There is
enough rock to hold the house, and to allow the formation of a terrace
about twenty feet wide in front of the windows, then there comes the
descent of the face of the rock. At the foot of the rock is the garden.
Narrow flights of steps at either end of the terrace lead down to the
greensward and the flower-beds; in the centre of these is a gray
granite sun-dial, with the characteristic motto around it: “Come Light!
Visit me!”

... Within, “The Knoll” is just a nice little residence for a maiden
lady, with her small household, and room for an occasional guest....
The drawing-room has two large windows, one of which descends quite
to the floor, and is provided with two or three stone steps outside,
so that the inmates may readily step forth on to the terrace. Hunters
of celebrities were wont, in the tourist season, not merely to walk
round her garden and terrace without leave, but even to mount the steps
and flatten the tips of their noses against her window. Objectionable
as the liability to this friendly attention would be felt by most of
us, it was doubly so to Miss Martineau because of her deafness, which
precluded her from receiving warning of her admirers’ approaches by
the crunching of their footsteps on the gravel, so that the first
intimation she would receive of their presence would be to turn her
head by chance and find the flattened nose and the peering eyes against
the window-pane.

Her principles and her practice went hand-in-hand in her domestic
arrangements, as in her life generally; and her kitchen was as airy,
light and comfortable for her maids as her drawing-room was for
herself. The kitchen, too, was provided with a bookcase for a servants’
library. There lingers no small interest about the guest-chamber, where
Harriet Martineau received such guests as Charlotte Brontë, George
Eliot, Emerson, and Douglas Jerrold.... Climbing plants soon covered
“The Knoll” on every side. The ivy kept it green through all the year;
the porch was embowered in honeysuckle, clematis, passion-flower and
Virginia creeper. Wordsworth, Macready, and other friends of note
planted trees for Harriet below the terrace.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A capable housewife.]

Her housekeeping was always well done. Her own hands, indeed, as
well as her head, were employed in it on occasion. When in her home,
she daily filled her lamp herself. She dusted her own books, too,
invariably. Sometimes she did more. Soon after her establishment at the
lakes ... a lady who greatly reverenced her for her writings, called
upon her in her new home, accompanied by a gentleman friend. As the
visitors approached the house by the carriage-drive, they saw some one
perched on a set of kitchen steps, cleaning the drawing-room windows.
It was the famous authoress herself! She calmly went for her trumpet,
to listen to their business; and, when they had introduced themselves
she asked them in, and entered into an interesting conversation on
various literary topics. Before they left she explained, with evident
amusement at having been caught at her housemaid’s duties, that the
workmen had been long about the house; that this morning, when the
dirty windows might for the first time be cleaned, one of her servants
had gone off to marry a carpenter, and the other to see the ceremony;
and so the mistress, tired of the dirt, had set to work to wash and
polish the windows for herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Life at “The Knoll.”]

She rose very early; not infrequently, in the winter, before daylight;
and immediately set out for a good long walk. Sometimes, I am told,
she would appear at a farm-house, four miles off, before the cows were
milked. The old post-mistress recollects how, when she was making up
her early letter-bags, in the gray of the morning mists, Miss Martineau
would come down with her large bundle of correspondence, and never
failed to have a pleasant nod and smile, or a few kindly inquiries. “I
always go out before it is quite light,” writes Miss Martineau to Mr.
Atkinson ... “and in the fine mornings I go up to the hill behind the
church--the Kirkstone road.... When the little shred of moon that is
left, and the morning star, hang over Wansfell, among the amber clouds
of the approaching sunrise, it is delicious.”... Returning home, she
breakfasted at half-past seven; filled her lamp ready for the evening,
and arranged all household matters; and by half-past eight was at her
desk, where she worked undisturbed till two, the early dinner-time.
These business hours were sacred, whether there were visitors in the
house or not. After dinner, however, she devoted herself to guests, if
there were any.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Winter evenings at Ambleside.]

In winter evenings I light the lamp, and unroll my wool-work, and
meditate or dream till the arrival of the newspaper tells me that the
tea has stood long enough.... After tea, if there was news from the
seat of war, I called in my maids, who brought down the great atlas,
and studied the chances of the campaign with me. Then there was an
hour or two for Montaigne or Bacon, or Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or
some dear old biography, or last new book from London--historical,
moral, or political. Then, when the house and neighborhood were asleep,
there was the half-hour on the terrace, or if the weather was too bad
for that, in the porch, whence I seldom or never came in without a
clear purpose for my next morning’s work. I believe that, but for my
country life, much of the benefit and enjoyment of my travels, and also
of my studies, would have been lost to me. On my terrace, there were
two worlds extended bright before me, even when the midnight darkness
hid from my bodily eyes all but the outlines of the solemn mountains
that surround our valley on three sides, and the clear opening to
the lake on the south. In the one of those two worlds, I saw now the
magnificent coast of Massachusetts in autumn, or the flowery swamps of
Louisiana, or the forests of Georgia in spring, or the Illinois prairie
in summer; or the blue Nile, or the brown Sinai, or the gorgeous Petra,
or the view of Damascus from the Salahiey; or the Grand Canal under a
Venetian sunset, or the Black Forest in twilight, or Malta in the glare
of noon, or the broad desert, stretching away under the stars, or the
Red Sea, tossing its superb shells on shore, in the pale dawn. That is
one world, all comprehended within my terrace wall, and coming up into
the light at my call. The other, and finer scenery, is of that world,
only beginning to be explored, of Science.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Miss Martineau as a hostess.]

The coach brought me to Miss Martineau’s gate at half-past six
yesterday evening, and she was there, with a beaming face, to welcome
me.... We have been trudging about, looking at cottages and enjoying
the sight of the mountains, spite of the rain and mist.... Miss M.
is charming in her own home--quite handsome from her animation and
intelligence. She came behind me, put her hands round me, and kissed me
in the prettiest way this evening, telling me she was so glad she had
got me here.

MARIAN EVANS: _Letter to the Brays_, 1852.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many of the most interesting little stories in it [her ‘Autobiography’]
about herself and others she had told me, ... when I was staying with
her, and almost in the very same words. But they were all the better
for being told in her silvery voice. She was a charming talker, and a
perfect lady in her manners as a hostess.

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: _Letter to Mrs. Bray_, 1877. ‘George Eliot’s
Life,’ edited by J. W. Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Personal appearance.]

In the porch stood Miss Martineau herself. A lady of middle height,
“inclined,” as the novelists say, “to embonpoint,” with a smile on
her kindly face, and her trumpet at her ear. She was at that time,
I suppose, about fifty years of age; her brown hair had a little
gray in it, and was arranged with peculiar flatness over a low, but
broad forehead. I don’t think she could ever have been pretty, but
her features were not uncomely, and their expression was gentle and
motherly.

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: One of her letters described.]

Aunt Charles read us a clever letter from Harriet Martineau, combining
the smoker, the moralist, the political economist, the gossip, and the
woman.

CAROLINE FOX: _Journal_ (1849). ‘Memories of Old Friends.’
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1882.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Smoking.]

The degree of deafness, as I have said, varied; and she tried all sorts
of remedies. No one who knew her would suspect her of anything “fast”
or unfeminine, but under the advice of some scientific person, or
another, she tried smoking.

[Sidenote: Cigars.]

I had the privilege of providing her privately with some very mild
cigars, and many and many a summer night have we sat together for half
an hour or so in her porch at “The Knoll,” smoking. If some of the
good people, her neighbors, had known of _that_, it would, we agreed,
have really given them something to talk about. She only tried this
remedy, if I remember right, for a few months, but she fancied it had a
beneficial effect upon her hearing. For my part, I enjoyed nothing so
much as these evenings.

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A chiboque.]

Sleepless nights were a source of great suffering to her in these
latest years. Under medical advice, she tried smoking as a means of
procuring better rest, with some success. She smoked usually through
the chiboque, which she had brought home with her from the East, and
which she had there learned to use, as she relates with her customary
simplicity and directness in the appendix to ‘Eastern Life’: “I found
it good for my health,” she says there, “and I saw no more reason why I
should not take it than why English ladies should not take their glass
of sherry at home--an indulgence which I do not need. I continued the
use of my chiboque for some weeks after my return, and then only left
it off because of the inconvenience.” When health and comfort were to
be promoted by it, she resumed it.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte Brontë’s account of a visit to Ambleside.]

I am at Miss Martineau’s for a week. Her house is very pleasant, both
within and without; arranged at all points with admirable neatness and
comfort. Her visitors enjoy the most perfect liberty; what she claims
for herself, she allows them. I rise at my own hour, breakfast alone. I
pass the morning in the drawing-room, she in her study. At two o’clock
we meet, talk and walk till five--her dinner hour--spend the evening
together, when she converses fluently and abundantly, and with the most
complete frankness. I go to my own room soon after ten, and she sits up
writing letters. She appears exhaustless in strength and spirits, and
indefatigable in the faculty of labor. She is a great and good woman;
of course not without peculiarities, but I have seen none as yet that
annoy me. She is both hard and warm-hearted, abrupt and affectionate. I
believe she is not at all conscious of her own absolutism. When I tell
her of it, she denies the charge, warmly; then I laugh at her.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Letter_ in Mrs. Gaskell’s ‘Life of Charlotte
Brontë.’ London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1857.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her ear-trumpet.]

[Sidenote: Sense of humor.]

Owing to her keen intelligence, I found it difficult to realize her
extreme deafness, and used often to address her when she was not
prepared for it. She never lost her sense of the absurdity of this
practice, and I can see the laughter in her kind eyes now, as she
snatched up her trumpet. She loved a good-natured pleasantry, even at
her own expense.... A ludicrous incident happened. I had got so well
accustomed to her ear-trumpet that I began to look upon it as a part of
herself. It was lying on the table, a good distance away from her, and
having some remark to make to her, I inadvertently addressed it to the
instrument, instead of her ear. Heavens, how we laughed! She had a very
keen sense of fun, of which, however, she was quite unconscious.

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “Not to be judged by writings alone.”]

Of my kind hostess, I cannot speak in terms too high. Without
being able to share all her opinions--philosophical, political,
or religious--I yet find a worth and greatness in herself, and a
consistency, and benevolence, and perseverance in her practice, such
as win the sincerest esteem and affection. She is not a person to be
judged by her writings alone, but rather by her own deeds and life,
than which nothing can be more exemplary or noble. The government of
her household is admirably administered; all she does is well done,
from the writing of a history down to the quietest feminine occupation.
No sort of carelessness or neglect is allowed under her rule, and yet
she is not over-strict, or too rigidly exacting; her servants and her
poor neighbors love as well as respect her.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Letter_ in Mrs. Gaskell’s ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “Proud, not vain.”]

Proud, I think she was, but not in the least vain; and the pride was
rather the consciousness of power, and the _un_conscious sense, so to
speak, of absolute rectitude and truthfulness.... The clear, quick
apprehension of the nature and merits of a question was her strong
point, and she never talked or wrote of what she did not understand,
and saw at once how to make a difficult matter intelligible to others.

HENRY G. ATKINSON: _Letter to Maria Weston Chapman_, published in the
latter’s ‘Memorials of Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her egotism.]

[Sidenote: Her conception of heaven.]

Are not nearly all recent autobiographers egotists? A number of such
works have appeared during the last ten years, and the position of
the autobiographer has been in nearly every case the same,--namely,
that God did a good thing when he made him; but that he should have
made anybody else, and should have taken an interest in the other
individual equal to that which he manifested in the autobiographer, is
a proposition which he cannot bring himself for a moment to consider.
Two books in which this view is conspicuous are the autobiographies of
John Quincy Adams and Miss Harriet Martineau. Carlyle is a mild egotist
beside these writers. Adams does not speak of himself as an individual,
but as a cause which he has espoused. Of the two, Miss Martineau is
the more naïve. She is for arranging the world entirely from her own
point of view. For instance, she attacked the late Lord Lytton, because
he did not carry an ear-trumpet. Lord Lytton was deaf, and preferred
not to carry an ear-trumpet. Miss Martineau was deaf also, and did
carry one. She did not believe in the immortality of the soul, and was
very hard upon any one who was of a contrary opinion. Her heaven, had
her belief permitted her to have one, would have been a place where
they all sat round with ear-trumpets and derided the doctrine of the
immortality of the soul.

---- ----: ‘Zweibak: or, Notes of a Professional Exile,’ in _The
Century_, February, 1886.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her lofty stand in money matters.]

It is well known that a pension was offered to her by three
Prime-ministers in succession--Earl Grey, Lord John Russell, and Mr.
Gladstone--which, like Cæsar, she “did thrice refuse,” it being against
her principles to burden the State with any such obligation. And yet
she was entirely dependent upon that reed, the pen, for subsistence.

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her needlework.]

She had a liking for the occupation [needlework] and continued to do
much of it all through her life. Many of her friends can show handsome
pieces of fancy work done by her hands. Again and again she contributed
to public objects by sending a piece of her own beautiful needlework to
be sold for the benefit of a society’s funds. Not even in the busiest
time of her literary life did she ever entirely cease to exercise her
skill in this feminine occupation. In fact, she made wool-work her
artistic recreation.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: An Ambleside story.]

A right of way was in dispute, at one time, through certain fields (a
portion, I think, of Rydal Park), in the neighborhood of Ambleside,
and the owner closed them to the public. Miss Martineau, though a
philanthropist on a large scale, could also (which is not so common
with that class) pick up a pin for freedom’s sake, and play the part
of a village Hampden. When the rest of her neighbors shrank from
this contest with the Lord of the Manor, she took up the cudgels for
them, and “the little tyrant of those fields withstood.” She alone,
not, indeed, “with bended bow and quiver full of arrows,” but with
her ear-trumpet and umbrella, took her walk through the forbidden
land, as usual. Whereupon the wicked lord (so runs the story, though
I never heard it from her own lips) put a young bull into the field.
He attacked the trespasser, or at all events prepared to attack her,
but the indomitable lady faced him and stood her ground. She was quite
capable of it, for she had the courage of her opinions, ... and, at
all events, whether from astonishment at her presumption, or terror of
the ear-trumpet (to which, of course, he had nothing to say), the bull
in the end withdrew his opposition, and suffered her to pursue her way
in peace. I wish I could add that she had the good-fortune of another
patriotic lady, “to take the tax away,” but I am afraid the wicked lord
succeeded in his designs. More than once, however, I have had pointed
out to me over the wall--for the bull was still there--the little
eminence wherefrom, with no weapon but her ear-trumpet (for she had her
umbrella over her head all the time to keep the sun off) this dauntless
lady withstood the horrid foe.

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A good neighbor.]

I was pleased to find that, notwithstanding her heresies, the common
people in Ambleside held her in gentle and kindly remembrance. She was
a good neighbor, charitable to all, considerate toward the unlettered,
never cynical or ill-tempered, always cheerful and happy as the roses
and ivy of “The Knoll” she so much loved.

MONCURE D. CONWAY, in _Harper’s Magazine_, January, 1881.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her manner of working.]

I wrote a vulgar, cramped, untidy scrawl till I was past twenty; till
authorship made me forget manner in matter, and gave freedom to my
hand. After that I did very well, being praised by compositors for
legibleness first, and in course of time for other qualities.... I
found that it would not do to copy what I wrote, and discontinued
the practice forever--thus saving an immense amount of time which, I
humbly think, is wasted by other authors. There was no use in copying
it. I did not alter; and if ever I did alter, I had to change back
again; and I, once for all, committed myself to a single copy.... I
have always used the same method in writing. I have always made sure
of what I meant to say, and then written it down without care or
anxiety--glancing at it again only to see if any words were omitted
or repeated, and not altering a single phrase in a whole work. I
mention this because I think I perceive that great mischief arises
from the notion that botching in the second place will compensate for
carelessness in the first.... It has always been my practice to devote
my best strength to my work, and the morning hours have therefore been
sacred to it, from the beginning. I never pass a day without writing,
and the writing is always done in the morning. I have seldom written
anything more serious than letters by candlelight. [While at work on
the ‘Political Economy Tales’] on an average I wrote twelve pages a
day on large letter paper (quarto, I believe it is called), the page
containing thirty-three lines.

[Sidenote: Desk, etc.]

The impending war [1853] rendered desirable an article on England’s
Foreign Policy, for the _Westminster Review_, and I agreed to do it.
I went to the editor’s house for the purpose.... On taking possession
of my room there, and finding a capital desk on my table, with a
singularly convenient slope, and of an admirable height for writing
without fatigue, it struck me that during my whole course of literary
labor, of nearly five-and-thirty years, it had never once occurred to
me to provide myself with a proper, business-like desk. I had always
written on blotting-paper, on a flat table, except when in a lazy mood,
in winter, I had written as short-sighted people do (as Mrs. Somerville
and “Currer Bell” always did), on a board, or something stiff, held
in the left hand. I wrote a good deal of the ‘Political Economy’ in
that way, and with steel pens, ... but it was radically uncomfortable;
and I have ever since written on a table, and with quill pens. Now I
was to begin on a new and luxurious method--just, as it happened, at
the close of my life’s work. Mr. Chapman obtained for me a first-rate
Chancery-lane desk, with all manner of conveniences, and of a proper
sanitary form; and, moreover, some French paper of various sizes, which
has spoiled me for all other paper; ink to correspond; and a pen-maker,
of French workmanship, suitable to eyes which were now feeling the
effects of years and over-work.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Appearance of MS.]

I have seen the original manuscript of one of the ‘Political Economy
Tales.’ The writing has evidently been done as rapidly as the hand
could move; every word that will admit of it is contracted, to save
time. “Socy.,” “opporty.,” “agst.,” “abt.,” “independce.,” these were
amongst the abbreviations submitted to the printer’s intelligence;
not to mention commoner and more simple words, such as “wh.,”
“wd.,” and the like. The calligraphy, though very readable, has a
somewhat slipshod look. Thus, there is every token of extremely rapid
composition. Yet the corrections on the MS. are few and trifling; the
structure of a sentence is never altered, and there are but seldom
emendations of even principal words. The manuscript is written (in
defiance of law and order), on both sides of the paper.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Fluctuations of mind about work.]

The fluctuations of mind which I underwent about every number of
my work, were as regular as the tides. I was fired with the first
conception, and believed that I had found a treasure. Then, while at
work, I alternately admired and despised what I wrote. When finished,
I was in absolute despair; and then, when I saw it in print, I was
surprised to see how well it looked.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: George Eliot on ‘The Crofton Boys.’]

What an exquisite little thing that is of Harriet Martineau’s--‘The
Crofton Boys!’ I have had some delightful crying over it. There are two
or three lines in it that would feed one’s soul for a month. Hugh’s
mother says to him, speaking of people who have permanent sorrow, “They
soon had a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly
disappointed can feel--the pleasure of rousing their souls to bear
pain, and of _agreeing with God silently_, when nobody knows what is in
their hearts.”

MARIAN EVANS: _Letter to Mrs. Bray_, 1845. ‘George Eliot’s Life,’
edited by J. W. Cross.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Carlyle on ‘Deerbrook’.]

How do you like it [Deerbrook]? people ask. To which there are serious
answers returnable, but few so good as none.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to Emerson_, 17th April, 1839.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: On ‘The Hour and the Man.’]

The good Harriet is not well; but keeps a very courageous heart.
She lives by the shore of the beautiful blue Northumbrian Sea;
“a many-sounding” solitude which I often envy her. She writes
unweariedly.... You saw her _Toussaint l’Ouvertour_; how she has
made such a beautiful “black Washington” ... of a rough-handed,
hard-hearted, semi-articulate, gabbling Negro; and of the horriblest
phasis that ‘Sansculottism’ _can_ exhibit, of a Black Sansculottism,
a musical Opera or Oratorio in pink stockings! It is very beautiful.
Beautiful as a child’s heart,--and in so shrewd a head as that. She is
now writing express Children’s Tales, which I calculate I shall find
more perfect.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to Emerson_, 21st February, 1841.
‘Correspondence of T. Carlyle and R. W. Emerson.’


FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Haworth Churchyard_, by Matthew Arnold.

[2] The portrait alluded to is probably the caricature by D. Maclise,
representing Miss Martineau seated, with a cat perched upon her
shoulder, before a cooking-stove.




                       AURORE DUPIN (DUDEVANT).

                            (GEORGE SAND.)

                              1804-1876.




                       AURORE DUPIN (DUDEVANT).

                            (GEORGE SAND.)


Aurore Dupin was born in Paris, July 5, 1804. Her father, Maurice Dupin
de Franceuil, was the son of an illegitimate daughter of Marshal Saxe.
His wife, Sophie Delaborde, was “a child of the people.” The death
of Captain Dupin, in 1808, left little Aurore “a bone of contention”
between her plebeian mother and her patrician grandmother. Most of her
youth was passed with the latter, at Nohant, in Berri. Her education
was irregularly carried on under an old tutor named Deschatres. At
thirteen, she was sent to the Convent des Anglaises, at Paris. Here a
strong religious enthusiasm took possession of her; and she desired to
become a nun. But, her grandmother having removed her from the convent,
her lonely study of the works of philosophers and metaphysicians
wrought a change, and she “became a Protestant without knowing it.” In
1821 the grandmother died. Aurore lived unhappily with her mother, a
woman of violent temper (to whom she was nevertheless deeply attached),
and this fact may have influenced her in accepting the hand of M.
Casimir Dudevant, to whom she was married in 1822. The disparity in age
was not great, M. Dudevant being twenty-seven; but the marriage proved
a most uncongenial one. In 1823, Aurore’s beloved son, Maurice, was
born; in 1828, her daughter, Solange. In 1831 she made an arrangement
with her husband by which she was free to spend every alternate three
months, in Paris, working with her pen. He allowed her 3,000 francs a
year. The education of the children was carefully provided for in their
compact. And now Aurore’s career really began. In 1832 she published,
under the pseudonym, “George Sand,” her first novel, _Indiana_. This
created a sensation and established her fame. It was followed during
her long life by _Valentine_, 1832,[3] _Lélia_, 1833, _Jacques_, 1834,
_Le Secrétaire intime_, 1834, _André_, 1835, _Leone Leoni_, 1835,
_Simon_, 1836, _Mauprat_, 1837, _La Dernière Aldini_, 1837, _Les
Maîtres Mosaïstes_, 1837, _Spiridion_, 1840, _Le Compagnon du Tour de
France_, 1840, _Horace_, 1842, _Consuelo_, 1842-1843, _La Comtesse de
Rudolstadt_, 1843-4, _Jeanne_, 1844, _Le Meunier d’ Angibault_, 1845,
_La Mare au Diable_, 1846, _La Péché d’ M. Antoine_, 1847, _Lucrezia
Floriani_, 1847, _La Petite Fadette_, 1849, _François le Champi_, 1850,
_Le Château des Désertes_, 1851, _Les Maîtres Sonneurs_, 1853, _Les
Beaux Messieurs de Bois Doré_, 1858, _Elle et Lui_, 1859, _L’ Homme de
Neige_, 1859, _Constance Verrier_, 1860, _Jean de la Roche_, 1860, _Le
Marquis de Villemer_, 1861, _Valvèdre_, 1861, _La Ville Noire_, 1861,
_Mlle. La Quintinie_, 1863, _La Confession d’ une Jeune Fille_, 1865,
_Cadio_, 1868, _Malgré tout_, 1870, _Pierre qui roule_, 1870, _Nanon_,
1872, _Contes d’ une Grand’ mère_, 1873, and numerous other novels and
tales; _Cosima_, 1840, _Claudie_, 1851, _Le Mariage de Victorine_,
1851, _Le Pressoir_, 1853, _Maître Favilla_, 1855, and other plays;
_Letters d’ un Voyageur_ (written 1834-6), _Un Hiver à Majorque_,
1842, _Histoire de ma Vie_, 1854-5, _Journal d’ un Voyageur pendant le
Siège_, 1872, _Impressions et Souvenirs_, 1873, and other records of
experience.

In 1836, M. and Mme. Dudevant finally separated, and the latter was
known henceforward as Mme. Sand. She had from this time full control
of her children, to whom she was devoted. Her intimacy with Alfred de
Musset, broken off after their journey to Italy, in 1834, is well known
and variously commented upon. Chopin was also her ardent admirer.

She took to the end a deep interest in public affairs. The last years
of her life were passed quietly at Nohant, where she died, June 8, 1876.

The brief remarks on George Sand, by Charlotte Brontë and Mrs.
Browning, have interest, as the words of sister authors who (as well as
George Eliot), are sometimes classed with her.

“The immense vibration of George Sand’s voice upon the ear of Europe,”
says Mr. Arnold, “will not soon die away. Her passions and her errors
have been abundantly talked of. She left them behind her, and men’s
memory of her will leave them behind also. There will remain of her to
mankind the sense of benefit and stimulus from the passage upon earth
of that large and frank nature, of that large and pure utterance....
There will remain an admiring and ever-widening report of that great
and ingenuous soul, simple, affectionate, without vanity, without
pedantry, human, equitable, patient, kind.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Reminiscences of her childhood.]

While I was yet very young, my mother commenced the cultivation of my
intellectual faculties; my mind was neither particularly sluggish nor
particularly active; left to itself it might have developed but slowly.
I was rather backward in talking, but having once begun to speak I
learned words very rapidly, and, when but four years old, I could read
fluently. I was brought up with my cousin Clotilde. Our respective
mothers taught us our prayers, and I recollect that I used to repeat
mine by heart without a mistake, and also without having any idea of
their meaning, except as regards the following words, which we were
made to repeat when our little heads were laid upon the same pillow:
“_Mon Dieu, je vous donne mon cœur!_” (My God, I give my heart to
Thee!) I do not know why I understood those words better than the rest,
for they are highly metaphysical; but certainly I did understand them,
and it was the only part of my prayers that conveyed to me any idea
either of God or myself....

My mother used to sing to me a rhyme on Christmas Eve; but as that only
occurred once a year, I do not recollect it. What I have not forgotten
is the absolute belief which I had in the descent down the chimney
of Old Father Christmas, a good old man with a snowy beard, who,
during the night, as the clock struck twelve, was to come and place
in my little shoe a present which I should find upon awaking. Twelve
o’clock at night! that mysterious hour unknown to children, and which
is represented to them as the impossible limit to which they can keep
awake! What incredible efforts did I not make to resist my tendency to
sleep before the appearance of the little old man! I felt anxious yet
afraid to see him! But I could never keep awake long enough, and the
following morning my first anxiety was to go and examine my shoe in the
fire-place. What emotion did I not feel at sight of the white paper
parcel! for Father Christmas was extremely clean in his ways, and never
failed to carefully wrap up his offering. I used to jump out of bed and
run barefooted to seize my treasure. It was never a very magnificent
affair, for we were not wealthy! It used to be a little cake, an
orange, or simply a nice rosy apple. But, nevertheless, it seemed so
precious to me that I scarcely dared to eat it.

GEORGE SAND: ‘_Histoire de ma Vie_,’ quoted by Raphaël Ledos de
Beaufort, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Early education.]

[Sidenote: Imaginativeness.]

[Sidenote: Activity.]

There seems to have been little or no method about her early education.
The study of her own language was neglected, and the time spent less
profitably, she considered, in acquiring a smattering of Latin. She
took to some studies with avidity, while others remained wholly
distasteful to her. For mere head-work she cared little. Arithmetic
she detested; versification no less. The dry _technique_ in music was
a stumbling block of which she was impatient. History and literature
she enjoyed in whatever they offered that was romantic, heroic, or
poetically suggestive. In her Nohant surroundings there was nothing to
check, and much to stimulate, this dominant imaginative faculty....
Such a visionary life might have been most dangerous and mentally
enervating had her organization been less robust, and the tendency to
reverie not been matched by lively external perception and plentiful
physical activity. As it was, if at one moment she was in a cloud-land
of her own, or poring over the stories of the Iliad, the classic
mythologies, or Tasso’s _Gerusalemme_, the next would see her scouring
the fields, ... playing practical jokes on the tutor, and extemporizing
wild out-of-door games and dances with her village companions.

[Sidenote: A curious development.]

Of serious religious education she received none at all.... Her mother
was pious in a primitive way, though holding aloof from priestly
influences. The grandmother [was] a disciple of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
and of Voltaire.... On both sides what was offered her to worship was
too indefinite to satisfy her strong religious instincts.... She filled
in the blank with her imagination, which was forthwith called upon to
picture a being who should represent all perfections, human and divine;
something that her heart could love, as well as her intelligence
approve.

[Sidenote: “Corambé.”]

This ideal figure, for whom she devised the name Corambé, was to
combine all the spiritual qualities of the Christian ideal with the
earthly grace and beauty of the mythological deities of Greece. It is
hardly too much to say that the Christianity which had been expressly
left out in her teaching she invented for herself. She erected a
woodland altar in the recesses of a thicket to this imaginary object
of her adoration, and it is a characteristic trait that the sacrifices
she chose to offer there were the release of birds and butterflies that
had been taken prisoners--as a symbolical oblation most welcome to a
divinity whose essential attributes were infinite mercy and love.

BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts
Brothers, 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Unhappy married life.]

Her husband seems to have gradually neglected her, to satisfy his
tastes as a sportsman. An excellent shot, a daring horseman, an
indefatigable huntsman, he often left her at two and three in the
morning to indulge in his favorite sport--hunting.

The young wife, delicate in health and ardent in her affection, deeply
resented the frequent absence of her husband. She at first meekly
remonstrated with M. Dudevant, who would then stay at home for a few
days, soon again to disappear. Months and years thus elapsed. When not
out hunting, M. Dudevant indulged in feasting with his friends, eating
enormously and drinking more, ... and almost forsaking his wife for the
pleasures of the field and the table.

RAPHAËL LEDOS DE BEAUFORT: _Biographical Sketch_, in ‘Letters of George
Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The crisis.]

I must inform you that in spite of my inertia, indifference,
unsteadiness of purpose, the facility with which I forgive and
forget sorrows and injury, I have just taken a _rash and extreme
resolution_.... You are acquainted with my home life, you are able to
judge whether it is tolerable. You, scores of times, wondered how I
could display so much courage and equanimity when my pride was being
constantly crushed. But there is a limit to everything.... There has
been no scandal. While looking for something in my husband’s desk, I
simply found a parcel addressed to me. That parcel had a kind of solemn
appearance which struck me. It bore the inscription: _To be opened only
at my death._

I could not find the patience to wait until I became a widow. With
health like mine I cannot expect to survive anyone. At any rate, I
supposed my husband dead, and felt rather anxious to know what he might
think of me while still alive. The parcel being directed to me, I had a
right to open it without being thought indiscreet, and, as my husband
is in the full enjoyment of health, I could read his will without
emotion.

Good heavens! what a will! Curses for me and nothing else! He had
collected therein all his impulses of temper and ill-humor against me,
all his reflections respecting my _perverseness_, all his feelings of
contempt for my character. And that is what he had left me as a token
of his affection! I fancied that I was dreaming, I who, until now, was
obstinately shutting my eyes and refusing to see that I was scorned.
The perusal of that will has at last aroused me from my slumber. I
said to myself that to live with a man who feels neither esteem for
nor confidence in his wife, would be equivalent to trying to revive a
corpse. My mind was made up, and, I dare say so, _irrevocably_.

AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, December, 1830.
‘Letters of George Sand,’ translated by Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort.
London: Ward & Downey, 1886.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her life in Paris.]

The beginning of her life in Paris was one of considerable poverty
and privation. She lived _au cinquième_ in a lodging which cost her a
yearly rent of £12; she had no servant, and got in her food from an
eating-house close by for the sum of two francs a day. Her washing and
needlework she did herself. Notwithstanding this rigid economy, it was
impossible to keep within the limits of her husband’s allowance of
£120 a year, especially as far as her dress was concerned. After some
hesitation, therefore, she took the resolution, which caused so much
scandal then and afterwards, of adopting male attire.

[Sidenote: Adoption of male attire.]

“My thin boots wore out in a few days,” she tells us in the
autobiography. “I forgot to hold up my dress, and covered my petticoats
with mud. My bonnets were spoilt one after another by the rain. I
generally returned from the expeditions I took, dirty, weary, and
cold. Whereas my young men acquaintances--some of whom had been the
companions of my childhood in Berri--had none of these inconveniences
to submit to. I therefore had a long gray cloth coat made, with a
waistcoat and trousers to match. When the costume was completed by a
gray felt hat and a loose woollen cravat, no one could have guessed
that I was not a young student in my first year. My boots were my
particular delight. I should like to have gone to bed with them. On
their little iron heels I wandered from one end of Paris to the other;
no one took any notice of me, or suspected my disguise.”

---- ----: ‘George Sand.’ _Temple Bar_, April, 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Literature at first a resource.]

My husband has set down my private expenses at 3,000 francs. You
know that that is little for me, who like to give and cannot bear to
receive. I therefore only purpose increasing my income from some other
source. I have no ambition to be known, and shall not be. I shall not
attract either the envy or the hatred of any one. Most writers, I know,
lead lives of anguish and struggle; but those whose sole ambition is to
earn a livelihood live in peaceable obscurity. It would ... be very odd
if a paltry talent like mine could not withhold itself from the public
gaze.

AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, February, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: But soon a passion.]

I am more than ever intent upon following a literary career. In spite
of the repugnance which I sometimes experience, despite the days of
idleness and fatigue which cause me to break off my work, in spite of
the life, more than quiet, which I lead here, I feel that henceforth my
existence has an aim. I have a purpose in view, a task before me, and,
if I may use the word, a _passion_. For the profession of writing is
nothing else but a violent, indestructible passion. When it has once
entered people’s heads it never leaves them.

AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, March, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Bohemian experiences.]

[Sidenote: Balzac’s oddities.]

On the Quai St. Michel--a portion of the Seine embankment facing the
towers of Notre Dame, the Sainte Chapelle, and other picturesque
monuments of ancient Paris--she had now definitely installed herself
in modest lodgings on the fifth story. Accepted and treated as a
comrade by a little knot of fellow _literati_ and colleagues on
the _Figaro_, two of whom--Jules Sandeau and Félix Pyat--were from
Berri, like herself; and with Delatouche, also a Berrichon, for their
head-master, she served thus singularly her brief apprenticeship to
literature and experience, sharing with the rest both their studies
and their relaxations, dining with them at cheap restaurants,
frequenting clubs, studios, and theatres of every degree; the youthful
effervescence of her student-friends venting itself in such collegians’
pranks as parading deserted quarters of the town by moonlight, in the
small hours, chanting lugubrious strains to astonish the shop-keepers.
The only great celebrity whose acquaintance she had made was Balzac,
himself the prince of eccentrics. Although he did not encourage Madame
Dudevant’s literary ambition, he showed himself kindly disposed towards
her and her young friends, and she gives some amusing instances that
came under her notice of his oddities. Thus once, after a little
Bohemian dinner at his lodgings in the Rue Cassini, he insisted on
putting on a new and magnificent dressing-gown, of which he was
exceedingly vain, to display to his guests, of whom Madame Dudevant was
one; and not satisfied therewith, must needs go forth, thus accoutred,
to light them on their walk home. All the way he continued to hold
forth to them about four Arab horses, which he had not got yet, but
meant to get soon, and of which, though he never got them at all, he
firmly believed himself to have been possessed for some time.

BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts
Bros., 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “An artist’s life.”]

I must live. For that purpose I am doing the meanest of work. I write
articles for the _Figaro_. If you only knew what it is! But they pay
seven francs for a column; besides which it enables me to eat and drink
and even go to the play.... It affords me the opportunity of making
most useful and amusing observations. When intending to write, people
must see and know everything and laugh at everything. Ah, upon my word,
there is nothing like an artist’s life. Our motto is _liberty_.

That is, however, a rather exaggerated boast. We do not precisely enjoy
_liberty_ at the _Figaro_. M. de Latouche, our worthy director (ah!
you ought to know the fellow), is always hanging over us, cutting,
pruning, right or wrong, imposing upon us his whims, his aberrations,
his fancies, and we have to write as he bids; for, after all, that is
his affair. We are but his working tools.

AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, March, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Origin of her pseudonym.]

The two young friends [Mme. Dudevant and Jules Sandeau] wrote a novel
entitled ‘Rose et Blanche, ou la Comédienne et la Religieuse,’ which
they sold for 400 francs.... But it was indispensable that the name
of the author should be appended to the work. Madame Dudevant could
not put her name to it for fear of a scandal; as for Sandeau, he was
afraid of incurring the reproaches of his family, which objected to his
pursuing a literary career. The name Sandeau was curtailed, and ‘Rose
et Blanche’ appeared under the signature of _Jules Sand_.

Shortly before the departure of Madame Dudevant for Nohant, where she
was about to spend three months, it was arranged between herself and
Sandeau that they should each contribute a portion of a novel, whose
title was to be ‘Indiana.’

On her return to Paris our heroine called upon Sandeau in order to
submit to him what she had done, and found that he had not yet written
a single line of his allotted share of the work.

He began to read the work of his collaborator, but had not proceeded
beyond a few lines when he gave vent to enthusiastic expressions.

“You have written a masterpiece!”

“So much the better; let us go off at once to the publisher’s.”

“Wait a moment; you wrote that work alone--you alone must sign it.”

“Never! we will continue to sign _Jules Sand_.”

“Not at all,” replied Sandeau; “I am too honest to rob you of your
glory. My conscience would never fail to reproach me with such an
action.”

The young man was firm in his decision; and, in spite of the protests
of M. de Latouche, declined to alter it.

At last an idea struck the director of the _Figaro_. “You wrote ‘Rose
et Blanche,’ and gave the name of its author as _Jules Sand_; Sand
is, therefore, your common property. Madame needs only to select
another Christian name. Now, madame, to-day is St. George’s Day. Call
yourself _George Sand_, and the difficulty is solved.” Madame Dudevant
assented, and thus assumed a name upon which her genius conferred more
imperishable titles of nobility than had been bestowed upon her either
by birth or marriage.

RAPHAËL LEDOS DE BEAUFORT: _Biographical Sketch_, in ‘Letters of George
Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Another account.]

‘Rose et Blanche,’ though little noticed by the public, brought a
publisher to the door, one Ernest Dupuy, with an order for another
novel by the same authors. ‘Indiana’ was ready-written, and came in
response to the demand. But as Sandeau had had no hand whatever in this
composition, the signature had of course to be varied. The publisher
wishing to connect the new novel with its predecessor, it was decided
to alter the prefix only. She fixed on George, as representative
of Berri, the land of husbandmen; and George Sand thus became the
pseudonym of the author of ‘Indiana,’ a pseudonym whose origin
imaginative critics have sought far afield.... Its assumption was to
inaugurate a new era in her life.

BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Appearance at this time.]

George Sand was twenty-seven years of age at this time. Without being
beautiful she was striking and sympathetic-looking. Sainte-Beuve thus
describes his first interview with her: “I saw, as I entered the room,
a young woman with expressive eyes and a fine open brow, surrounded by
black hair, cut rather short. She was quiet and composed in manner,
speaking little herself, but listening attentively to all I had to
say.”... Her features were large but regular, her eyes magnificent, and
her face distinguished by an expression of strength and calm that was
very remarkable.

---- ----: ‘George Sand.’ _Temple Bar._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her characteristics.]

[Sidenote: Love of liberty.]

You strongly suspect me of a love of pleasure, of a thirst for
amusement and diversion, of which I am far from being possessed. I
do not crave for society, the bustling of cities, theatres, dresses,
or jewelry; you alone are mistaken respecting me; what I long for is
liberty. Being alone in the streets, and saying to myself: “I shall
dine at four or at seven, if I please. I shall pass through the
Luxembourg Gardens instead of through the Champs Elysées on my way to
the Tuileries, if I feel so inclined;” that is what amuses me a great
deal more than the insipidity of men or the stiffness of drawing-rooms.

AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to her mother_, May, 1831, in ‘Letters of
George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Of work.]

Love of work is a great boon. I bless the memory of my grandmother for
having compelled me to acquire the habit of it. That habit has become a
faculty, which itself is for me a necessity. I have now reached such a
point that I can, without injuring my health, work for thirteen hours
in succession, although the average is from seven to eight hours a day,
whether the work be difficult or easy. Work brings me plenty of money,
and takes up much time which, had I nothing to do, would be devoted to
melancholy and depression of spirits, the natural consequences of my
bilious temperament.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Hippolyte Chatiron_, March, 1834, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Of the country.]

I am passionately fond of the country; I have, like yourself, all
household tastes, home tastes; I love dogs, cats and children above all
things.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Jules Janin_, February, 1857, in ‘Letters of
George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Maternal affection.]

Make haste then, and tell me that my family is ... in good health; and,
above all, my little Maurice, the little rogue, whom, however, I love
more than anything in this world, and but for whom there would be no
happiness for me. Does he sleep and eat well? Is he cheerful? Is he
quite well? Do not be too indulgent to him, and yet, as much as you
can, make him fond of his studies. I know full well that that is no
easy task. When I am with him to wipe his eyes, and see him fall asleep
in his cot, I do not much mind; but afar, my weakness as a mother is
roused, and I am only grieved when I think that he is perhaps crying
over his lesson-book.

AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, November, 1829, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

I ... long to go back to Berry; for I have children whom I love more
than anything else. But for the hope of being some day more useful to
them with the scribe’s pen than with the housewife’s needle, I should
not part from them so long.

AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Charles Duvernet_, March, 1831, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

[Sidenote: Life in Paris with Solange.]

       *       *       *       *       *

I am living here like a hermit. My apartment is so nice and warm;
it is so light and quiet that I never care to leave it. But, on the
other hand, I am all day long bothered with visitors, who are not all
very entertaining. It is one of the drawbacks of my calling, and I am
obliged to put up with them; but in the evening I shut myself up with
my pen and ink, Solange, my piano, and my fire. In their midst I spend
some very pleasant hours. The only sounds I hear are the notes of a
harp, proceeding I know not whence, and the plashing of a jet of water
which plays in the garden under my windows. It is most poetic. Do not
laugh about it.... I must tell you that I am coining money. I receive
proposals from all directions. I shall sell my next novel for 4,000
francs.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, December, 1832, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: In Venice after De-Musset’s departure.]

She had taken apartments for herself in the interior of the city, in a
little, low-built house, along the narrow, green, and yet limpid canal,
close to the Ponte dei Barcaroli. “There,” she tells us, “alone all the
afternoon, never going out except in the evening for a breath of air,
working at night as well, to the song of the tame nightingales that
people all Venetian balconies, I wrote _Andre_, _Jacques_, _Mattea_,
and the first _Lettres d’ un Voyageur_.”

BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: At LaChatre.]

As regards my suit, I am still _in statu quo_. My husband has appealed
against the decision of the court. I am still at La Châtre, staying
with some friends, who spoil me like a child five years old. I live
in a suburb composed of terraces, built on a rocky slope; below is
an admirably pretty valley. A garden of four square yards, full of
roses, and a terrace just spacious enough to move in, do duty for a
drawing-room, a study and a gallery. My bedroom is large enough; it
is furnished with a bed adorned with curtains of red cotton stuff--a
regular peasant’s bed, hard and flat, two straw-bottomed chairs, and
a deal table. My window opens six feet above the terrace. Through the
hedging of the orchard I come and go at night, without having to open
any door, and thus to disturb anybody, whenever inclined for a stroll
in my four square yards of flowers. I sometimes go alone for a ride
at dusk. I return home at midnight. My cloak, my bark hat, and the
melancholy trot of my steed, cause the people to take me in the dark
for a peddler or for a farmer’s boy.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to the Countess d’ Agoult_, May, 1836, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: At Majorca with Chopin.]

We were delighted to meet in an old Carthusian convent a Spanish family
whom political reasons had compelled to seek a hiding-place there,
and who possessed a tolerably decent suite of peasant furniture. The
refugees intended to pass over to France; we, therefore, bought the
furniture for three times its value, and installed ourselves in the
convent of Valdemosa: a poetical name, a poetical abode--charming
scenery, grand and wild, with the sea bordering on the horizon,
formidable heights around us, eagles pursuing their prey even into the
orange groves of our garden, a path planted with cypresses and winding
its way from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the ravine; under
our feet torrents, overhung by myrtles and palms.... We were unable
to procure servants, because we were not _Christians_; and besides,
nobody cared to wait upon a consumptive person.... We scarcely ever
met a soul; nothing disturbed our occupations. After waiting for two
months, and having to pay a duty of 300 francs, Chopin at last obtained
his piano, and the vaults of the convent cells were enlivened by its
melody. Maurice visibly improved every day in health and strength; as
for me, I used to perform the duties of a tutor seven hours a day....
During one-half of the night I worked for myself. Chopin composed some
of his masterpieces, and we were in hopes of swallowing our vexations
by the aid of these compensating influences. But, owing to the elevated
position of the convent, the climate eventually became unbearable. We
were living in the midst of clouds, and for fifty days we were unable
to descend to the valley. The roads had been changed into torrents, and
we could no longer see the sun.

All that would have seemed very well to me if poor Chopin could have
endured it.... While battering our rocks, the wind and the sea sang
in a sublime tone. The immense and deserted cloisters were cracking
overhead. Had I written there that part of _Lélia_ which is enacted in
a monastery, I could have made it better and more real. But my poor
friend’s chest was daily growing worse. Fine weather did not return. A
chambermaid whom I had brought with me from France, and who until then
had resigned herself, thanks to a large salary, to do our cooking and
keep our rooms tidy, was beginning to consider her work too fatiguing.
The moment had arrived when, having wielded the broom and boiled the
saucepan myself, I too must have given way to fatigue; for, besides my
tutor’s work, my literary pursuits, the continuous care demanded by
the state of my patient, and the mortal anxiety he caused me, I was
eaten up with rheumatism. In Majorca the use of chimneys is unknown. By
paying an exorbitant price we succeeded in getting somebody to build
a grotesque stove for us, a sort of iron caldron which gave us the
headache and parched our chests. In spite of that, the humidity of the
convent was such that our clothing grew mouldy on our backs.... We at
last decided to go away, at whatever cost, although Chopin had not even
strength enough to drag himself along.... We were obliged to travel
three leagues along outlandish paths in a _birlocho_, that is to say, a
wheelbarrow!

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. François Rollinat_, March, 1839, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “Madame Sand” at Nohant.]

It seems to me but the other day that I saw her, yet it was in the
August of 1846, more than thirty years ago. I saw her in her own
Berry, at Nohant, where her childhood and youth were passed, where she
returned to live after she became famous, where she died and has now
her grave.... The château of Nohant, in which Madame Sand lived, is a
plain house by the roadside, with a walled garden. Down in the meadows,
not far off, flows the Indre, bordered by trees....

The mid-day breakfast at Nohant was not yet over when I reached the
house, and I found a large party assembled. I entered with some
trepidation, ... but the simplicity of Madame Sand’s manner put me at
ease in a moment. She named some of those present; amongst them were
her son and daughter, the Maurice and Solange so familiar to us from
her books, and Chopin with his wonderful eyes. There was at that time
nothing astonishing in Madame Sand’s appearance. She was not in man’s
clothes; she wore a sort of costume not impossible, I should think
(although on these matters I speak with hesitation), to members of the
fair sex at this hour amongst ourselves, as an out-of-door dress for
the country or for Scotland. She made me sit by her and poured out for
me the insipid and depressing beverage, _boisson fade et mélancolique_,
as Balzac called it, for which English people are thought abroad
to be always thirsting,--tea. She conversed of the country through
which I had been wandering, of the Berry peasants and their mode of
life, of Switzerland, whither I was going; she touched politely, by
a few questions and remarks, upon England and things and persons
English--upon Oxford and Cambridge, Byron, Bulwer. As she spoke her
eyes, head, bearing, were all of them striking; but the main impression
she made was an impression of what I have already mentioned,--of
_simplicity_, frank, cordial simplicity. After breakfast she led the
way into the garden, asked me a few kind questions about myself and
my plans, gathered a flower or two and gave them to me, shook hands
heartily at the gate, and I saw her no more.

MATTHEW ARNOLD: _George Sand_. ‘Mixed Essays,’ etc. New York; Macmillan
& Co. 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret Fuller’s account of her in 1847.]

[Sidenote: Appearance.]

I went to see her at her house, Place d’ Orleans. I found it a
handsome, modern residence.... The servant who admitted me was in the
picturesque costume of a peasant, and, as Mme. Sand afterward told
me, her god-daughter, whom she had brought from her province. She
announced me as “_Madame Salere_,” and returned into the ante-room to
tell me “_Madame says she does not know you_.” I began to think I was
doomed to a rebuff, among the crowd who deserve it. However, to make
assurance sure, I said, “Ask if she has not received a letter from
me.” As I spoke, Madame S. opened the door, and stood looking at me an
instant. Our eyes met. I never shall forget her look at that moment.
The doorway made a frame for her figure; she is large, but well-formed.
She was dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on
her shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her
whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and lady-like dignity,
presenting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea
of George Sand. Her face is a very little like the portraits, but much
finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful, the
lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy temperament and
strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive,
and the air of the whole head Spanish.... All these details I saw at a
glance; but what fixed my attention was the expression of _goodness_,
nobleness, and power, that pervaded the whole--the truly human
heart and nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she said,
“_C’est vous_,” and held out her hand. I took it, and went into her
little study.... I stayed a good part of the day, and was very glad
afterward, for I did not see her again, uninterrupted. Another day I
was there, and saw her in her circle. Her daughter and another lady was
present, and a number of gentlemen. Her position there was that of an
intellectual woman and good friend,--the same as my own, in the circle
of my acquaintance, as distinguished from my intimates. Her daughter is
just about to be married. It is said, there is no congeniality between
her and her mother; but for her son she seems to have much love, and he
loves and admires her extremely. I understand he has a good and free
character, without conspicuous talent.

[Sidenote: Her conversation.]

Her way of talking is just like her writing--lively, picturesque, with
an undertone of deep feeling, and the same skill in striking the nail
on the head every now and then with a blow.

We did not talk at all of personal or private matters. I saw, as one
sees in her writings, the want of an independent, interior life, but
I did not feel it as a fault, there is so much in her of her kind.
I heartily enjoyed the sense of so rich, so prolific, so ardent a
genius.... I never liked a woman better.

I forgot to mention, that while talking, she _does_ smoke all the time
her little cigarette.

MARGARET FULLER: _Letter_, 1847, in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller
Ossoli,’ by R. W. Emerson, W. H. Channing, and J. F. Clark. Boston:
Roberts Bros., 1874.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Sensation caused by her ‘Villemer’ in dramatic form.]

_Villemer_ still goes splendidly. The principal journals, without
exception, are even louder in their praise than their humbler
contemporaries.... The Odéon is taking 4,000 francs for seats booked in
advance, and from 500 to 600 at the door every night. There is a string
of carriages all day long, bringing people who come to book places,
and another at night, besides a crowd at the doors.... The players are
always recalled after each act. It is a splendid success, and, as it is
supported only by the paying public, it is so unanimous and hearty that
the actors say they have never seen anything like it.... Travellers who
arrive in Paris, and who pass during the evening in front of the Odéon,
pull up in a fright and ask if there is a revolution, if the republic
is proclaimed.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to her son_, March, 1864, in ‘Letters of George
Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Account of her earnings in 1869.]

If you wish to know my pecuniary position, it is easy to set forth.
My accounts are not involved. I have earned about a million with my
writings; I have not put by a single _sou_. I gave away every thing
except 20,000 francs, which, two years ago, I invested, in order not
to cause too much expense to my children if I should fall ill; and yet
I am not sure that I shall be able to keep that little capital; for I
may meet with people who may want it more urgently than I, and, should
I be well enough to earn a little more, I will have to part with my
savings.... If you should speak of my resources, you can say, with
perfect truth, that I always lived from day to day from the fruits of
my labor, and that I consider as ensuring most happiness that way of
arranging my life. I thus have no pecuniary anxiety, and I do not fear
robbers.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Louis Ulbach_, November, 1869, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Appearance in later life.]

[Sidenote: Gray eyes.]

At one of the great horticultural shows in Paris, ... moving about
among the fruits and flowers, we saw a woman of the medium size,
plainly and rather peculiarly dressed, and accompanied by a pale young
man who resembled her so strongly that we at once pronounced them
mother and son. The woman was in the autumn of life, the young man in
the early summer. On her face the woman wore marks of care and time, a
tired, disappointed look, such as they wear who, after hard climbing,
have reached a height of fame, and find it uncompensating. There were
remnants of beauty in the face, but they were only remnants. There were
deep, gray eyes under brows too heavy for a woman, a head crowned with
a considerable wealth of carelessly arranged hair just threaded with
gray, and picturesquely draped with lace. There was the little stoop
of the shoulders, that comes of the habit of thinking hard and writing
steadily. Wherever this woman and her companion went, the spectators
turned to look at them. The face and figure are clear-cut in my memory
to-day, and there is nothing commonplace in it. You would have known
that this was a distinguished person. It was a face with a soul behind
it. The movements were those of a person accustomed to be looked at
and accustomed to homage. One looked at this woman--almost an aged
woman--and felt the magnetism of genius. We asked of a by-stander who
it was, and were told that it was George Sand and her son.

PAUL VEVAY: Quoted in ‘The Record of the Year.’ Published by G. W.
Carleton, September, 1876.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her own account of her character.]

I am but a good old woman, to whom people have attributed a ferocity of
character altogether fantastical. I have also been accused of having
proved unable to love with passion. It seems to me I have lived a life
of tenderness, and that ought to have satisfied people.

Now, thank God, nothing except affection is expected from me; and those
who are good enough to love me, in spite of the want of lustre in my
life and the dulness of my wit, do not complain of me.

My disposition has remained inclined to gaiety; though devoid of
initiative for amusing others, I am efficient in helping them to enjoy
themselves.

I must possess some great defects, but, like every body else, mine do
not strike me. I am also ignorant of the existence of any quality or
virtue in me. I much pondered over _truth_, and when one is so engaged
the sentiment of _self_ vanishes more and more daily.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Louis Ulbach_, November, 1869, in ‘Letters
of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her life at Nohant.]

[Sidenote: Not silent in her own circle.]

M. Plauchut, a literary friend and a visitor at Nohant, during the last
decade of her lifetime, gives a picture of the order of her day; it is
simplicity itself. Nine o’clock, in summer and in winter alike, was her
hour of waking. Letters and newspapers would occupy her until noon,
when she came down to join the family _déjeûner_. Afterwards she would
stroll for an hour in the garden and the wood, visiting and tending
her favorite plants and flowers. At two o’clock she would come indoors
to give a lesson to her grandchildren, in the library, or work there on
her own account, undistracted by the romps around her. Dinner at six
was followed by a short evening walk, after which she played with the
children, or set them dancing indoors. She liked to sit at the piano,
playing over to herself bits of music by her favorite Mozart, or old
Spanish and Berrichon airs. After a game of dominoes or cards, she
would still sit up so late, occupying herself with water-color painting
or otherwise, that sometimes her son was obliged to take away the
lights. These long evenings, the same writer bears witness, sometimes
afforded rare opportunities of hearing Madame Sand talk of the events
and the men of her time. In the absolute quiet of the country, among
a small circle of responsive minds, she, so silent otherwise, became
expansive. “Those who have never heard George Sand at such hours,” he
concludes, “have never known her. She spoke well, with great elevation
of ideas, charming eloquence, and a spirit of infinite indulgence.”
When, at length, she retired, it was to write on until the morning
hours, according to her old habit, only relinquished when her health
made this imperative.

BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Not brilliant in general conversation.]

[Sidenote: Her cigarette.]

George Sand had none of the brilliancy and repartee in general
conversation one would have expected, and as the years went on she
became more silent and reserved. Her greatest happiness was to sit in
her arm-chair, smoking cigarettes. Often, when her friends thought
she was absorbed in her own meditations, she would put in a word that
proved she had been listening to everything. The word spoken, she would
relapse again into silence.

[Sidenote: Manner of working.]

It was only when she sat down to her desk that she became eloquent,
and the expressions that halted on her lips rushed abundantly from her
pen. Her characters grew beneath her hand, and she went on writing,
with that perfect style which is like the rhythmic cadence of a great
river--“large, calm, and regular.” George Sand worked all night long,
after all her guests were in bed, sometimes remaining up until five
o’clock in the morning. She generally sat down to the old bureau in the
hall at Nohant, with pen, ink, and foolscap paper sewn together, and
began, without notes or a settled scheme of any kind.

---- ----: _George Sand_. ‘Temple Bar.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Vigor at sixty-eight.]

To-day, _my sixty-eighth birthday_, I will write to you. My health is
perfect, in spite of a whooping cough, which, however, does not longer
disturb my rest, since I daily plunge myself in a foaming, icy-cold
little torrent, winding its way among the pebbles, the flowers, and the
grass, under a delightful shade.... I walk all the way to the river,
and, quite hot with perspiration, plunge myself in the icy-cold water.
The doctor says I am mad; I let him talk and cure myself, whilst his
patients nurse themselves and _croak_. I am like the grass in the
fields--water and sun are all I require.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Gustave Flaubert_, 5th July, 1872, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Still later.]

I am still discharging the duties of assiduous and patient teacher, and
I have little time left for _professional writing_, seeing that I spend
the evening with my family, and can now no longer work after midnight;
yet my being pinched for time acts like a stimulant upon me, and causes
me to find much pleasure in hard work; it is to me like secretly
relishing some forbidden fruit.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Gustave Flaubert_, December, 1875, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: George Sand’s creed.]

There is for me but one creed and one refuge: faith in God and our own
immortality. My secret is not new, but there is no other.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to Mlle. Leroyer de Chantepie_, August, 1836, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

I see future and eternal life before me as a certainty; as a light in
the glimmer of which every thing is only dimly seen; but that light is
there, and that is all I wish for. I know full well that my Jeanne [her
granddaughter] is not dead.... I know well that I shall meet her again,
and that she will recognize me, even though she should not recollect or
I either. She was part of my own self and that fact will always remain.

GEORGE SAND: _Letter to M. Edouard Charton_, February, 1855, in
‘Letters of George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her last words.]

Up to her last hour she preserved consciousness and lucidity. The
words, “_Ne touchez pas à la verdure_,” among the last that fell from
her lips, were understood by her children, who knew her wish that the
trees should be undisturbed under which, in the village cemetery, she
was soon to find a resting-place.

BERTHA THOMAS: ‘George Sand.’

       *       *       *       *       *

We have seen a photograph done of George Sand, shortly before she
died. The face is massive, but lit up by the wonderful eyes, through
which the soul still shines. An expression of tenderness and gentle
philosophy hovers round the lips, and we feel almost as though they
would break into a smile as we gaze. She became, latterly, like one of
those grand old trees of her own “Vallée Noir,” lopped and maimed by
the storms and struggles of life, but ever to the last putting forth
tender shoots and expanding into fresh foliage, through which the
soft winds of heaven whisper, making music in the ears of those weary
wayfarers who pause to rest beneath their shade.

---- ----: ‘George Sand.’ _Temple Bar._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Two notable opinions of George Sand’s works.]

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.... It is poetry, as I
comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George Sand, and
makes out of something coarse, something godlike.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Letters to G. H. Lewes_, 1848, in Mrs. Gaskell’s
‘Life of Charlotte Brontë’. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1857.

       *       *       *       *       *

George Sand is the greatest female genius the world ever saw--at least,
since Sappho, who broke off a fragment of her soul to be guessed by,
as creation did by its fossils. And George Sand, it is remarkable,
precisely like her prototype, has suffered her senses to leaven her
soul--to permeate it through and through, and make a sensual soul
of it. She is a wonderful woman, and, I hope, rising into a purer
atmosphere by the very strength of her wing.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to R. H.
Horne.’ New York: James Miller, 1877.


FOOTNOTES:

[3] Dates of publication in book form; see Catalogue Général de la
Librairie Française.




                     ELIZABETH BARRETT (BROWNING).

                              1809-1861.




                     ELIZABETH BARRETT (BROWNING).


Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, the daughter of a wealthy West India
merchant, was born at Hope End, near Ledbury, in 1809. The delicate,
precocious child began rhyming at eight years old, and was encouraged
by her proud and indulgent father. In 1826, at seventeen, she published
her _Essay on Mind_, an imitation of Pope. She was an omnivorous
reader, and early became a hard student of Greek. When she was
twenty-four or five her family removed from Hope End to Sidmouth;
thence to London. In 1835 she published a translation from Æschylos,
_Prometheus Bound, and Other Poems_. The _Prometheus_ was subsequently
re-written.

In 1837, Miss Barrett’s health broke down. She was taken, by the advice
of her physician, to Torquay. During her sojourn there her favorite
brother was drowned; she had the horror of seeing his boat go down.
She was utterly prostrated by this tragedy, and it was not until the
following year that she could be removed to London.

A long period of invalidism ensued, during which, however, she
continued her studies and literary work. The courage and noble
cheerfulness displayed in her letters to Mr. Horne, written at this
time, are most remarkable. In 1838 she published _The Seraphim,
and Other Poems_; in 1839, _The Romaunt of the Page_, a volume of
ballads. In 1842 she contributed to the London _Athenæum_ some essays
on the Greek-Christian writers and the English poets. About 1841
she modernized portions of Chaucer’s poetry; Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt,
Monckton Milnes, Horne and others engaging in the same work. Miss
Barrett also wrote for Horne’s ‘New Spirit of the Age,’ part of the
critique on Wordsworth and Leigh Hunt, and nearly all of the paper
on Walter Savage Landor. In 1844, her health having in the meantime
gradually improved somewhat, she collected her poems, placing at the
head a new composition called _A Drama of Exile_, the fruit of her
diligent study of the Hebrew Bible.

In 1846, despite the opposition of her father--to whom “a marriage
which was to lift his fragile daughter from the couch to which she
had been bound as a picture to its frame, must have seemed a rash
experiment,”--Elizabeth Barrett was married to Robert Browning. They
went at once to Italy, where, the milder climate proving favorable to
Mrs. Browning’s health, they continued to reside for fifteen years.
They were in the habit of spending their summers in Florence, where
their son, Robert Barrett Browning, was born, and their winters
in Rome; and occasionally they visited England. Under favorable
conditions, Mrs. Browning now produced her greatest works. CASA GUIDI
WINDOWS was published in 1851, the SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE being
included in the same volume. In 1856 AURORA LEIGH appeared.

_Poems before Congress_ were put forth in 1860. Her last poems, written
in 1860 and ’61, were collected after her death, which took place at
Florence on the 29th of June, 1861.

A strange and beautiful life--with its cloistered maidenhood, its
pathetic wavering between Death and Love, to fall at last into Love’s
most gracious hands, its sequel of perfect wifehood. “She was like the
insect that weaves itself a shroud, yet by some inward force, after
a season, is impelled to break through its covering, and come out a
winged tiger-moth, emblem of spirituality in its birth, and of passion
in the splendor of its tawny dyes.”[4]

Browning’s ‘By the Fireside’ undoubtedly contains a sketch of her own
fireside; we recognize at once the tiny figure of the woman

  “Reading by firelight--that great brow
  And the spirit-small hand propping it.”

No line other than loving has ever been written of Elizabeth Barrett
Browning. But from all that friends and appreciative critics can say
we must ever turn for the last touch to the “One Word More” of him who
knew the “silent silver lights and darks undreamed-of” of his own “moon
of poets.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her education and development described by herself.]

As to stories, my story amounts to the Knife-grinder’s, with nothing
at all for a catastrophe. A bird in a cage would have as good a story.
Most of my events, and nearly all my intense pleasures, have passed in
my thoughts. I wrote verses--as I dare say many have done who never
wrote any poems--very early; at eight years old and earlier. But,
what is less common, the early fancy turned into a will, and remained
with me, and from that day to this, poetry has been a distinct object
with me--an object to read, think, and live for. And I could make you
laugh, although you could not make the public laugh, by the narrative
of nascent odes, epics, and didactics crying aloud on obsolete Muses
from childish lips. The Greeks were my demi-gods, and haunted me out
of Pope’s Homer until I dreamt more of Agamemnon than of Moses the
black pony. And thus my great “epic” of eleven or twelve years old, in
four books, and called _The Battle of Marathon_, and of which fifty
copies were printed because papa was bent upon spoiling me--is Pope’s
Homer done over again, or rather undone; for, although a curious
production for a child, it gives evidence only of an imitative faculty
and an ear, and a good deal of reading in a peculiar direction. The
love of Pope’s Homer threw me into Pope on one side and into Greek on
the other, and into Latin as a help to Greek--and the influence of
all these tendencies is manifest so long afterwards, as in my ‘Essay
on Mind,’ a didactic poem written when I was seventeen or eighteen,
and long repented as worthy of all repentance. The poem is imitative
in its form, yet is not without traces of an individual thinking and
feeling--the bird pecks through the shell in it. With this, it has a
pertness and pedantry, which did not even then belong to the character
of the author, and which I regret now more than I do the literary
defectiveness.

All this time, and indeed the greater part of my life, we lived at Hope
End, a few miles from Malvern, in a retirement scarcely broken to me,
except by books and my own thoughts; and it is a beautiful country,
and was a retirement happy in many ways, although the very peace of it
troubles the heart as it looks back. There I had my fits of Pope, and
Byron, and Coleridge, and read Greek as hard under the trees as some
of your Oxonians in the Bodleian; gathered visions from Plato and the
dramatists, and ate and drank Greek, and made my head ache with it. Do
you know the Malvern Hills? The hills of Piers Plowman’s Vision? They
seem to me my native hills; for, although I was born in the county of
Durham, I was an infant when I went first into their neighborhood, and
lived there until I had passed twenty by several years. Beautiful,
beautiful hills, they are! And yet, not for the whole world’s beauty,
would I stand in the sunshine and the shadow of them any more. It would
be a mockery, like the taking back of a broken flower to its stalk.

From thence we went to Sidmouth for two years; and there I published my
translation of Æschylus, which was written in twelve days, and should
have been thrown into the fire afterwards--the only means of giving it
a little warmth. The next removal was to London.... And then came the
failure in my health, which never had been strong (at fifteen I nearly
died), and the publication of _The Seraphim_, the only work I care to
acknowledge, and then the enforced exile to Torquay, with prophecy
in the fear, and grief, and reluctance of it--a dreadful dream of an
exile, which gave a nightmare to my life forever, and robbed it of
more than I can speak of here; do not speak of that anywhere. _Do not
speak of that_, dear Mr. Horne; and for the rest, you see that there is
nothing to say. It is “a blank, my lord.”

ELIZABETH BARRETT: _Letter to R. H. Horne_, 1843. ‘Letters of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning, addressed to Richard Hengist Horne.’ New York: James
Miller, 1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Early friendship with Hugh Stuart Boyd.]

Among her friends at this time [1826] and for years afterward--in fact,
until his death in 1848--was Hugh Stuart Boyd, favorably known by
his translations from the Greek.... They read their favorite authors
together, or, rather, the young student read to her old master, for
he was blind. A reminiscence of the happy hours they passed together,
communing with the mighty minds of old, may be found in Mrs. Browning’s
beautiful poem, ‘Wine of Cyprus,’ dedicated to Mr. Boyd, to whom she
was indebted for her knowledge of that dainty vintage.

  “I think of those long mornings
    Which my thought goes far to seek,
  When, betwixt the folio’s turnings,
    Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek.
  Past the pane the mountain spreading
    Swept the sheep-bell’s tinkling noise,
  While a girlish voice was reading,
    Somewhat low for ai’s and oi’s.”

R. H. STODDARD: _Prefatory Memoir_ to ‘Letters of Elizabeth Barrett
Browning addressed to Richard H. Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her learning.]

I have her ‘Essay on Mind,’ ... which, and the notes to it, contain
allusions to books, as if known by everybody, which Henry Cary declared
to me no young man of his day at Oxford had ever looked into.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD: _Letter to Rev. Mr. Harness_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her shyness.]

She is a delightful young creature; shy and timid and modest.... She
is so sweet and gentle, and so pretty, that one looks at her as if she
were some bright flower.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD: _Letter to her Father_, May, 1836. L’Estrange’s
‘Life of M. R. Mitford.’ London: R. Bentley & Sons, 1870.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her personal appearance in 1836.]

My first acquaintance with Elizabeth Barrett commenced about fifteen
years ago.[5] She was certainly one of the most interesting persons
that I had ever seen. Everybody who then saw her said the same; so that
it is not merely the impression of my partiality or my enthusiasm.
Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls falling
on either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes richly
fringed by dark eye-lashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look
of youthfulness that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend, in
whose carriage we went together to Chiswick, that the translatress
of the Prometheus of Æschylus, the authoress of the ‘Essay on Mind,’
was old enough to be introduced into company, in technical language
was _out_. Through the kindness of another invaluable friend, ... I
saw much of her during my stay in town. We met so constantly and so
familiarly that in spite of the difference of age, intimacy ripened
into friendship, and after my return into the country, we corresponded
freely and frequently, her letters being just what letters ought to
be--her own talk put upon paper.

[Sidenote: Her illness.]

[Sidenote: The tragedy at Torquay.]

The next year was a painful one to herself and to all who loved her.
She broke a blood-vessel in the lungs, which did not heal.... After
attending her for above a twelve-month at her father’s house in
Wimpole Street, Dr. Chambers, on the approach of winter, ordered her
to a milder climate. Her eldest brother, a brother in heart and in
talent worthy of such a sister, together with other devoted relatives,
accompanied her to Torquay, and there occurred the fatal event which
saddened her bloom of youth, and gave a deeper hue of thought and
feeling, especially of devotional feeling, to her poetry.... Nearly
a twelve-month had passed and the invalid, still attended by her
affectionate companions, had derived much benefit from the mild
sea-breezes of Devonshire. One fine summer morning her favorite
brother, together with two other fine young men, his friends, embarked
on board a small sailing-vessel, for a trip of a few hours. Excellent
sailors all, and familiar with the coast, they sent back the boatmen
and undertook themselves the management of the little craft. Danger was
not dreamt of by any one; after the catastrophe, no one could divine
the cause, but in a few minutes after their embarkation, and in sight
of their very windows, just as they were crossing the bar, the boat
went down, and all who were in her perished. Even the bodies were never
found.

This tragedy nearly killed Elizabeth Barrett. She was utterly
prostrated by the horror and the grief, and by a natural but a most
unjust feeling, that she had been in some sort the cause of this great
misery. It was not until the following year that she could be removed
in an invalid carriage, and by journeys of twenty miles a day, to her
afflicted family and her London home.

The house that she occupied at Torquay had been chosen as one of the
most sheltered in the place. It stood at the bottom of the cliffs,
almost close to the sea; and she told me herself that during that whole
winter the sound of the waves rang in her ears like the moans of one
dying.

[Sidenote: Anecdote of her reading.]

Still she clung to literature and to Greek; in all probability she
would have died without that wholesome diversion to her thoughts.
Her medical attendant did not always understand this. To prevent the
remonstrances of her friendly physician she caused a small edition
of Plato to be so bound as to resemble a novel. He did not know ...
that to her such books were not an arduous and painful study, but a
consolation and a delight.

[Sidenote: Her monotonous life.]

Returned to London, she began the life which she continued for so many
years, confined to one large and commodious, but darkened, chamber,
admitting only her own affectionate family and a few devoted friends
(I, myself, have often joyfully travelled five-and-forty miles to see
her, and returned the same evening, without entering another house);
reading almost every book worth reading in almost every language, and
giving herself, heart and soul, to that poetry of which she seemed born
to be the priestess.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD: ‘Recollections of a Literary Life.’ New York:
Harper & Bros., 1852.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Omnivorous reading.]

I read without principle. I have a sort of unity indeed, but it
amalgamates instead of selecting--do you understand? When I had
read the Hebrew Bible, from Genesis to Malachi, right through, and
was never stopped by the Chaldee--and the Greek poets, and Plato,
right through from end to end--I passed as thoroughly through the
flood of all possible and impossible British and foreign novels and
romances, with slices of metaphysics laid thick between the sorrows
of the multitudinous Celestinas. It is only useful knowledge and the
multiplication table I never tried hard at. And now--what now? Is this
matter of exultation? Alas, no! Do I boast of my omnivorousness of
reading, even apart from the romances? Certainly, no!--never, except
in joke. It’s against my theories and ratiocinations, which take upon
themselves to assert that we _all_ generally err by _reading too much_,
and out of proportion to what we _think_. I should be wiser, I am
persuaded, if I had not read half as much--should have had stronger
and better exercised faculties, and should stand higher in my own
appreciation. The fact is, that the _ne plus ultra_ of intellectual
indolence is this reading of books. It comes next to what the Americans
call “whittling.”

ELIZABETH BARRETT: _Letter to R. H. Horne_, 1843. ‘Letters of E. B.
Browning to R. H. Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her letters.]

Her letters ought to be published. In power, versatility, liveliness,
and finesse; in perfect originality of glance, and vigor of grasp at
every topic of the hour; in their enthusiastic preferences, prejudices,
and inconsistencies, I have never met with any, written by men or by
women, more brilliant, spontaneous, and characteristic. This was _her_
form of conversation.

HENRY F. CHORLEY: ‘Autobiography, Memoir, and Letters.’ London:
Bentley, 1873.

       *       *       *       *       *

Her letters make Cowper’s poor. In a hurried note, whose hurry is
evident in the handwriting, she drops ... incidental, but brilliant
words--just as if the jewels in her rings, jarred by her rapid fingers,
had been suddenly unset and fallen out on the paper.

[Sidenote: Handwriting.]

No other handwriting is like hers; it is strong, legible, singularly
un-English (that is, not a slanted or running hand), and more like a
man’s than a woman’s.

THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning.’
New York: James Miller, 1862.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Characteristic fragments from her letters.]

More of us, you will admit, do harm by groping along the pavement with
blind hands for the beggar’s brass coin, than do folly by clutching
at the stars from “the misty mountain-top.” And if the would-be
star-catchers catch nothing, they keep at least clean fingers.

As to _poetry_, they are all sitting (in mistake), just now, upon
Caucasus for Parnassus--and wondering why they don’t see the Muses!

It comes to this. If poetry, under any form, be exhaustible, Nature
is; and if Nature be--we are near a blasphemy--I, for one, could not
believe in the immortality of the soul.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning to R. H.
Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her character sketched by a friend.]

I have never seen one more nobly simple, more entirely guiltless of the
feminine propensity of talking for effect, more earnest in assertion,
more gentle, yet pertinacious in difference, than she was. Like all
whose early nurture has chiefly been books, she had a child’s curiosity
regarding the life beyond her books, co-existing with opinions accepted
as certainties concerning things of which (even with the intuition
of genius), she could know little. She was at once forbearing and
dogmatic, willing to accept differences, resolute to admit no argument;
without any more practical knowledge of social life than a nun might
have, when, after long years, she emerged from her cloister and her
shroud.

HENRY F. CHORLEY: ‘Autobiography, Memoir, and Letters.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her religious faith.]

I receive more dogmas, perhaps, than you do. I believe in the divinity
of Jesus Christ in the intensest sense--that He was God absolutely. But
for the rest, I am very unorthodox about the spirit, the flesh, and the
devil, and if you would not let me sit by you, a great many churchmen
wouldn’t; in fact, churches, all of them, as at present constituted,
seem too narrow and low to hold true Christianity in its proximate
developments.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: _Letter to Leigh Hunt_. ‘Correspondence of
Leigh Hunt,’ edited by his son. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1862.

       *       *       *       *       *

May I say of myself that I hope there is nobody in the world with a
stronger will and aspiration to escape from _sectarianism_ in any sort
or sense, when I have eyes to discern it--and that the sectarianism of
the National Churches, to which I do not belong, and of the dissenting
bodies, to which I do, stand together before me on a pretty just
level of detestation? Truth (as far as each thinker can apprehend),
apprehended--and love, comprehending--make my idea--my hope of a
church. But the Christianity of the world is apt to wander from Christ
and the hope of Him.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters to R. H. Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her candor.]

You are my friend, I hope, but you do not on that account lose the
faculty of judging me, or the right of judging me frankly. I do loathe
the whole system of personal compliment, as a consequence of a personal
interest, and I beseech you not to suffer yourself _ever_ by any sort
of kind impulse from within, or extraneous influence otherwise, to say
or modify a word relating to me.... I set more price on your sincerity
than on your praise, and consider it more closely connected with the
quality called kindness.... Now, mind! your best compliment to me is
the truth at all times, without reference to sex or friendship. I
excuse the unbonneting.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters to R. H. Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her conscientiousness.]

What you say of a “poet’s duty” no one in the world can feel more
deeply, in the verity of it, than myself. If I fail ultimately before
the public--that is, before the people--for an ephemeral popularity
does not appear to me worth trying for--it will not be because I have
shrunk from the amount of labor--where labor could do anything. I have
_worked_ at poetry; it has not been with me revery, but art. As the
physician and lawyer work at their several professions, so have I, and
so do I, apply to mine. And this I say, only to put by any charge of
carelessness which may rise up to the verge of your lips or thoughts.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters to R. H. Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her theories regarding imperfect double rhymes.]

With reference to the double rhyming, it has appeared to me to be
employed with far less variety in our _serious_ poetry than our
language would admit of genially, and that the various employment of it
would add another string to the lyre of our Terpander. It has appeared
to me that the single rhymes, as usually employed, are scarcely as
various as they might be, but that of the double rhymes the observation
is still truer. A great deal of attention--far more than it would take
to rhyme with conventional accuracy--have I given to the subject of
rhymes, and have determined in cold blood to hazard some experiments.
At the same time I should tell you, that scarcely one of the _Pan_
rhymes [occurring in the poem of ‘The Dead Pan’] might not separately
be justified _by the analogy of received rhymes_, although they have
not themselves been received. Perhaps there is not so irregular a rhyme
throughout the poem of _Pan_ as the “fel_low_” and “prunel_la_” of Pope
the infallible. I maintain that my “islands” and “silence” is a regular
rhyme in comparison.... A reader of Spanish poetry must be aware how
soon the ear may be satisfied even by a recurring vowel. I mean to
try it. At any rate, there are so few regular double rhymes in the
English language that we must either admit some such trial or eschew
the double rhymes generally; and I, for one, am very fond of them,
and believe them to have a power not yet drawn out to its length, and
capable of development, in our lyrical poetry especially.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters to R. H. Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Browning’s praise of “The Dead Pan.”]

I take the courage and vanity to send to you a note which a poet [Note
by R. H. Horne: Robert Browning, then personally unknown to Miss
Barrett, although an intimate friend of my own], whom we both admire,
wrote to a friend of mine, who lent him the MS. [of ‘The Dead Pan’].
Mark! No opinion was asked about the rhymes,--the satisfaction was
altogether impulsive, from within. Send me the note back, and never
tell anybody that I showed it to you--it would appear too vain. Also, I
have no right to show it. It was sent to me as likely to please me, and
pleased me so much and naturally on various accounts, ... that I begged
to be allowed to keep it.

ELIZABETH BARRETT: ‘Letters to R. H. Horne.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “Lady Geraldine.”]

[Sidenote: A pleasing myth.]

Suddenly, one day, as the product of one day’s work, she astonished her
friends with the rhapsody of ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship.’... This poem
had all the faultiness which one might expect of a hundred and three
stanzas forced by green-house heat into full bloom in twelve hours;
this too by a weak invalid lying on a sofa; but must we spoil the
pretty story that the sweet ballad had all the merit of winning for its
writer the hand of Robert Browning! Yet the story is only a fiction
of the gossip-writers. Nor is it true that the poet with whom she was
to mate was then known to her only by his little book of ‘Bells and
Pomegranates.’ She had more than a stranger’s reasons for making the
wooer of Lady Geraldine speak in this wise:

  “At times a modern volume--Wordsworth’s solemn-thoughted idyl,
  Howitt’s ballad-verse, or Tennyson’s enchanted reverie,
  _Or from Browning some ‘Pomegranate,’ which if cut deep down the
   middle,
  Showed a heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity_.”

THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Surprise of Miss Barrett’s friends at her marriage.]

When I was ill at Tynemouth, a correspondence grew up between the
then bed-ridden Elizabeth Barrett and myself; and a very intimate
correspondence it became. In one of the later letters, in telling me
how much better she was, and how grievously disappointed at being
prevented going to Italy, she wrote of going out, of basking in the
open sunshine, of doing this and that; “in short,” said she, finally,
“there is no saying what foolish thing I may do.” The “foolish thing,”
evidently in view in this passage, was marrying Robert Browning, and a
truly wise act did the “foolish thing” turn out to be.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was more like a fairy tale than anything in real life I have ever
known, to read, one morning, in the papers, of her marriage with the
author of ‘Paracelsus,’ and to learn, in the course of the day, that
not only was she married, but that she was absolutely on her way to
Italy. The energy and resolution implied were amazing on the part of
one who had long, as her own poems tell us, resigned herself to lie
down and die.

HENRY F. CHORLEY: ‘Autobiography, Memoir, and Letters.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Hawthorne’s first impression of Mrs. Browning, in 1856.]

She is a small, delicate woman, with ringlets of dark hair, a pleasant,
intelligent, and sensitive face, and a low, agreeable voice. She looks
youthful and comely, and is very gentle and lady-like.... She is of
that quickly appreciative and responsive order of women, with whom
I can talk more freely than with any man; and she has, besides, her
own originality, wherewith to help on conversation, though, I should
say, not of a loquacious tendency. We ... talked of Miss Bacon; and
I developed something of that lady’s theory respecting Shakespeare,
greatly to the horror of Mrs. Browning.... On the whole, I like her the
better for loving the man Shakespeare with a personal love. We talked,
too, of Margaret Fuller, who spent her last night in Italy with the
Brownings.... I like her very much.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: ‘Passages from the English Note-Books.’ Boston:
James R. Osgood & Co., 1873.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The Brownings in Italy.]

Mrs. Browning is, in many respects, the correlative of her husband. As
he is full of manly power, so she is a type of the most sensitive and
delicate womanhood. She has been a great sufferer from ill health, and
the marks of pain are stamped upon her person and manner. Her figure is
slight, her countenance expressive of genius and sensibility, shaded
by a veil of long, brown locks; and her tremulous voice often flutters
over her words, like the flame of a dying candle over the wick.

I have never seen a human frame which seemed so nearly a transparent
veil for a celestial and immortal spirit. She is a soul of fire,
enclosed in a shell of pearl. Her rare and fine genius needs no
setting forth at my hands. She is, also, what is not so generally
known, a woman of uncommon, nay, profound learning.... Nor is she more
remarkable for genius and learning, than for sweetness of temper,
tenderness of heart, depth of feeling, and purity of spirit. It is a
privilege to know such beings, singly and separately, but to see their
powers quickened, and their happiness rounded, by the sacred tie of
marriage, is a cause for peculiar and lasting gratitude. A union so
complete as theirs, in which the mind has nothing to crave nor the
heart to sigh for, is cordial to behold and soothing to remember.

GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD: ‘Six Months in Italy.’ Boston: James R. Osgood
& Co., 1871.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “Mignon.”]

She is little, hard-featured, with long, dark ringlets, a pale face,
and plaintive voice--something very impressive in her dark eyes and her
brow. Her general aspect puts me in mind of Mignon--what Mignon might
be in maturity and maternity.

SARA COLERIDGE: _Letter_ in ‘Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge,’
edited by her daughter. New York: Harper & Bros., 1874.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “The mother of the beautiful child.”]

It is a pleasant story, told of the street-beggars who walk through Via
Maggio, under the windows of Casa Guidi, that they always spoke of the
English woman who lived in that house, not by her well-known English
name, nor by any softer Italian word, but simply and touchingly as “The
mother of the beautiful child.” This was pleasanter to that woman’s
ears than to “hear the nations praising her far off.”

THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Bayard Taylor’s description.]

She was slight and fragile in appearance, with a pale, wasted face,
shaded by masses of soft, chestnut curls, which fell on her cheeks,
and serious eyes of bluish-gray. Her frame seemed to be altogether
disproportionate to her soul. This, at least, was the first impression:
her personality, frail as it appeared, soon exercised its power, and
it seemed a natural thing that she should have written ‘The Cry of the
Children’ or ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship.’ I also understood how these
two poets, so different, both intellectually and physically, should
have found their complements in each other. The fortunate balance of
their reciprocal qualities makes them an exception to the rule that
the inter-marriage of authors is unadvisable.

BAYARD TAYLOR: ‘At Home and Abroad.’ (Second Series.) New York: G. P.
Putnam, 1862.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Casa Guidi.]

Casa Guidi, which has been immortalized by Mrs. Browning’s genius,
will be as dear to the Anglo-Saxon traveller as Milton’s Florentine
residence has been heretofore.

Those who have known Casa Guidi as it was, can never forget the square
ante-room, with its great picture, and pianoforte, at which the boy
Browning passed many an hour; the little dining-room, covered with
tapestry, and where hung medallions of Tennyson, Carlyle, and Robert
Browning; the long room, filled with plaster casts and studies; and
dearest of all, the large drawing-room, where _she_ always sat. It
opens upon a balcony filled with plants, and looks out upon the old
iron-gray church of Santa Felice. There was something about this
room that seemed to make it a proper and especial haunt for poets.
The dark shadows and subdued light gave it a dreamy look, which was
enhanced by the tapestry-covered walls and the old pictures of saints,
that looked out sadly from their carved frames of black wood. Large
book-cases, constructed of specimens of Florentine carving, selected
by Mr. Browning, were brimming over with wise-looking books. Tables
were covered with more gaily-bound volumes, the gifts of brother
authors. Dante’s grave profile, a cast of Keats’s face and brow, taken
after death, a pen-and-ink sketch of Tennyson, the genial face of John
Kenyon (Mrs. Browning’s good friend and relative), little paintings of
the boy Browning, all attracted the eye in turn, and gave rise to a
thousand musings. A quaint mirror, easy-chair, and sofas, and a hundred
nothings that always add an indescribable charm, were all massed in
this room. But the glory of all, and that which sanctified all, was
seated in a low arm-chair, near the door. A small table, strewn with
writing-materials, books and newspapers, was always by her side.

---- ----: ‘Elizabeth Barrett Browning.’ _Atlantic Monthly_, September,
1861.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: An evening with the Brownings, 1858.]

We went last evening, at eight o’clock, to see the Brownings; and after
some search and enquiry, we found the Casa Guidi, which is a palace in
a street not very far from our own. It being dusk, I could not see the
exterior.... The street is a narrow one; but on entering the palace we
found a spacious staircase and ample accommodations of vestibule and
hall, the latter opening on a balcony, where we could hear the chanting
of priests in a church close by. Browning told us that this was the
first church where an oratorio had ever been performed. He came into
the ante-room to greet us, as did his little boy Robert, whom they call
Pennini for fondness. The latter cognomen is a diminutive of Apennino,
which was bestowed upon him at his first advent into the world because
he was so very small, there being a statue in Florence of colossal size
called Apennino. I never saw such a boy as this before; so slender,
fragile and spirit-like,--not as if he were actually in ill health,
but as if he had little or nothing to do with human flesh and blood.
His face is very pretty and most intelligent, and exceedingly like
his mother’s.... Mrs. Browning met us at the door of the drawing-room,
and greeted us most kindly,--a pale, small person, scarcely embodied
at all; at any rate only substantial enough to put forth her slender
fingers to be grasped, and to speak with a shrill, yet sweet tenuity of
voice.

She is a good and kind fairy, however, and sweetly disposed towards
the human race, although only remotely akin to it. It is wonderful
to see how small she is, how pale her cheek, how bright and dark her
eyes. There is not such another figure in the world; and her black
ringlets cluster down into her neck, and make her face look the whiter
by their sable confusion. I could not form any judgment about her age;
it may range anywhere within the limits of human life or elfin life.
When I met her in London, at Lord Houghton’s breakfast-table, she did
not impress me so singularly; for the morning light is more prosaic
than the dim illumination of their great tapestried drawing-room; and
besides, sitting next to her, she did not have occasion to raise her
voice in speaking, and I was not sensible what a slender voice she has.
It is marvellous to me how so extraordinary, so acute, so sensitive
a creature can impress us, as she does, with the certainty of her
benevolence. It seems to me there were a million chances to one that
she would have been a miracle of acidity and bitterness.

We had some tea and some strawberries, and passed a pleasant evening.
There was no very noteworthy conversation; the most interesting
topic being that disagreeable and now wearisome one of spiritual
communications, as regards which Mrs. Browning is a believer, and her
husband an infidel.... Browning and his wife had both been present
at a spiritual session held by Mr. Hume, and had seen and felt the
unearthly hands, one of which had placed a laurel wreath on Mrs.
Browning’s head. Browning, however, avowed his belief that these hands
were affixed to the feet of Mr. Hume, who lay extended in his chair,
with his legs stretched far under the table. The marvellousness of the
fact, as I have read of it, and heard it from other eye-witnesses,
melted strangely away in his hearty gripe, and at the sharp touch of
his logic, while his wife, ever and anon, put in a little gentle word
of expostulation.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: ‘Passages from the French and Italian Note-Books.’
Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1872.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The color of her hair.]

It curiously happens that I first met Mrs. Browning at Rome in 1859,
where and when Hawthorne also first made her acquaintance, I believe. I
remember going through the Vatican with him, and the then ex-President
Pierce, during my sojourn in Rome, in the spring of that year.

Though we both saw Mrs. Browning last in that year, my impressions are
very distinct that her hair was of a dark-chestnut. It did not curl
naturally; but, by one of those artifices of the toilet which all of
her sex and some of mine understand, it was worn, as it has usually
been painted, in side ringlets. Hawthorne’s constitutional propensity
to take sombre views of things may account for the liberty he seems to
have taken with Mrs. Browning’s hair.

JOHN BIGELOW: _The Critic_, September 23, 1882.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mrs. Browning’s conversation.]

Mrs. Browning’s conversation was most interesting. It was not
characterized by sallies of wit or brilliant repartee, nor was it
of that nature which is most welcome in society. It was frequently
intermingled, with trenchant, quaint remarks, leavened with a quaint,
graceful humor of her own; but it was eminently calculated for a
_tête-à-tête_. Mrs. Browning never made an insignificant remark. All
that she said was always worth hearing; a greater compliment could
not be paid her. She was a most conscientious listener, giving you
her mind and heart, as well as her magnetic eyes. Though the latter
spoke an eager language of their own, she conversed slowly, with a
conciseness and point which, added to a matchless earnestness that was
the predominant trait of her conversation as it was of her character,
made her a most delightful companion. _Persons_ were never her theme,
unless public characters were under discussion, or friends who were to
be praised, which kind office she frequently took upon herself. One
never dreamed of frivolities in Mrs. Browning’s presence, and gossip
felt itself out of place. _Your_self, not _her_self, was always a
pleasant subject to her, calling out all her best sympathies in joy
and yet more in sorrow. Books and humanity, great deeds, and, above
all, politics, which include all the grand questions of the day, were
foremost in her thoughts, and, therefore, oftenest on her lips. I speak
not of religion, for with her everything was religion.

---- ----: ‘Elizabeth Barrett Browning,’ _Atlantic Monthly_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Appearance in her late days.]

[Miss Mitford’s] description of twenty-five years ago[6] is true,
every word, of a photograph now lying on our table, copied from
Macaire’s original, made at Havre in 1856, and which Robert Browning
esteems a faithful likeness of his wife. The three-quarter length shows
the comparative stature of the figure, which is here so delicate and
diminutive that we can easily imagine how the story come to be told
(although not true) that her husband drew this same portrait in ‘The
Flight of the Duchess’ when he sketched

  ----“The smallest lady alive.”

But the one striking feature of the picture is the intellectual and
spiritual expression of the face and head; for here, borne up by
pillars of curls on either side, is just such an arch as she saw in
‘The Vision of Poets’:

  “A forehead royal with the truth.”

A photograph, taken in Rome only a month before she died, wears a not
greatly changed expression, except in an added pallor to cheeks always
pale; foretokening the near coming of the shadow of death.

THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “The beauty of expression.”]

Hers was not the beauty of feature; it was the loftier beauty of
expression. Her slight figure seemed hardly large enough to contain the
great heart that beat so fervently within, and the soul that expanded
more and more as one year gave place to another. It was difficult to
believe that such a fairy hand could pen thoughts of such ponderous
weight, or that such a still, small voice could utter them with
equal force. But it was Mrs. Browning’s face upon which one loved to
gaze--that face and head which almost lost themselves in the thick
curls of her dark brown hair. That jealous hair could not hide the
broad, fair forehead.... Her large brown eyes were beautiful, and were
in truth the windows of her soul.

---- ----: ‘Elizabeth Barrett Browning.’ _Atlantic Monthly._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her characteristic modesty.]

The resemblance between the Brownings, although many exist, are often
more fancied than real. They did not revise each other’s writings.
Neither knew what the other had been doing until it was done. ‘Aurora
Leigh’ was two-thirds written before her husband saw a word of it.
Nor did he know of the existence of the ‘Portuguese Sonnets’ till a
considerable time after the marriage, when she showed them to him for
the first time, and he, in his delight, persuaded her to put them in
print. Otherwise they might never have been published; for with her
characteristic modesty she at first thought them unworthy even of his
reading, to say nothing of the whole world’s. She felt so doubtful of
the merit of ‘Aurora Leigh’ that at one time she laid even that aside
with the idea never to publish it.

[Sidenote: Method of writing.]

Her method of writing was to seize the moment when the mood was upon
her, and to fix her thought hurriedly on the nearest slip of paper.
She was sensitive to interruption while composing, but was too shy
to permit even her friends to see her engaged at her work. When the
servant announced a visitor, the busy poet suddenly hid her paper and
pen, and received her guest as if in perfect leisure for the visit.
Giving her mornings to the instruction of her little son, and holding
herself ready after twelve o’clock to give welcome to any comer, it was
a wonder to many how she could find the needed time to study or write.

[Sidenote: Her revisions.]

She made many and marked changes in her poems in successive editions.
These show her fastidious taste. She was never satisfied to let a
stanza remain as it was. Most of these amendments are for the better,
but some for the worse, as orators who correct their printed speeches
sometimes spoil the best parts. In many cases she substituted not
only new rhymes but new thoughts, turning the verses far out of their
old channels; in others she struck out whole lines and passages as
superfluous; in others she made fitter choice of single words, so
adding vividness to the expression.

THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning’.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: How ‘Aurora Leigh’ was written.]

I am still too near ‘Aurora Leigh’ to be quite able to see it all; my
wife used to write it, and lay it down to hear our child spell, or when
a visitor came,--it was thrust under a cushion then. At Paris, a year
ago last March, she gave me the first six books to read, I never having
seen a line before. She then wrote the rest, and transcribed them
in London, where I read them also. I wish, in one sense, that I had
written and she had read it.

ROBERT BROWNING: _Letter to Leigh Hunt_. ‘Correspondence of Leigh
Hunt,’ edited by his son.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Landor’s delight in ‘Aurora Leigh.’]

I am reading a poem full of thought and fascinating with fancy--Mrs.
Browning’s ‘Aurora Leigh.’ In many pages there is the wild imagination
of Shakespeare. I had no idea that any one in this age was capable of
so much poetry. I am half drunk with it. Never did I think I should
have a good hearty draught of poetry again: the distemper had got into
the vineyard that produced it. Here are indeed, even here, some flies
upon the surface, as there always will be upon what is sweet and strong.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR: _Letter to J. Foster_, 1857. ‘Walter Savage
Landor: A Biography,’ by John Forster. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co.,
1869.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: George Eliot’s enjoyment.]

We are reading ‘Aurora Leigh,’ for the third time, with more enjoyment
than ever. I know no book that gives me a deeper sense of communion
with a large as well as beautiful mind.

MARIAN EVANS LEWES: _Letter to Sara Hennell_, 1857. ‘George Eliot’s
Life,’ edited by J. W. Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Sympathetic criticism of the ‘Portuguese Sonnets.’]

I am disposed to consider the ‘Sonnets from the Portuguese’ as, if
not the finest, a portion of the finest subjective poetry in our
literature. Their form reminds us of an English prototype, and it is no
sacrilege to say that their music is showered from a higher and purer
atmosphere than that of the Swan of Avon. We need not enter upon cold
comparison of their respective excellences; but Shakespeare’s personal
poems were the overflow of his impetuous youth: his broader vision,
that took a world within its ken, was absolutely objective; while Mrs.
Browning’s ‘Love Sonnets’ are the outpourings of a woman’s tenderest
emotions, at an epoch when her art was most mature, and her whole
nature exalted by a passion that to such a being comes but once and for
all. Here, indeed, the singer rose to her height. Here she is absorbed
in rapturous utterance, radiant and triumphant with her own joy. The
mists have risen and her sight is clear. Her mouthing and affectation
are forgotten, her lips cease to stammer, the lyrical spirit has full
control. The sonnet, artificial in weaker hands, becomes swift with
feeling, red with a “veined humanity,” the chosen vehicle of a royal
woman’s vows. Graces, felicities, vigor, glory of speech, here are so
crowded as to tread each upon the other’s sceptred pall. The first
sonnet, equal to any in our tongue, is an overture containing the
motive of the canticle; “not Death, but Love” had seized her unaware.
The growth of this happiness, her worship of its bringer, her doubts
of her own worthiness, are the theme of these poems. She is in a sweet
and, to us, pathetic surprise at the delight which had at last fallen
to her:

  “The wonder was not yet quite gone
    From that still look of hers.”

Never was man or minstrel so honored as her “most gracious singer of
high poems.” In the tremor of her love she undervalued herself,--with
all her feebleness of body, it was enough for any man to live within
the atmosphere of such a soul! In fine, the ‘Portuguese Sonnets,’
whose title was a screen behind which the singer poured out her full
heart, are the most exquisite poetry hitherto written by a woman, and
of themselves justify us in pronouncing their author the greatest of
her sex.... An analogy with ‘In Memoriam’ may be derived from their
arrangement and their presentation of a single analytic theme; but
Tennyson’s poem, though exhibiting equal art, more subtile reasoning
and comprehensive thought, is devoted to the analysis of philosophic
grief, while the ‘Sonnets’ reveal to us that love which is the most
ecstatic of human emotions and worth all other gifts in life.

E. C. STEDMAN: ‘Victorian Poets.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1881.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her timidity.]

It was my privilege to live for years near by, and in intimate
intercourse with, the divinity of Casa Guidi, her whose genius has
immortalized the walls as well as the windows of that antique palace;
for a tablet has been inserted by the grateful Italians, whose cause
she so eloquently espoused, in the grand entrance hall, recording
her name, deeds, and long residence there, with the tribute of their
thanks and love. Yet I had not known the Brownings personally, in the
more intimate sense of acquaintanceship, till that blessed day, when
in the balm of a June morning, we started together in an open carriage
for Pratolino, taking with us a manservant, who carried the basket
containing our picnic dinner, of which only four were to partake. A
larger party would have spoiled the whole. A more timid nature was
never joined to a bolder spirit than in Elizabeth Browning. She fairly
shrunk from observation, and could not endure mixed company, though
in her heart kind and sympathetic with all. Her timidity was both
instinctive and acquired; having been an invalid and student from her
youth up, she had lived almost the life of a recluse; thus it shocked
her to be brought face to face with inquisitive strangers, or the world
in general. On this very account, and because her health so rarely
permitted her to make excursions of any kind, she enjoyed, as the
accustomed do not, and the unappreciative cannot, any unwonted liberty
in nature’s realm, and doubly with a chosen few sympathetic companions,
to whom she could freely express her thoughts and emotions. Like most
finely strung beings, she spoke through a changeful countenance every
change of feeling.

[Sidenote: At Patrolino.]

Never shall I forget how her face--the plain, mortal, beautiful in its
immortal expression--lighted up to greet us as our carriage drove into
the _porte-cochere_ of Casa Guidi on that memorable morning. Simple as
a child, the honest enjoyment which she anticipated in our excursion
beamed through her countenance. Those large, dark, dreamy eyes--usually
like deep wells of thought--sparkled with delight; while her adored
Robert’s generous capacity for pleasure showed even a happier front
than ordinary; reflecting her joy, as we turned into the street and out
of the city gate towards Patrolino. The woman of usually many thoughts
and few words grew a talker under the stimulus of open country air;
while her husband, usually talkative, became the silent enjoyer of her
vocal gladness, a pleasure too rarely afforded him to be interrupted.
We, of choice, only talked enough to keep our _improvisatrice_ in the
humor of utterance.

[Sidenote: Mr. Browning talks of his wife.]

Withdrawing a short distance, so that our mellowed voices might not
reach her, while lunch was being prepared under the trees, Robert
Browning put on his talking-cap again and discoursed, to two delighted
listeners, of her who slept. After expressing his joy at her enjoyment
of the morning, the poet’s soul took fire by its own friction, and
glowed with the brilliance of its theme. Knowing well that he was
before fervent admirers of his wife, he did not fear to speak of her
genius, which he did almost with awe, losing himself so entirely in
her glory that one could see that he did not feel worthy to unloose
her shoe-latchet, much less to call her his own. This led back to the
birth of his first love for her, and then, without reserve, he told us
the real story of that romance, “the course of” which “true love never
did run smooth.” There have been several printed stories of the loves
of Elizabeth and Robert Browning, and we had read some of these; but as
the poet’s own tale differed essentially from the others, and as the
divine genius of the heroine has returned to its native heaven, whilst
her life on earth now belongs to posterity, it cannot be a breach of
confidence to let the truth be known.

[Sidenote: The true story of her marriage.]

Mr. Barrett, the father of Elizabeth, though himself a superior man,
and capable of appreciating his gifted child, was, in some sense, an
eccentric. He had an unaccountable aversion to the idea of “marrying
off” any of his children. Having wealth, a sumptuous house, and being
a widower, he had somehow made up his mind to keep them all about him.
Elizabeth, the eldest, had been an invalid from her early youth, owing
partly to the great shock which her exquisite nervous organization
received when she saw an idolized brother drown before her eyes,
without having the power to save him. Grief at this event naturally
threw her much within herself, while shattered health kept her confined
for years to her room. There she thought, studied, wrote; and from
her sick-chamber went forth the winged inspiration of her genius.
These came into the heart of Robert Browning, nesting there, awakened
love for “The Great Unknown,” and he sought her out. Finding that the
invalid did not receive strangers, he wrote her a letter, intense with
his desire to see her. She reluctantly consented to an interview. He
flew to her apartment, was admitted by the nurse, in whose presence
only could he see the deity at whose shrine he had long worshipped. But
the golden opportunity was not to be lost; love became oblivious to
any save the presence of the real of its ideal. Then and there Robert
Browning poured out his impassioned soul into hers; though his tale
of love seemed only an enthusiast’s dream. Infirmity had hitherto so
hedged her about, that she deemed herself forever protected from all
assaults of love. Indeed, she felt only injured that a fellow-poet
should take advantage, as it were, of her indulgence in granting him
an interview, and requested him to withdraw from her presence, not
attempting any response to his proposal, which she could not believe in
earnest. Of course he withdrew from her sight, but not to withdraw the
offer of his heart and hand; _au contraire_, to repeat it by letter,
and in such wise as to convince her how “dead in earnest” he was. Her
own heart, touched already when she knew it not, was this time fain to
listen, be convinced, and overcome. But here began the “tug of war.”
As a filial daughter, Elizabeth told her father of the poet’s love,
of the poet’s love in return, and asked a parent’s blessing to crown
their happiness. At first, incredulous of the strange story, he mocked
her; but when the truth flashed on him, from the new fire in her eyes,
he kindled with rage, and forbade her ever seeing or communicating
with her lover again, on the penalty of disinheritance and banishment
forever from a father’s love. This decision was founded on no dislike
for Mr. Browning personally, or anything in him, or his family; it was
simply arbitrary. But the new love was stronger than the old in her--it
conquered. On wings it flew to her beloved, who had perched on her
window, and thence bore her away from the fogs of England to a nest
under Italian skies. The nightingale who had long sung in the dark,
with “her breast against a thorne,” now changed into a lark--morning
had come--singing for very joy, and at heaven’s gate, which has since
opened to let her in.

[Sidenote: An unreasonable father.]

The unnatural father kept his vow, and would never be reconciled to
his daughter, of whom he was not worthy; though she ceased not her
endearing efforts to find her way to his heart again; ever fearing that
he, or she, might die without the bond of forgiveness having reunited
them. Always cherishing an undiminished love for her only parent, this
banishment from him wore on her, notwithstanding the rich compensation
of such a husband’s devotion, and the new maternal love which their
golden-haired boy awakened. What she feared came upon her. Her father
died without leaving her even his pardon, and her feeble _physique_
never quite recovered from the shock. Few witnessed the strong grief of
that morally strong woman. I saw her after her first wrestling with
the angel of sorrow, and perceived that with the calm token of his
blessing, still she dragged a maimed life.

ELIZABETH C. KINNEY: ‘A Day with the Brownings at Patrolino,’ in
_Scribner’s Magazine_, now _The Century_, December, 1870.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her death.]

A life of suffering ended in peace. A frail body, bearing the burden
of too great a brain, broke at last under the weight. After six days’
illness, the shadows of the night fell upon her eyes for the last time,
and half an hour after daybreak she beheld the Eternal Vision. Like the
pilgrim in the dream, she saw the heavenly glory before passing through
the gate. “It is beautiful!” she exclaimed, and died; sealing these
last words upon her lips as the fittest inscription that could ever
be written upon her life, her genius, and her memory. In the English
burial-ground at Florence lie her ashes.

THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The memory and career of Elizabeth Barrett Browning appear to us like
some beautiful ideal. Nothing is earthly, though all is human; a spirit
is passing before our eyes, yet of like passions with ourselves, and
encased in a frame so delicate that every fibre is alive with feeling
and tremulous with radiant thought. Her genius certainly may be
compared to those sensitive, palpitating flames, which harmonically
rise and fall in response to every sound-vibration near them. Her whole
being was rhythmic, and, in a time when art is largely valued for
itself alone, her utterances were the expression of her inmost soul.

E. C. STEDMAN: ‘Victorian Poets.’


FOOTNOTES:

[4] ‘Victorian Poets,’ by E. C. Stedman.

[5] Miss Mitford writes in 1851.

[6] Mr. Tilton writes in 1862.




                       MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).

                              1810-1850.




                       MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).


Sarah Margaret Fuller was born at Cambridgeport, Mass., May 23,
1810. She was the eldest child of Timothy Fuller, “a lawyer and a
politician,” and Margaret Crane his wife. Her education was begun at
home by her father, a somewhat severe teacher. In an autobiographical
fragment she relates the influence upon her young mind of the study
of the Latin language and of Roman history, and of her readings in
Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Molière. Another formative influence was
her romantic attachment to a beautiful and accomplished English lady
who spent a few months in the neighborhood, and whose companionship
lifted her, she says, “into just that atmosphere of European life
to which I had before been tending.” When about thirteen years old,
Margaret was sent to the boarding-school of the Misses Preston, in
Groton, Mass., where she remained until 1825. It is stated that she
was at one time a pupil in Dr. Park’s Boston school. That she was an
indefatigable student, is shown by the record of her reading during the
subsequent years passed at home. Her studies in German were especially
deep.

In the spring of 1833, the family removed from Cambridge to Groton.
Margaret was at this time much occupied in the tuition of the younger
children. In 1835, she made the acquaintance of Miss Martineau, then
travelling in America. Margaret had in this year a severe illness, from
which it was feared that she could not recover. In October, her father
died of cholera. “This death,” says Mrs. Howe, “besides the sorrow and
perplexity which followed it, brought to Margaret a disappointment
which seemed to her to bar the fulfilment of her highest hopes.” It had
been planned that she should visit Europe, making the voyage in the
company of Miss Martineau and the Farrars. It now seemed to her a duty
to remain with her mother, and “not to encroach upon the fund necessary
for the education of her brothers and sisters.” Her undeniable egotism
only throws this act of self-sacrifice into higher relief.

In the autumn of 1836, she left Groton, to take a position in Mr.
Alcott’s school, in Boston, at the same time teaching private classes.
She worked hard this winter, giving instruction in German, Italian,
Latin, and French, and reading with her pupils such books as ‘Faust’
and the ‘Divina Commedia.’ In the spring of 1837, she went to teach
in the Greene Street school, Providence, a salary of $1,000 per annum
being offered her. She remained there two years, doing valuable work,
which added to her reputation; but Mr. Greeley, in his autobiography,
states that she was not remunerated for her services.

In 1839, the Fuller family left Groton for Jamaica Plain, and in
November of the same year returned to Cambridge. In this year was
published Margaret’s translation of Eckerman’s ‘Conversations with
Goethe.’ In 1840, she became the editor of The Dial, which she managed
for two years, receiving $200 the first year, after which her salary
was discontinued on account of the lack of funds. She contributed
to this periodical, besides various critical papers, the article on
_The Great Lawsuit: Man versus Men, Woman versus Women_, which was
afterwards expanded into her WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

It was in the autumn of 1839 that Margaret began her famous Boston
conversations, with a class of twenty-five. These classes were renewed
in November of each year until 1844.

In 1841, she translated the ‘Letters of Gunderode and Bettine,’ but
their publication does not appear to have been completed. In 1843, a
trip to Lake Superior furnished her with material for her _Summer on
the Lakes_, originally published in The Dial. A general impression
exists that Miss Fuller connected herself with the Brook Farm
experiment. It is an error; she was a visitor, not a resident, at Brook
Farm.

In 1844, Margaret went to New York, to live with the Greeleys at Turtle
Bay, becoming a constant contributor to the New York Tribune. In this
year she published WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, and the next,
collected her _Papers on Art and Literature_ in a volume.

On the 1st of August, 1846, Margaret Fuller sailed for Europe, in the
company of her friends Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Spring, of Eagleswood, New
Jersey. She went first to England, visited the Lake country, meeting
Wordsworth and renewing her acquaintance with Harriet Martineau,
travelled in Scotland, making the ascent of Ben Lomond with but one
companion, and without a guide, an imprudence which cost her a night of
dangerous exposure; returned to London, where she met Joanna Baillie,
the Carlyles, and Mazzini; and went thence to Paris. There she saw
George Sand, Chopin, and Rachel. She proceeded to Lyons, to Avignon,
“where she waded through the snow to visit the tomb of Laura,” and to
Marseilles, whence she sailed for Genoa, going next to Naples and to
Rome. It was during this first stay in Rome, in the spring of 1847,
that she became acquainted with the Marquis Ossoli, an officer of the
Civic Guard. She continued her travels, visiting Florence, Ravenna,
Venice, Milan, the Italian Lakes, and Switzerland. She returned to
Rome in October, 1847. In December she was married to Ossoli; but for
reasons involving the security of his paternal inheritance, it was
agreed that the marriage should be a secret. In the following May,
Margaret left Rome for the summer, passing a month at Aquila, and the
rest of the time, until November, at Rieti, where it was possible for
her husband to visit her occasionally. In September, 1848, their son,
“Angiolino,” was born. In November, Margaret found it necessary to go
to Rome, “to be near her husband, and also in order to be able to carry
on the literary work upon which depended not only her own support,
but also that of her child.” The little Angelo was left in the care
of his Italian nurse. His mother at first anticipated an absence of
a month only. She indeed returned to Rieti for a week in December,
but “circumstances were too strong for her, and she was forced to
remain three months in Rome without seeing him,” lying awake at night,
studying to end this cruel separation. She was again in Rieti in March,
and in April returned to Rome. And now began the siege of Rome by the
French, and the mother, shut up in the city, saw her child no more
until the summer.

Margaret took charge of one of the hospitals during the siege. To the
writer, this period appears the noblest of her life. The formation of
the strongest human ties had immeasurably deepened and softened her
nature. She moved among the wounded and dying soldiers like the “Court
Lady” of Mrs. Browning’s poem. She learned all the horror of wounds and
death. She insisted on going with Ossoli to his post on the night when
an attack was expected in that quarter; and meeting at the Angelus,
they passed together to the supposed danger as to a religious service.
During the days of suspense, Margaret made her secret known to her
friends in Rome. As soon as the siege was ended, the father and mother
hastened to Rieti, to find their child neglected and almost dying.
They nursed him back to life and health, and the three passed together
one happy winter in Florence, clouded only by pecuniary anxieties--for
Ossoli had, by his patriotism, lost all. Margaret’s literary work at
this time was a _History of the Revolution in Italy_, which perished
with her.

Margaret, Ossoli, and the little Angelo sailed for America on May
17, 1850, in the barque Elizabeth, Captain Hasty. On the voyage the
captain died of small-pox; Angelo took the disease, but recovered.
On the morning of July 19th, the Elizabeth was wrecked in a sudden
storm, striking on Fire Island beach. The sea never gave back Margaret
and Ossoli. The baby Angelo was washed ashore, and lies buried at Mt.
Auburn.

Margaret’s works, collected after her death, are in four volumes:
WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY; _Art, Literature, and the Drama_;
_Abroad and at Home_, and _Life Without and Life Within_.

A remarkable estimate of Margaret, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, published,
among other extracts from his papers, by his son, has lately attracted
much attention. The testimony of Hawthorne as to Margaret’s Italian
life, of which he had no personal knowledge, has little value. But the
conclusions of so keen a mind as to her character cannot be so easily
dismissed; and this passage has been included among our extracts,
that both sides of the shield may be seen. Certain of Hawthorne’s
expressions go far to confirm the popular belief that Margaret’s
character, as he saw it, furnished him with the hint or starting-point
for his creation of Zenobia in ‘The Blithedale Romance.’

Lowell, in his stinging lines on Miranda, in ‘A Fable for Critics,’
speaks of her, “I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air,” and pronounces
that “the whole of her being’s a capital I.” She is too often
remembered thus, and only thus. Let us also picture her ministering in
that “house of misery” where,--to quote lines written of another famous
woman,--

  “Slow, as in a dream of bliss,
  The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
  Her shadow, as it falls
  Upon the darkening walls.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her early training.]

[Sidenote: Premature development.]

[Sidenote: Spectral illusions.]

[Sidenote: Somnambulism.]

My father instructed me himself. The effect of this was so far
good that, not passing through the hands of many ignorant and weak
persons, as so many do at preparatory schools, I was put at once under
discipline of considerable severity, and, at the same time, had a
more than ordinarily high standard presented to me. My father was a
man of business, even in literature; he had been a high scholar at
college, and was warmly attached to all he had learned there, both
from the pleasure he had derived in the exercise of his faculties and
the associated memories of success and good repute. He was, beside,
well read in French literature, and in English, a Queen Anne’s man. He
hoped to make me the heir of all he knew, and of as much more as the
income of his profession enabled him to give me means of acquiring. At
the very beginning, he made one great mistake, more common, it is to
be hoped, in the last generation, than the warning of physiologists
will permit it to be with the next. He thought to gain time by bringing
forward the intellect as early as possible. Thus, I had tasks given me,
as many and various as the hours would allow, and on subjects beyond
my age; with the additional disadvantage of reciting to him in the
evening, after he returned from his office. As he was subject to many
interruptions, I was often kept up till very late; and as he was a
severe teacher, both from his habits of mind and his ambition for me,
my feelings were kept on the stretch till the recitations were over.
Thus, frequently I was sent to bed several hours too late, with nerves
unnaturally stimulated. The consequence was a premature development
of the brain, that made me a “youthful prodigy” by day, and by night
a victim of spectral illusions, nightmare, and somnambulism, which,
at the time, prevented the harmonious development of my bodily powers
and checked my growth, while, later, they induced continual headache,
weakness, and nervous affections of all kinds. As these again reacted
on the brain, giving undue force to every thought and every feeling,
there was finally produced a state of being both too active and too
intense, which wasted my constitution.... No one understood this
subject of health then. No one knew why this child, already kept up
so late, was still unwilling to retire. My aunts cried out upon the
“spoiled child, the most unreasonable child that ever was--if brother
could but open his eyes to see it--who was never willing to go to bed.”
They did not know that, so soon as the light was taken away, she seemed
to see colossal faces advancing slowly towards her, the eyes dilating,
and each feature swelling loathsomely as they come, till at last, when
they were about to close upon her, she started up with a shriek which
drove them away, but only to return when she lay down again.... No
wonder the child arose and walked in her sleep, moaning all over the
house, till once, when they heard her, and came and waked her, and
she told what she had dreamed, her father sharply bid her “leave off
thinking of such nonsense, or she would be crazy,” never knowing that
he was himself the cause of all these horrors of the night.

[Sidenote: Latin at six.]

I was taught Latin and English grammar at the same time, and began to
read Latin at six years old, after which, for some years, I read it
daily.

[Sidenote: Influence of her father’s character.]

[My father] demanded accuracy and clearness in everything.... Trained
to great dexterity in artificial methods, accurate, ready, with entire
command of his resources, he had no belief in minds that listen, wait,
and receive. He had no conception of the subtle and indirect motions
of imagination and feeling. His influence on me was great, and opposed
to the natural unfolding of my character, which was fervent, of strong
grasp, and disposed to infatuation and self-forgetfulness.

[Sidenote: Her first taste of Shakespeare.]

Ever memorable is the day on which I first took a volume of Shakespeare
in my hand to read. It was on a Sunday. This day was particularly set
apart in our house.... This Sunday--I was only eight years old--I
took from the book-shelf a volume lettered Shakespeare. It was not
the first time I had looked at it, but before I had been deterred
from attempting to read, by the broken appearance along the page, and
preferred smooth narrative. But this time I held in my hand ‘Romeo and
Juliet’ long enough to get my eye fastened to the page. It was a cold
winter afternoon. I took the book to the parlor fire, and had there
been seated an hour or two, when my father looked up and asked what
I was reading so intently. “Shakespeare,” replied the child, merely
raising her eye from the page. “‘Shakespeare’! That won’t do; that’s
no book for Sunday; go put it away and take another.” I went as I was
bid, but took no other. Returning to my seat, the unfinished story,
the personages to whom I was but just introduced, thronged and burnt
my brain. I could not bear it long; such a lure it was impossible to
resist. I went and brought the book again. There were several guests
present, and I had got half through the play before I again attracted
attention. “What is that child about that she doesn’t hear a word
that’s said to her?” quoth my aunt. “What are you reading?” said my
father. “Shakespeare,” was again the reply, in a clear though somewhat
impatient tone. “How?” said my father angrily; then, restraining
himself before his guests, “Give me the book and go directly to bed.”

[Sidenote: Home of the Fullers.]

[Sidenote: Margaret in the garden.]

Our house, though comfortable, was very ugly, and in a neighborhood
which I detested, every dwelling and its appurtenances having a
_mesquin_ and huddled look. I liked nothing about us except the tall
graceful elms before the house, and the dear little garden behind.
Our back-door opened on a high flight of steps, by which I went down
to a green plot, much injured in my ambitious eyes by the presence of
the pump and tool-house. This opened into a little garden, full of
choice flowers and fruit trees, which was my mother’s delight and was
carefully kept. Here I felt at home. A gate opened thence into the
fields, a wooden gate made of boards, in a high unpainted board wall,
and embowered in the clematis creeper. This gate I used to open to see
the sunset heaven; beyond this black frame I did not step, for I liked
to look at the deep gold behind it. How exquisitely happy I was in its
beauty, and how I loved the silvery wreaths of my protecting vine! I
never would pluck one of its flowers at that time, I was so jealous of
its beauty, but often since I carry off wreaths of it from the wild
wood, and it stands in nature to my mind as the emblem of domestic love.

MARGARET FULLER: _Autobiographical Romance_ published in ‘Memoirs of
Margaret Fuller Ossoli,’ by R. W. Emerson, W. H. Channing and J. F.
Clarke. Boston: Roberts Bros., 1874.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret at thirteen.]

My acquaintance with Margaret commenced in the year 1823, at
Cambridge.... Margaret was then about thirteen,--a child in years, but
so precocious in her mental and physical development, that she passed
for eighteen or twenty. Agreeably to this estimate she had her place in
society as a lady full-grown.

[Sidenote: Personal appearance.]

[Sidenote: A characteristic trait.]

When I recall her personal appearance, as it was then and for ten
or twelve years subsequent to this, I have the idea of a blooming
girl of a florid complexion and vigorous health, with a tendency to
robustness, of which she was painfully conscious, and which, with
little regard to hygienic principles, she endeavored to suppress or
conceal, thereby preparing for herself much future suffering. With
no pretensions to beauty then, or at any time, her face was one that
attracted, that awakened a lively interest, that made one desirous of a
nearer acquaintance. It was a face that fascinated, without satisfying.
Never seen in repose, never allowing a steady perusal of its features,
it baffled every attempt to judge the character by physiognomical
induction. I said she had no pretentions to beauty. Yet she was not
plain. She escaped the reproach of positive plainness, by her blonde
and abundant hair, by her excellent teeth, by her sparkling, dancing,
busy eyes, though usually half closed from near-sightedness, shot
piercing glances at those with whom she conversed, and, most of all,
by the very peculiar and graceful carriage of her head and neck, which
all who knew her will remember as the most characteristic trait in her
personal appearance.

[Sidenote: Conversation.]

In conversation she had already, at that early age, begun to
distinguish herself, and made much the same impression in society
that she did in after years, with the exception that as she advanced
in life, she learned to control that tendency to sarcasm,--that
disposition to “quiz,”--which was then somewhat excessive. It
frightened shy young people from her presence, and made her, for a
while, notoriously unpopular with the ladies of her circle.

REV. F. H. HEDGE: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller
Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret at the Groton school.]

At first her unlikeness to her companions was uncomfortable both to her
and to them. Her exuberant fancy demanded outlets which the restraints
of boarding-school life would not allow. The unwonted excitement
produced by contact with other young people vented itself in fantastic
acts and freaks amusing but tormenting. The art of living with one’s
kind had not formed a part of Margaret’s home education. Her nervous
system had already, no doubt, been seriously disturbed by overwork.

Some plays were devised for the amusement of the pupils, and in these
Margaret found herself entirely at home. In each of these the principal
part was naturally assigned her, and the superiority in which she
delighted was thus recognized. These very triumphs, however, in the end
led to her first severe mortification, and in this wise:--

The use of rouge had been permitted to the girls on the occasion of
the plays; but Margaret was not disposed, when these were over, to
relinquish the privilege, and continued daily to tinge her cheeks with
artificial red. This freak suggested to her fellow-pupils an intended
pleasantry, which awakened her powers of resentment to the utmost.
Margaret came to the dinner-table, one day, to find on the cheeks of
pupils and preceptress the crimson spot with which she had persisted
in adorning her own. Suppressed laughter, in which even the servants
joined, made her aware of the intended caricature. Deeply wounded,
and viewing the somewhat personal joke in the light of an inflicted
disgrace, Margaret’s pride did not forsake her. She summoned to her
aid the fortitude which some of her Romans [Margaret’s love of Roman
history is here alluded to] had shown in trying moments, and ate her
dinner quietly without comment. When the meal was over she hastened to
her own room, locked the door, and fell on the floor in convulsions.
Here teachers and schoolfellows sorrowfully found her, and did their
utmost to soothe her wounded feelings, and to efface by affectionate
caresses the painful impression made by their inconsiderate fun.

Margaret recovered from this excitement, and took her place among her
companions, but with an altered countenance and embittered heart. She
had given up her gay freaks and amusing inventions, and devoted herself
assiduously to her studies. But the offence which she had received
rankled in her breast. As not one of her fellow-pupils had stood by
her in her hour of need, she regarded them as all alike perfidious and
ungrateful.... This morbid condition of mind led to a result still more
unhappy. Masking her real resentment beneath a calm exterior, Margaret
received the confidences of her schoolfellows and used their unguarded
speech to promote discord among them.... This state of things probably
became unbearable. Its cause was inquired into and soon found. A
tribunal was held, and before the whole school assembled, Margaret was
accused of calumny and falsehood, and, alas! convicted of the same. “At
first she defended herself with self-possession and eloquence, but when
she found that she could no more resist the truth, she suddenly threw
herself down, dashing her head with all her force against the iron
hearth, ... and was taken up senseless.”[7]

All present were, of course, greatly alarmed at this crisis, which was
followed, on the part of Margaret, by days of hopeless and apathetic
melancholy.... In the pain which she now felt, her former resentment
against her schoolmates disappeared. She saw only her own offence, and
saw it without hope of being able to pass beyond it.... A single friend
was able to reach the seat of Margaret’s distemper, and to turn the
currents of her life once more into a healthful channel. This lady, a
teacher in the school, ... with the tact of true affection, drew the
young girl from the contemplation of her own failure.

JULIA WARD HOWE: ‘Margaret Fuller.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston:
Roberts Brothers, 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: An “intolerable girl” at nineteen.]

She told me what danger she had been in from the training her father
had given her, and the encouragement to pedantry and rudeness which
she derived from the circumstances of her youth. She told me that she
was at nineteen the most intolerable girl that ever took a seat in a
drawing-room. Her admirable candor, the philosophical way in which she
took herself in hand, her genuine heart, her practical insight, and, no
doubt, the natural influence of her attachment to myself, endeared her
to me, while her powers, and her confidence in the use of them, led me
to expect great things from her.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her home at this time.]

Margaret’s home at this time was in the mansion house formerly
belonging to Judge Dana, a large, old-fashioned building, since taken
down, standing about a quarter of a mile from the Cambridge Colleges,
on the main road to Boston. The house stood back from the road, on
rising ground which overlooked an extensive landscape. It was always
a pleasure to Margaret to look at the outlines of the distant hills
beyond the river, and to have before her this extent of horizon and
sky. In the last year of her residence in Cambridge, her father moved
to the old Brattle place, a still more ancient edifice, with large,
old-fashioned garden and stately rows of linden trees. Here Margaret
enjoyed the garden walks, which took the place of the extensive view.

REV. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mr. Channing’s first impression.]

[Sidenote: Margaret too intense.]

[Sidenote: Imperiousness.]

[Sidenote: Sentimentality.]

I call to mind seeing, at the “Commencements” and “Exhibitions” of
Harvard University, a girl, plain in appearance, but of dashing air,
who was invariably the centre of a listening group, and kept their
merry interest alive by sparkles of wit and incessant small talk....
About 1830 ... we often met in the social circles about Cambridge, and
I began to observe her more nearly. At first her vivacity, decisive
tone, downrightness and contempt of conventional standards, continued
to repel. She appeared too _intense_ in expression, action, emphasis,
to be pleasing, and wanting in that _retenue_ which we associate
with delicate dignity. Occasionally, also, words flashed from her of
such scathing satire, that prudence counselled the keeping at safe
distance from a body so surcharged with electricity. Then again,
there was an imperial--shall it be said imperious?--air, exacting
deference to her judgments and loyalty to her behests, that prompted
pride to retaliatory measures. She paid slight heed, moreover, to
the trim palings of etiquette, but swept through the garden-beds and
into the door-way of one’s confidence so cavalierly that a reserved
person felt inclined to lock himself up in his sanctum. Finally, to
the coolly-scanning eye, her friendship wore such a look of romantic
exaggeration, that she seemed to walk enveloped in a shining fog of
sentimentalism....

But soon I was charmed, unaware, with the sagacity of her sallies,
the profound thoughts carelessly dropped by her on transient
topics, the breadth and richness of culture manifested in her
allusions or quotations, her easy comprehension of new views, her
just discrimination, and, above all, her _truthfulness_. “Truth at
all cost,” was plainly her ruling maxim. This it was that made her
criticism so trenchant, her contempt of pretence so quick and stern,
her speech so naked in frankness, her gaze so searching, her whole
attitude so alert.

WILLIAM HENRY CHANNING: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Emerson’s first impression.]

I still remember the first half hour of Margaret’s conversation.
She was then twenty-six years old. She had a face and frame that
would indicate fullness and tenacity of life. She was rather under
the middle height; her complexion was fair, with strong, fair hair.
She was then, as always, carefully and becomingly dressed, and of
lady-like self-possession. For the rest, her appearance had nothing
prepossessing. Her extreme plainness--a trick of incessantly opening
and shutting her eyelids--the nasal tone of her voice--all repelled;
and I said to myself, we shall never get far. It is to be said that
Margaret made a disagreeable first impression on most persons,
including those who became afterwards her best friends, to such an
extreme that they did not wish to be in the same room with her. This
was partly the effect of her manners, which expressed an overweening
sense of power, and slight esteem of others, and partly the prejudice
of her fame. She had a dangerous reputation for satire, in addition to
her great scholarship.... I believe I fancied her too much interested
in personal history; and her talk was a comedy in which dramatic
justice was done to everybody’s foibles. I remember that she made me
laugh more than I liked.... She had an incredible variety of anecdotes,
and the readiest wit to give an absurd turn to whatever passed; and the
eyes, which were so plain at first, soon swam with fun and drolleries,
and the very tides of joy and superabundant life.

This rumor was much spread abroad, that she was sneering, scoffing,
critical, disdainful of humble people, and of all but the intellectual.
It was a superficial judgment. Her satire was only the pastime and
necessity of her talent, the play of superabundant animal spirits....
Her mind presently disclosed many moods and powers, in successive
platforms or terraces, each above each, that quite effaced this first
impression, in the opulence of the following pictures.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her circle of friends.]

[Sidenote: Conversation.]

She was the centre of a group very different from each other, and whose
only affinity consisted in their all being polarized by the strong
attraction of her mind--all drawn toward herself. Some of her friends
were young, gay, and beautiful; some old, sick, or studious. Some
were children of the world, others pale scholars. Some were witty,
others slightly dull. But all, in order to be Margaret’s friends,
must be capable of seeking something--capable of some aspiration for
the better. And how did she glorify life to all! All that was tame
and common vanishing away in the picturesque light thrown over the
most familiar things by her rapid fancy, her brilliant wit, her sharp
insight, her creative imagination, by the inexhaustible resources of
her knowledge, and the copious rhetoric which found words and images
always apt and always ready. Even then she displayed almost the same
marvellous gift of conversation, which afterwards dazzled all who knew
her--with more, perhaps, of freedom, since she floated on the flood
of our warm sympathies. Those who know Margaret only by her published
writings, know her least; her notes and letters contain more of her
mind; but it was only in conversation that she was perfectly free and
at home.

REV. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her friends.]

[Sidenote: Passionate friendships.]

She wore this circle of friends, when I first knew her, as a necklace
of diamonds about her neck. They were so much to each other that
Margaret seemed to represent them all and to know her, was to acquire
a place with them. The confidences given her were their best, and
she held them to them. She was an active, inspiring companion and
correspondent, and all the art, the thought, and the nobleness in New
England, seemed at that moment related to her, and she to it.... I am
to add, that she gave herself to her friendships with an entireness
not possible to any but a woman, with a depth possible to few women.
Her friendships, as a girl with girls, as a woman with women, were
not unmingled with passion, and had passages of romantic sacrifice
and of ecstatic fusion, which I have heard with the ear, but could
not trust my profane pen to report. There were also the ebbs and
recoils from the other party--the mortal unequal to converse with an
immortal--ingratitude, which was more truly incapacity, the collapse
of overstrained affections and powers. At all events, it is clear that
Margaret, later, grew more strict, and values herself with her friends
on having the tie now “redeemed from all search after Eros.”

R. W. EMERSON: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Personal appearance.]

[Sidenote: Two prominent traits.]

Her temperament was predominantly what the physiologists would call
nervous-sanguine; and the gray eye, rich brown hair, and light
complexion, with the muscular and well-developed frame, bespoke
delicacy balanced by vigor. Here was a sensitive, yet powerful being,
fit at once for rapture or sustained effort, intensely active, prompt
for adventure, firm for trial. She certainly had not beauty; yet the
high arched dome of the head, the changeful expressiveness of every
feature, and her whole air of mingled dignity and impulse, gave her a
commanding charm. Especially characteristic were two physical traits.
The first was a contraction of the eyelids almost to a point--a trick
caught from near-sightedness--and then a sudden dilatation, till the
iris seemed to emit flashes--an effect, no doubt, dependent on her
highly-magnetized condition. The second was a singular pliancy of the
vertebræ and muscles of the neck, enabling her by a mere movement to
denote each varying emotion; in moments of tenderness, or pensive
feeling, its curves were swan-like in grace, but when she was scornful
or indignant, it contracted, and made swift turns like that of a bird
of prey. Finally, in the animation yet _abandon_ of Margaret’s attitude
and look, were rarely blended the fiery force of northern, and the
soft languor of southern races.

WILLIAM HENRY CHANNING: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her liberality.]

With a limited income and liberal wants, she was yet generous beyond
the bounds of reason. Had the gold of California been all her own,
she would have disbursed nine-tenths of it in eager and well-directed
efforts to stay, or at least diminish, the flood of human misery. And
it is but fair to state that the liberality she evinced was fully
paralleled by the liberality she experienced at the hands of others.
Had she needed thousands, and made her wants known, she had friends
who would have cheerfully supplied her. I think few persons, in their
pecuniary dealings, have experienced and evinced more of the better
qualities of human nature than Margaret Fuller. She seemed to inspire
those who approached her with that generosity which was a part of her
nature.

HORACE GREELEY: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Self-esteem.]

Margaret at first astonished and repelled us by a complacency that
seemed the most assured since the days of Scaliger. She spoke, in the
quietest manner, of the girls she had formed, the young men who owed
everything to her, the fine companions she had long ago exhausted. In
the coolest way she said to her friends, “I now know all the people
worth knowing in America, and I find no intellect comparable to my
own.”... I have heard that from the beginning of her life, she
idealized herself as a sovereign. She told ---- she early saw herself
to be intellectually superior to those around her, and that for years
she dwelt upon the idea, until she believed that she was not her
parents’ child, but an European princess confided to their care. She
remembered that when a little girl, she was walking one day under the
apple trees with such an air and step that her father pointed her out
to her sister, saying, “_Incedit regina_.”

[Sidenote: A “mountainous me.”]

It is certain that Margaret occasionally let slip, with all the
innocence imaginable, some phrase betraying the presence of a rather
mountainous ME, in a way to surprise those who knew her good sense. She
could say, as if she were stating a scientific fact, in enumerating
the merits of somebody, “He appreciates _me_.” There was something
of hereditary organization in this, and something of unfavorable
circumstance in the fact, that she had in early life no companion, and
few afterwards, in her finer studies; but there was also an ebullient
sense of power, which she felt to be in her, which as yet had found no
right channels.

R. W. EMERSON: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Humor.]

Those who think of this accomplished woman as a mere _bas bleu_, a
pedant, a solemn Minerva, should have heard the peals of laughter
which her profuse and racy humor drew from old and young. The Easy
Chair remembers stepping into Noah Gerrish’s West Roxbury omnibus one
afternoon in Cornhill, in Boston, to drive out the nine miles to Brook
Farm. The only other passenger was Miss Fuller, then freshly returned
from her “summer on the lakes,” and never was a long, jolting journey
more lightened and shortened than by her witty and vivid sketches of
life and character. Her quick and shrewd observation is shown in the
book, but the book has none of the comedy of the _croquis_ of persons
which her sparkling humor threw off, and which she too enjoyed with
the utmost hilarity, joining heartily in the laughter, which was only
increased by her sympathy with the amusement of her auditor.

GEO. WM. CURTIS, ‘Easy Chair,’ _Harper’s Magazine_, March, 1882.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Ill health.]

[Sidenote: Alleged second sight.]

She was all her life-time the victim of disease and pain. She read and
wrote in bed, and believed that she could understand anything better
when she was ill. Pain acted like a girdle to give tension to her
powers. A lady who was with her one day during a terrible attack of
nervous headache, which made Margaret totally helpless, assured me that
Margaret was yet in the finest vein of humor, and kept those who were
assisting her in a strange, painful excitement, between laughing and
crying, by perpetual brilliant sallies. There were other peculiarities
of habit and power. When she turned her head on one side she alleged
she had second sight, like St. Francis. These traits or predispositions
made her a willing listener to all the uncertain science of mesmerism
and its goblin brood, which have been rife in recent years.

It was soon evident that there was somewhat a little pagan about
her; that she had some faith more or less distinct in a fate, and
in a guardian genius; that her fancy or her pride, had played with
her religion. She had a taste for gems, ciphers, talismans, omens,
coincidences, and birth-days. She had a special love for the planet
Jupiter, and a belief that the month of September was inauspicious to
her. She never forgot that her name, Margarita, signified a pearl....
She chose carbuncle for her own stone, and when a dear friend was to
give her a gem, this was the one selected.... She was wont to put on
her carbuncle, a bracelet or some selected gem, to write letters to
certain friends. One of her friends she coupled with the onyx, another
in a decided way with the amethyst.... Coincidences, good and bad,
_contretemps_, seals, ciphers, mottoes, omens, anniversaries, names,
dreams, are all of a certain importance to her.... She soon surrounded
herself with a little mythology of her own.

She had a series of anniversaries, which she kept. Her seal-ring of the
flying Mercury had its legend.

R. W. EMERSON: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her love of children.]

Her love of children was one of her most prominent characteristics.
The pleasure she enjoyed in their society was fully counterpoised by
that she imparted. To them she was never lofty, nor reserved, nor
mystical; for no one had ever a more perfect faculty for entering into
their sports, their feelings, their enjoyments. She could narrate
almost any story in language level to their capacities, and in a manner
calculated to bring out their hearty, and often boisterously-expressed
delight. She possessed marvellous powers of observation and imitation,
or mimicry; and had she been attracted to the stage, would have been
the first actress America has produced, whether in tragedy or comedy.
Her faculty of mimicking was not needed to commend her to the hearts
of children, but it had its effects in increasing the fascinations
of her genial nature and heart-felt joy in their society. To amuse
and instruct was an achievement for which she would readily forego
any personal object; and her intuitive perception of the toys, games,
stories, rhymes, etc., best adapted to arrest and enchain their
attention was unsurpassed.

HORACE GREELEY: _Communication in_ ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A welcome guest.]

She was everywhere a welcome guest. The houses of her friends in town
and country were open to her, and every hospitable attention eagerly
offered. Her arrival was a holiday, and so was her abode. She stayed a
few days, often a week, more seldom a month, and all tasks that could
be suspended were put aside to catch the favorable hour, in walking,
riding, or boating, to talk with this joyful guest, who brought wit,
anecdotes, love-stories, tragedies, oracles with her, and with her
broad web of relations to so many fine friends, seemed like the queen
of some parliament of love, who carried the key to all confidences, and
to whom every question had been finally referred.

The day was never long enough to exhaust her opulent memory, and I, who
knew her intimately from July, 1836, till August, 1846, when she sailed
for Europe, never saw her without surprise at her new powers.

R. W. EMERSON: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret’s account of her Boston Conversation Class.]

My class is prosperous. I was so fortunate as to rouse, at once, the
tone of simple earnestness, which can scarcely, when once awakened,
cease to vibrate. All seem in a glow, and quite as receptive as I
wish.... There are about twenty-five members, and every one, I believe,
full of interest.... The first day’s topic was, the genealogy of heaven
and earth; then the Will (Jupiter); the Understanding, (Mercury); the
second day’s, the celestial inspiration of genius, perception and
transmission of divine law (Apollo); the terrene of inspiration, the
impassioned abandonment of genius (Bacchus).

Of the thunderbolt, the caduceus, the ray, and the grape, having
disposed as well as might be, we came to the wave, and the sea-shell it
moulds to Beauty, and Love her parent and her child.

I assure you, there is more Greek than Bostonian spoken at the
meetings; and we may have pure honey of Hymettus to give you yet.

MARGARET FULLER: _Letter to R. W. Emerson_, November, 1839, in ‘Memoirs
of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A pupil’s account.]

Margaret used to come to the conversations very well dressed, and,
altogether, looked sumptuously. She began them with an exordium, in
which she gave her leading views; and those exordiums were excellent,
from the elevation of the tone, the ease and flow of discourse, and
from the tact with which they were kept aloof from any excess; and
from the gracefulness with which they were brought down, at last, to a
possible level for others to follow. She made a pause, and invited the
others to come in. Of course, it was not easy for every one to venture
her remark, after an eloquent discourse, and in the presence of twenty
superior women, who were all inspired. But whatever was said, Margaret
knew how to seize the good meaning of it with hospitality, and to make
the speaker feel glad, and not sorry, that she had spoken.

---- ----: _Communication quoted in_ ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller
Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Miss Martineau’s view of the Boston Class.]

While she was living and moving in an ideal world, talking in private
and discoursing in public about the most fanciful and shallow conceits
which the transcendentalists took for philosophy, she looked down
upon persons who acted instead of talking finely, and devoted their
fortunes, their peace, their repose, and their very lives to the
preservation of the principles of the republic. While Margaret Fuller
and her adult pupils sat “gorgeously dressed,” talking about Mars and
Venus, Plato and Goethe, and fancying themselves the elect of the earth
in intellect and refinement, the liberties of the republic were running
out as fast as they could go, at a breach which another sort of elect
persons were devoting themselves to repair: and my complaint against
the “gorgeous” pedants was that they regarded their preservers as
hewers of wood and drawers of water, and their work as a less vital one
than the pedantic orations which were spoiling a set of well-meaning
women in a pitiable way.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret as a member of the Greeley household.]

Though we were members of the same household, we scarcely met save at
breakfast; and my time and thoughts were absorbed in duties and cares,
which left me little leisure or inclination for the amenities of social
intercourse. Fortune seemed to delight in placing us two in relations
of friendly antagonism, or rather, to develop all possible contrasts in
our ideas and social habits. She was naturally inclined to luxury and a
good appearance before the world. My pride, if I had any, delighted in
bare walls and rugged fare. She was addicted to strong tea and coffee,
both which I rejected and contemned, even in the most homœopathic
dilutions; while, my general health being so sound, and hers sadly
impaired, I could not fail to find in her dietetic habits the causes
of her almost habitual illness; and once, while we were still barely
acquainted, when she came to the breakfast-table with a very severe
headache, I was tempted to attribute it to her strong potations of
the Chinese leaf the night before. She told me quite frankly that
she “declined being lectured on the food or beverage she saw fit to
take,” which was but reasonable in one who had arrived at her maturity
of intellect and fixedness of habits. So the subject was thenceforth
tacitly avoided between us; but, though words were suppressed, looks
and involuntary gestures could not so well be; and an utter divergency
of views on this and kindred themes created a perceptible distance
between us.

HORACE GREELEY: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her description of the Greeley house.]

This place is, to me, entirely charming; it is so completely in the
country, and all around is so bold and free. It is two miles or more
from the thickly-settled parts of New York, but omnibuses and cars
give me constant access to the city, and, while I can readily see what
and whom I will, I can command time and retirement. Stopping on the
Harlem road, you enter a lane nearly a quarter of a mile long, and
going by a small brook and pond that locks in the place, and ascending
a slightly rising ground, get sight of the house, which, old-fashioned
and of mellow tint, fronts on a flower-garden filled with shrubs, large
vines and trim box-borders. On both sides of the house are beautiful
trees.... Passing through a wide hall, you come out upon a piazza,
stretching the whole length of the house, where one can walk in all
weathers; and thence by a step or two, on a lawn, with picturesque
masses of rocks, shrubs and trees, overlooking the East River.

MARGARET FULLER: _Letter_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Contributions to the “Tribune.”]

Her earlier contributions to the _Tribune_ were not her best, and I
did not at first prize her aid so highly as I afterwards learned to
do. She wrote always freshly, vigorously, but not always clearly;
for her full and intimate acquaintance with continental literature,
especially German, seemed to have marred her felicity and readiness of
expression in her mother tongue. While I never met another woman who
conversed more freely or lucidly, the attempt to commit her thoughts
to paper seemed to induce a singular embarrassment and hesitation.
She could write only when in the vein; and this needed often to be
waited for through several days, while the occasion sometimes required
an immediate utterance. The new book must be reviewed before other
journals had thoroughly dissected and discussed it, else the ablest
critique would command no general attention, and perhaps be, by the
greater number, unread. That the writer should wait the flow of
inspiration, or at least the recurrence of elasticity of spirits and
relative health of body, will not seem unreasonable to the general
reader; but to the inveterate hack-horse of the daily press, accustomed
to write at any time, or on any subject, and with a rapidity limited
only by the physical ability to form the requisite pen-strokes, the
notion of waiting for a brighter day or a happier frame of mind,
appears fantastic and absurd. He would as soon think of waiting for
a change in the moon. Hence, while I realized that her contributions
evinced rare intellectual wealth and force, I did not value them as I
should have done had they been written more fluently and promptly. They
often seemed to make their appearance “a day after the fair.”

HORACE GREELEY: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Carlyle’s first impression of Margaret Fuller.]

Yesternight there came a bevy of Americans from Emerson, one Margaret
Fuller, the chief figure of them, a strange, lilting, lean old maid,
not nearly such a bore as I expected.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter_ in ‘Thomas Carlyle: A History of his Life in
London,’ by James Anthony Froude. New York: Chas. Scribner’s Sons,
1884.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Free translation of the above.]

Miss Fuller came duly as you announced; was welcomed for your sake
and her own. A high-soaring, clear, enthusiast soul; in whose speech
there is much of all that one wants to find in speech. A sharp, subtle
intellect too; and less of that shoreless Asiatic dreaminess than
I have sometimes met with in her writings.... Her dialect is very
vernacular,--extremely exotic in the London climate.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to R. W. Emerson_, December, 1846. ‘The
Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson’:
Supplementary Letters. Boston: Ticknor & Co., 1886.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Account of her visit to Ambleside.]

Margaret Fuller, who had been, in spite of certain mutual repulsions,
an intimate acquaintance of mine in America, came to Ambleside....
I gave her and the excellent friends with whom she was travelling,
the best welcome I could. My house was full: but I got lodgings for
them, made them welcome as guests, and planned excursions for them.
Her companions evidently enjoyed themselves; and Margaret Fuller as
evidently did not, except when she could harangue the drawing-room
party without the interruption of any other voice within its precincts.
There were other persons present, at least as eminent as herself, to
whom we wished to listen; but we were willing that all should have
their turn: and I am sure I met her with every desire for friendly
intercourse. She presently left off conversing with me, however;
while I, as hostess, had to see that my other guests were entertained
according to their various tastes. During our excursion in Langdale
she scarcely spoke to anybody, and not at all to me; and when we
afterwards met in London, when I was setting off for the East, she
treated me with the contemptuous benevolence which it was her wont to
bestow on common place people. I was, therefore, not surprised when I
became acquainted, presently after, with her own account of the matter.
She told her friends that she had been bitterly disappointed in me.
It had been a great object with her to see me, after my recovery by
mesmerism, to enjoy the exaltation and spiritual development which
she concluded I must have derived from my excursions in the spiritual
world; but she had found me in no way altered by it; no one could have
discovered that I had been mesmerised at all; and I was so thoroughly
common place that she had no pleasure in intercourse with me.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A true heroic mind.]

Margaret is an excellent soul: in real regard with both of us here.
Since she went, I have been reading some of her Papers in a new Book
we have got; greatly superior to all I knew before; in fact the
undeniable utterances (now first undeniable to me) of a true heroic
mind;--altogether unique, so far as I know, among the Writing Women of
this generation; rare enough, too, God knows, among the Writing Men.
She is very narrow, sometimes; but she is truly high.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to Emerson_, 2d March, 1847. ‘Correspondence
of T. Carlyle and R. W. Emerson,’ 1834-1872. Boston: James R. Osgood &
Co., 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret in Italy.]

[Sidenote: “Not the same person.”]

During the month of November, 1847, we arrived in Rome, purposing to
spend the winter there. At that time, Margaret was living in the house
of the Marchesa ----, in the Corso, _ultimo piano_. Her rooms were
pleasant and cheerful, with a certain air of elegance and refinement,
but they had not a sunny exposure, that all-essential requisite for
health, during the damp Roman winter. Margaret suffered from ill health
this winter, and she afterwards attributed it mainly to the fact, that
she had not the sun. As soon as she heard of our arrival, she stretched
forth a friendly, cordial hand, and greeted us most warmly. She gave
us great assistance in our search for convenient lodgings, and we were
soon happily established near her. Our intercourse was henceforth most
frequent and intimate, and knew no cloud nor coldness. Daily we were
much with her, and daily we felt more sensible of the worth and value
of our friend. To me she seemed so unlike what I had thought her to be
in America, that I continually said, “How have I misjudged you; you are
not at all such a person as I took you to be.” To this she replied, “I
am not the same person, but in many respects another; my life has new
channels now, and how thankful I am that I have been able to come out
into larger interests--but, partly, you did not know me at home in the
true light.” It was true, that I had not known her much personally,
when in Boston; but through her friends, who were mine also, I had
learned to think of her as a person on intellectual stilts, with a
large share of arrogance, and little sweetness of temper. How unlike to
this was she now! So delicate, so simple, confiding and affectionate;
with a true womanly heart and soul, sensitive and generous, and, what
was to me a still greater surprise, possessed of so broad a charity,
that she could cover with its mantle the faults and defects of all
about her.

[Sidenote: The Marquis Ossoli.]

We soon became acquainted with the young Marquis Ossoli, and met him
frequently at Margaret’s rooms. He appeared to be of a reserved and
gentle nature, with quiet, gentleman-like manners, and there was
something melancholy in the expression of his face, which made one
desire to know more of him. In figure, he was tall, and of slender
frame, with dark hair and eyes; we judged that he was about thirty
years of age, possibly younger.

MRS. STORY: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The meeting of Margaret and Ossoli.]

Our meeting was singular--fateful, I may say. Very soon he offered me
his hand through life, but I never dreamed I should take it. I loved
him, and felt very unhappy to leave him; but the connection seemed so
every way unfit, I did not hesitate a moment. He, however, thought I
should return to him, as I did. I acted upon a strong impulse, and
could not analyze at all what passed in my mind. I neither rejoice nor
grieve--for bad or for good, I acted out my character.

[Sidenote: Her suffering during the siege of Rome.]

During the siege of Rome, I could not see my little boy. What I endured
at that time, in various ways, not many would survive.... I went, every
day, to wait, in the crowd, for letters about him. Often they did not
come. I saw blood that had streamed on the wall where Ossoli was. I
have a piece of a bomb that burst close to him. I sought solace in
tending the suffering men; but when I beheld the beautiful, fair young
men bleeding to death, or mutilated for life, I felt the woe of all the
mothers who had nursed each to that full flower, to see them thus cut
down. I felt the consolation, too, for those youths died worthily.

MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI: _Letter to her Sister_, in ‘Memorials of
Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret in the hospitals.]

Margaret had ... the entire charge of one of the hospitals, and was the
assistant of the Princess Belgioioso, in charge of “_dei Pellegrini_,”
where, during the first day, they received seventy wounded men, French
and Romans. Night and day, Margaret was occupied, and, with the
princess, so ordered and disposed the hospitals, that their conduct was
truly admirable. All the work was skilfully divided, so that there was
no confusion or hurry, and, from the chaotic condition in which they
had been left by the priests--who previously had charge of them--they
brought them to a state of perfect regularity and discipline. Of
money, they had very little, and they were obliged to give their time
and thoughts, in its place. From the Americans in Rome, they raised a
subscription for the aid of the wounded of either party; but, besides
this, they had scarcely any means to use. I have walked through the
wards with Margaret, and seen how comforting was her presence to the
poor suffering men. “How long will the Signora stay?” “When will the
Signora come again?” they eagerly asked. For each one’s particular
tastes she had a care: to one she carried books; to another she told
the news of the day; and listened to another’s oft-repeated tale of
wrongs, as the best sympathy she could give. They raised themselves up
on their elbows, to get the last glimpse of her as she was going away.

MRS. STORY: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Margaret’s description of Ossoli.]

He is not in any respect such a person as people in general would
expect to find with me. He had no instructor except an old priest, who
entirely neglected his education; and of all that is contained in books
he is absolutely ignorant, and he has no enthusiasm of character. On
the other hand, he has excellent practical sense; has been a judicious
observer of all that passed before his eyes; has a nice sense of duty,
which, in its unfailing, minute activity, may put most enthusiasts to
shame; a very sweet temper, and great native refinement. His love for
me has been unswerving and most tender.... Amid many ills and cares, we
have had much joy together, in the sympathy with natural beauty--with
our child--with all that is innocent and sweet.

I do not know whether he will always love me so well, for I am the
elder, and the difference will become, in a few years, more perceptible
than now. But life is so uncertain, and it is so necessary to take good
things with their limitations, that I have not thought it worth while
to calculate too curiously.

[Sidenote: The little Angelo.]

What shall I say of my child? All might seem hyperbole, even to my
dearest mother. In him I find satisfaction, for the first time, to the
deep wants of my heart.... He is a fair child, with blue eyes and light
hair; very affectionate, graceful, and sportive. He was baptized, in
the Roman Catholic Church, by the name of Angelo Eugene Philip, for his
father, grandfather, and my brother.

MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI: _Letter to her mother_, in ‘Memoirs of Margaret
Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Their last spring in Florence.]

I passed about six weeks in the city of Florence, during the months
of March and April, 1850. During the whole of that time Madame Ossoli
was residing in a house at the corner of the Via della Misericordia
and the Piazza Santa Maria Novelle. This house is one of those large,
well-built, modern houses that show strangely in the streets of the
stately Tuscan city. But if her rooms were less characteristically
Italian, they were the more comfortable, and, though small, had a
quiet, home-like air.... I saw her frequently at these rooms, where,
surrounded by her books and papers, she used to devote her mornings
to her literary labors. Once or twice I called in the morning, and
found her quite immersed in manuscripts and journals. Her evenings
were passed usually in the society of her friends, at her own rooms,
or at theirs.... [Ossoli] seemed quite absorbed in his wife and child.
I cannot remember ever to have found Madame Ossoli alone, on those
evenings when she remained at home. Her husband was always with her.
The picture of their room rises clearly on my memory. A small, square
room, sparingly, yet sufficiently furnished, with polished floor and
frescoed ceiling, and, drawn up closely before the cheerful fire, an
oval table, on which stood a monkish lamp of brass, with depending
chains that support quaint classic cups for the olive oil. There,
seated beside his wife, I was sure to find the Marchese, reading from
some patriotic book, and dressed in the dark brown, red-corded coat of
the Guardia Civica, which it was his melancholy pleasure to wear at
home.

W. H. HURLBUT: _Communication_ in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The homeward voyage.]

Why did she choose a merchant vessel from Leghorn? Why one which was
destined to carry in its hold the heavy marble of Powers’s Greek
Slave? She was warned against this, was uncertain in her own mind, and
disturbed by presages of ill. But economy was very necessary to her
at the moment. The vessel chosen, the barque _Elizabeth_, was new,
strong and ably commanded. Margaret had seen and made friends with the
captain, Hasty by name, and his wife. Horace Sumner [Charles Sumner’s
youngest brother, of whom they had seen much in Florence during the
winter], was to be their fellow-passenger, and a young Italian girl,
Celeste Paolini, engaged to help in the care of the little boy. These
considerations carried the day.

[Sidenote: Margaret’s forebodings.]

Just before leaving Florence, Margaret received letters, the tenor
of which would have enabled her to remain longer in Italy. Ossoli
remembered the warning of a fortune-teller, who in his childhood had
told him to beware of the sea. Margaret wrote of omens which gave her
“a dark feeling.” She had “a vague expectation of some crisis,” she
knows not what.... She prays fervently that she may not lose her boy at
sea, “either by unsolaced illness, or amid the howling waves; or if so,
that Ossoli, Angelo, and I may go together, and that the anguish may be
brief.”

These presentiments, strangely prophetic, returned upon Margaret with
so much force that on the very day appointed for sailing, the 17th of
May, she stood at bay before them for an hour, unable to decide whether
she should go or stay. But she had appointed a general meeting with her
family in July, and had positively engaged her passage in the barque.
Fidelity to these engagements prevailed with her.... In spite of fears
and omens, ... she went on board, and the voyage began in smooth
tranquillity....

On Thursday, July 18th, the _Elizabeth_ was off the Jersey coast, in
thick weather, the wind blowing east of south. The former mate was now
the captain. [Captain Hasty had died on the voyage.] Wishing to avoid
the coast, he sailed east-north-east, thinking presently to take a
pilot, and pass Sandy Hook by favor of the wind. At night he promised
his passengers an early arrival in New York. They retired to rest in
good spirits, having previously made all the usual preparations for
going on shore.

[Sidenote: The wreck of the “Elizabeth.”]

By nine o’clock that evening the breeze had become a gale, by midnight
a dangerous storm. The commander, casting the lead from time to
time, was without apprehension, having, it is supposed, mistaken his
locality, and miscalculated the speed of the vessel, which, under
close-reefed sails, was nearing the sandbars of Long Island. Here, on
Fire Island beach, she struck, at four o’clock on the morning of July
19th. The main and mizzen masts were promptly cut away, but the heavy
marble had broken through the hold, and the waters rushed in. The bow
of the vessel stuck fast in the sand, her stern swung around, and she
lay with her broadside exposed to the breakers, which swept over her
with each returning rise--a wreck to be saved by no human power.

The passengers sprang from their berths, aroused by the dreadful
shock, and guessing but too well its import. Then came the crash of
the falling masts, the roar of the waves, as they shattered the cabin
skylight and poured down into the cabin, extinguishing the lights.
These features of the moment are related as recalled by Mrs. Hasty,
sole survivor of the passengers.... The leeward side of the cabin was
already under water, but its windward side still gave shelter, and
here, for three hours, the passengers took refuge, their feet braced
against the long table. The baby shrieked, as well he might, with
the sudden fright, the noise and chill of the water. But his mother
wrapped him as warmly as she could, and in her agony cradled him on
her bosom and sang him to sleep. The girl Celeste was beside herself
with terror; and here we find recorded a touching trait of Ossoli, who
soothed her with encouraging words, and touched all hearts with his
fervent prayer.... The crew had retired to the top-gallant forecastle,
and the passengers, hearing nothing of them, supposed them to have
left the ship. By seven o’clock it became evident that the cabin could
not hold together much longer, and Mrs. Hasty, looking from the door
for some way of escape, saw a figure standing by the foremast, the
space between being constantly swept by the waves. She tried in vain
to make herself heard; but the mate, Davis, coming to the door of
the forecastle, saw her and immediately ordered the men to go to her
assistance. So great was the danger of doing this, that only two of the
crew were willing to accompany him. The only refuge for the passengers
was now in the forecastle, which, from its position and strength of
construction, would be likely to resist longest the violence of the
waves.

By great effort and coolness the mate and his two companions reached
the cabin; and rescued all in it from the destruction so nearly
impending.... From their new position, through the spray and rain they
could see the shore, some hundreds of yards off. Men were seen on the
beach, but there was nothing to indicate that an attempt would be made
to save them. At nine o’clock it was thought that some one of the crew
might possibly reach the shore by swimming, and, once there, make some
effort to send them aid. Two of the sailors succeeded in doing this.
Horace Sumner sprang after them, but sank unable to struggle with
the waves. A last device was that of a plank, with handles of rope
attached, upon which the passengers in turn might seat themselves,
while a sailor, swimming behind, should guide their course. Mrs. Hasty,
young and resolute, led the way in this experiment, the stout mate
helping her, and landing her out of the very jaws of death.... Oh that
Margaret had been willing that the same means should be employed to
bring her and hers to land! Again and again, to the very last moment,
she was urged to try this way of escape, uncertain, but the only
one.... The day wore on; the tide turned. The wreck would not outlast
its return. The commanding officer made one last appeal to Margaret
before leaving his post. To stay, he told her, was certain and speedy
death, as the ship must soon break up. He promised to take her child
with him, and to give Celeste, Ossoli, and herself each the aid of an
able seaman. Margaret still refused to be parted from child or husband.
The crew were then told to “save themselves,” and all but four jumped
overboard.... By three o’clock in the afternoon the breaking-up was
well in progress. Cabin and stern disappeared beneath the waves, and
the forecastle filled with water. The little group now took refuge
on the deck, and stood about the foremast. Three able-bodied seamen
remained with them, and one old sailor homeward-bound for good and all.
The deck now parted from the hull, and rose and fell with the sweep of
the waves. The final crash must come in a few minutes. The steward now
took Angelo in his arms, promising to save him or die. At this very
moment the foremast fell, and with it disappeared the deck and those
who stood on it. The steward and the child were washed ashore soon
after, dead, though not yet cold.... Celeste and Ossoli held for a
moment by the rigging, but were swept off by the next wave. Margaret,
last seen at the foot of the mast, in her white night-dress, with her
long hair hanging about her shoulders, is thought to have sunk at once.

JULIA WARD HOWE: ‘Margaret Fuller.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Miss Martineau’s view of Margaret’s career.]

[Sidenote: Her life in Boston.]

[Sidenote: “The noble last period of her life.”]

How it might have been with her, if she had come to Europe in 1836,
I have often speculated. As it was, her life in Boston was little
short of destructive. I need but refer to the memoir of her. In the
most pedantic age of society in her own country, and in its most
pedantic city, she who was just beginning to rise out of pedantic
habits of thought and speech relapsed most grievously. She was not
only completely spoiled in conversation and manners; she made false
estimates of the objects and interests of human life. She was not
content with pursuing, and inducing others to pursue, a metaphysical
idealism, destructive of all genuine feeling and sound activity.
She mocked at objects and efforts of a higher order than her own,
and despised those who, like myself, could not adopt her scale of
valuation. All this might have been spared, a world of mischief saved,
and a world of good effected, if she had found her heart a dozen years
sooner, and in America instead of Italy. It is the most grievous loss
I have almost ever known in private history--the deferring of Margaret
Fuller’s married life so long. The noble last period of her life is,
happily, on record as well as the earlier. My friendship with her was
in the interval between her first and second stages of pedantry and
forwardness; and I saw her again under all the disadvantages of the
confirmed bad manners and self-delusions which she brought from home.
The ensuing period redeemed all; and I regard her American life as a
reflexion more useful than agreeable, of the prevalent social spirit
of her time and place; and the Italian life as the true revelation of
the tender and high-souled woman, who had till then been as curiously
concealed from herself as from others.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Hawthorne’s analysis.]

[Sidenote: “A great humbug.”]

Margaret Fuller was a person anxious to try all things, and fill up her
experience in all directions; she had a strong and coarse nature which
she had done her utmost to refine, with infinite pains; but of course
it could only be superficially changed. The solution of the riddle lies
in this direction, nor does one’s conscience revolt at the idea of thus
solving it, for (at least, this is my own experience) Margaret has not
left in the hearts and minds of those who knew her any deep witness of
her integrity and purity. She was a great humbug--of course, with much
talent and much moral reality, or else she could never have been so
great a humbug. But she had stuck herself full of borrowed qualities,
which she chose to provide herself with, but which had no root in her.

There never was such a tragedy as her whole story. The sadder and
sterner, because so much of the ridiculous was mixed up with it, and
because she could bear any thing better than to be ridiculous. It was
such an awful joke, that she should have resolved--in all sincerity, no
doubt--to make herself the greatest, wisest, best woman of the age. And
to that end she set to work on her strong, heavy, unpliable, and, in
many respects, defective and evil nature, and adorned it with a mosaic
of admirable qualities, such as she chose to possess, putting in here
a splendid talent and there a moral excellence, and polishing each
separate piece, and the whole together, till it seemed to shine afar
and dazzle all who saw it. She took credit to herself for having been
her own Redeemer, if not her own Creator; and indeed she is far more a
work of art than any of Mozier’s statues. But she was not working on an
inanimate substance, like marble or clay; there was something within
her that she could not possibly come at, to re-create or refine it;
and by and by this rude old potency bestirred itself, and undid all
her labor in the twinkling of an eye. On the whole, I do not know but
I like her the better for it; because she proved herself a very woman
after all.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: _Extract from Roman Journal_, in ‘Nathaniel
Hawthorne and His Wife,’ a Biography, by Julian Hawthorne. Boston:
James R. Osgood & Co., 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “A strange tragedy.”]

Poor Margaret, that is a strange tragedy that history of hers; and has
many traits of the heroic in it, though it is wild as the prophecy of
a Sibyl. Such a pre-determination to _eat_ this big universe as her
oyster or her egg, and to be absolute empress of all height and glory
in it that her heart could conceive, I have not before seen in any
human soul. Her “mountain _me_” indeed: but her courage, too, is high
and clear, her chivalrous nobleness indeed is great; her veracity, in
its deepest sense, _à toute épreuve_.

THOMAS CARLYLE: _Letter to Emerson_, 7th May, 1852. ‘Correspondence of
T. Carlyle and R. W. Emerson.’


FOOTNOTES:

[7] The quotation is from Margaret’s ‘Summer on the Lakes,’ where this
story is related in the episode of ‘Mariana.’ Mrs. Howe’s condensed
account has been given, though possibly inexact in one particular.
Margaret does not describe the _preceptress_ as having joined in the
practical joke.




                      CHARLOTTE BRONTË (NICHOLLS).

                             (CURRER BELL.)

                               1816-1855.


                             EMILY BRONTË.

                             (ELLIS BELL.)

                               1818-1848.




                     CHARLOTTE BRONTË (NICHOLLS.)

                            (CURRER BELL.)

                              1816-1855.

                             EMILY BRONTË.

                             (ELLIS BELL.)

                              1818-1848.


The story of the Brontës is essentially the story of a family; not of
one member, not even of its two famous members. This has been felt by
the biographers of Charlotte and Emily Brontë, who have pictured for us
the whole group with a vividness which, paradoxical as it may seem, is
more characteristic of fiction than of biography. These lonely lives
were knit fast together; it is hard to separate an individual thread
from the others. At least the story of the family must first be told.

The Reverend Patrick Brontë (formerly Prunty), and Maria Branwell, his
wife, had six children: Maria, Elizabeth, Charlotte (born at Thornton,
in the West Riding, April 21, 1816), Patrick Branwell, Emily (born at
Thornton, in 1818), and Anne. In February, 1820, the Brontës removed to
the famous parsonage of Haworth. In September, 1821, Mrs. Brontë died.
The strange life of the motherless children, under the care of their
aunt, Miss Branwell, is described in the following extracts. In 1824,
the four older girls were sent to the school for clergymen’s daughters,
at Cowan’s Bridge, which Charlotte afterward raised to a bad eminence
in JANE EYRE, under the name of Lowood Institution. A long account
of this shamefully mismanaged school may be found in Miss Robinson’s
‘Emily Brontë.’ Maria and Elizabeth died of consumption in 1825;
their deaths were doubtless hastened by exposure and want of proper
nourishment. In the autumn of the same year Charlotte and Emily were
taken from the Cowan’s Bridge school.

Miss Branwell taught the children at home for some time; in 1831,
Charlotte was again sent to school--this time to Miss Wooler’s, at Roe
Head, on the road from Leeds to Haddersfield. She remained at this
school a year and a half, and on returning taught her sisters what she
had learned. At Roe Head began her life-long friendship with Ellen
Nussey. In 1835, Charlotte went to teach at Miss Wooler’s, and Emily
also went as a pupil to Roe Head, but remained there only three months,
when Anne took her place, afterward becoming a teacher in the school.
All her life Emily was passionately attached to the dreary parsonage
and the lonely moors, and became actually ill when forced to be absent
from home. In September, 1836, she obtained a hard position as teacher
in a large school near Halifax, which she was obliged to leave the
following spring.

In the meantime Miss Wooler had removed to Dewsbury Moor. Anne
Brontë continued teaching in her establishment until December, 1837;
Charlotte, until the following summer, when her health obliged her
to return to Haworth. In 1839 both obtained positions as governess,
Charlotte, however, leaving hers after a short time. Her second and
more agreeable experience of this kind was in 1841, when she taught in
a congenial family from March until Christmas. January, 1842, found all
three sisters at home. It was now determined that Charlotte and Emily
should spend six months in Brussels, at the Pensionnat of Monsieur and
Madame Héger, preparatory to setting up a school for themselves--a plan
which had long been discussed at the parsonage. Miss Branwell advanced
the money for this undertaking, and the two sisters left home in
February.

Their stay in Brussels was prolonged beyond expectation, on the
proposal of Mme. Héger that they should spend the next term with her
as pupil-teachers, Charlotte giving instruction in English, Emily in
music. In October they were recalled to England by the news of Miss
Branwell’s death. Anne being now in an excellent position, Emily
volunteered to remain at home as housekeeper. Charlotte, acting on the
advice of M. Héger, returned to Brussels in January, 1843, to complete
her studies there; paying her way as before by teaching in the school,
and receiving in addition a trifling salary.

About this time Patrick, or Branwell, Brontë, who, during an idle life
about the village, had fallen into evil ways, and had recently been
dismissed in disgrace from his situation as station-master at a small
place on the line of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, obtained
employment as tutor in the house where Anne was governess.

In January, 1844, Charlotte returned to Haworth, and the sisters
endeavored to start the school of which they had long been dreaming.
It was a complete failure. They were unable to secure a single pupil;
and by November the cherished plan was relinquished.

Charlotte and Emily lived down their failure together in the dreary
parsonage. Their father was growing old, was losing his sight. Anne was
out of health; they were troubled about Branwell. At last, in June,
1845, a great blow fell upon them. Their brother had engaged in an
intrigue with his employer’s wife: he was discovered, denounced, sent
home in shame; and from that time forth “thought of little but stunning
or drowning his agony of mind” with drink or opium. The miserable state
of things at Haworth for the next three years is almost inconceivable;
yet it was out of this very field of nettles that the flower of
immortality was plucked.

In May, 1846, a little volume of verse “by Currer, Ellis, and Acton
Bell” was put forth, but failed as the school had failed. Meanwhile,
in the winter of 1845-6 and the following spring, each of the three
sisters had been at work upon a novel. Emily’s was WUTHERING HEIGHTS,
Anne’s, _Agnes Grey_, and Charlotte’s, _The Professor_. They were
despatched to various publishers, at first together, afterwards singly.
In August, 1846, Mr. Brontë underwent an operation for cataract at
Manchester, Charlotte being his companion and nurse. The operation was
successful. At the end of September father and daughter returned to
Haworth. In August, 1847, JANE EYRE was completed and sent to Messrs.
Smith & Elder as the work of “Currer Bell.” It was accepted, and was
published in October. In December another publishing house brought
out WUTHERING HEIGHTS and _Agnes Grey_. JANE EYRE almost immediately
created a great sensation.

In the summer of 1848 a misunderstanding with their respective
publishers led Charlotte and Anne to take a hurried journey to London,
where they astonished Messrs. Smith & Elder with a call. They were very
kindly received, and introduced to the friends of Mr. Smith as “the
Miss Browns.”

In September, 1848, the unhappy Branwell died. Emily never left the
house after the day of his funeral. A troublesome cough developed into
consumption. After months of increasing weakness borne in a spirit
of silent and stubborn resistance, in December, 1848, Emily Brontë
followed her brother. Anne, always delicate, did not linger long behind
them. In the ensuing spring she died at Scarborough, whither Charlotte
and Miss Nussey had brought her but a few days before for the benefit
of the sea air. Charlotte and her father were left alone together.

SHIRLEY, began before Emily’s death, was published in October, 1849;
and toward the end of the year Charlotte visited London. The mask of
“Currer Bell” was dropped, and Miss Brontë made the acquaintance of
Thackeray, Harriet Martineau and others. In June, 1850, she was again
in London. This year she took a flying trip to Scotland. She was Miss
Martineau’s guest at Ambleside in December. In this month appeared the
second edition of WUTHERING HEIGHTS and _Agnes Grey_, which she had
edited, writing a preface, and a biographical notice of Emily and Anne.
In June, 1851, she again visited London. Early in 1853 VILLETTE was
published.

About this time the Reverend Arthur Nicholls, Mr. Brontë’s assistant,
asked Charlotte to be his wife. Her father was bitterly opposed to
the marriage; the daughter obeyed him; and Mr. Nicholls left Haworth.
It was not until 1854 that Mr. Brontë could be induced to give his
consent. On June 29th of this year, Charlotte was married to Mr.
Nicholls. They visited Ireland, and on their return took up a happy and
useful life at Haworth. The future seemed full of promise, the only
cloud upon it being Mr. Nicholls’ lack of sympathy with his wife’s
literary pursuits. But the story so sad till now was to be soon and
sadly ended. On the 31st of March, 1855, Charlotte died at Haworth.

“Alas,” sings Matthew Arnold:[8]

  “Early she goes on the path
  To the silent country, and leaves
  Half her laurels unwon,
  Dying too soon!”

But in turning to Emily Brontë, his voice takes the accent of wonder:

             “She
  (How shall I sing her?) whose soul
  Knew no fellow for might,
  Passion, vehemence, grief,
  Daring, since Byron died.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Haworth.]

The village of Haworth stands, steep and gray, on the topmost side of
an abrupt low hill. Such hills, more steep than high, are congregated
round, circle beyond circle, to the utmost limit of the horizon. Not
a wood, not a river. As far as eye can reach these treeless hills,
their sides cut into fields by gray walls of stone with here and there
a gray stone village, and here and there a gray stone mill, present no
other colors than the singular north-country brilliance of the green
grass, and the blackish gray of the stone. Now and then a toppling,
gurgling mill-beck gives life to the scene. But the real life, the only
beauty of the country, is set on the top of all the hills, where moor
joins moor from Yorkshire into Lancashire, a coiled chain of wild,
free places. White with snow in winter, black at midsummer, it is only
when spring dapples the dark heather-stems with the vivid green of the
sprouting whortleberry bushes, only when in early autumn the moors are
one humming mass of fragrant purple, that any beauty of tint lights
up the scene. But there is always a charm in the moors for hardy and
solitary spirits. Between them and heaven nothing dares to interpose.
The shadows of the coursing clouds alter the aspect of the place a
hundred times a day. A hundred little springs and streams well in its
soil, making spots of vivid greenness round their rise. A hundred birds
of every kind are flying and singing there. Larks sing; cuckoos call;
all the tribe of linnets and finches twitter in the bushes; plovers
moan; wild ducks fly past; more melancholy than all, on stormy days,
the white sea-mews cry, blown so far inland by the force of the gales
that sweep irresistibly over the treeless and houseless moors. There
in the spring you may take in your hands the weak, halting fledglings
of the birds; rabbits and game multiply in the hollows. There in the
autumn the crowds of bees, mad in the heather, send the sound of their
humming down the village street. The winds, the clouds, Nature and
life, must be the friends of those who would love the moors.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’ (_Famous Women Series_). Boston:
Roberts Bros., 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The Parsonage.]

The parsonage stands at right angles to the road, facing down upon the
church; so that, in fact, parsonage, church, and belfried school-house,
form three sides of an irregular oblong, of which the fourth is open to
the fields and moors that lie beyond. The area of this oblong is filled
up by a crowded church-yard, and a small garden or court in front of
the clergyman’s house. As the entrance to this from the road is at the
side, the path goes round the corner into the little plot of ground.
Underneath the windows is a narrow flower-border, carefully tended in
days of yore, although only the most hardy plants could be made to
grow there. Within the stone-wall, which keeps out the surrounding
church-yard, are bushes of elder and lilac; the rest of the ground is
occupied by a square grass-plot and a gravel walk. The house is of gray
stone, two stories high, heavily roofed with flags, in order to resist
the winds that might strip off a lighter covering. It appears to have
been built about a hundred years ago, and to consist of four rooms
on each story; the two windows on the right (as the visitor stands,
with his back to the church, ready to enter in at the front door),
belonging to Mr. Brontë’s study, the two on the left to the family
sitting-room.... The little church lies, as I mentioned, above most of
the houses in the village; and the graveyard rises above the church,
and is terribly full of upright tombstones.

ELIZABETH C. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë,’ Smith, Elder & Co.,
London, 1857.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Interior of the parsonage.]

The interior of the now far-famed parsonage lacked drapery of all
kinds. Mr. Brontë’s horror of fire forbade curtains to the windows.
There was not much carpet anywhere except in the sitting-room and on
the study floor. The hall floor and stairs were done with sand-stone,
always beautifully clean, as everything else was about the house; the
walls were not papered, but stained in a pretty dove-colored tint;
hair-seated chairs and mahogany tables, book-shelves in the study, but
not many of these elsewhere.... A little later on, [Miss N. is writing
of 1833], there was the addition of a piano.

ELLEN NUSSEY: Article on Charlotte Brontë, _Scribner’s Monthly_, May,
1871.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Parentage of the Brontës.]

The children’s father was a nervous, irritable, and violent man,
who endowed them with a nervous organization easily disturbed, and
an indomitable force of volition. The girls, at least, showed both
these characteristics. Patrick Branwell must have been a weaker, more
brilliant, more violent, less tenacious, less upright copy of his
father; and seems to have suffered no modification from the patient
and steadfast moral nature of his mother. She was the model that her
daughters copied, in different degrees, both in character and in
health. Passion and will their father gave them.... On both sides, the
children got a Celtic strain; and this is a matter of significance,
meaning a predisposition to the superstition, imagination, and horror
that is a strand in all their work. Their mother, Maria Branwell, was
of a good, middle-class Cornish family, long established as merchants
in Penzance. Their father was the son of an Irish peasant, Hugh Prunty,
settled in the north of Ireland, but native to the south.

A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Patrick Brontë’s career.]

[Sidenote: His change of name.]

His talents were early recognized by Mr. Tighe, the rector of
Drumgooland. This gentleman undertook part, at least, of the cost of
his education, which was completed at St. John’s College, Cambridge.
As to the change of name from Prunty to Brontë, many fantastic stories
have been told. Among them is one which represents the Brontës as
having derived their name from that of the Bronterres, an ancient Irish
family with which they were connected. The connection may possibly have
existed, but there is no doubt upon one point. The incumbent of Haworth
in early life bore the name of Prunty, and it was not until very
shortly before he left Ireland for England that he changed it at the
request of his patron, Mr. Tighe, for the more euphonious appellation
of Brontë.

[Sidenote: His character.]

He appears to have been a strange compound of good and evil. That he
was not without some good is acknowledged by all who knew him. He had
kindly feelings towards most people, and he delighted in the stern
rectitude which distinguished many of his Yorkshire flock. When his
daughter became famous, no one was better pleased at the circumstance
than he was. He cut out of every newspaper every scrap which referred
to her; he was proud of her achievements, proud of her intellect, and
jealous of her reputation. But throughout his whole life there was but
one person with whom he had any real sympathy, and that person was
himself. Passionate, self-willed, vain, habitually cold and distant
in his demeanor towards those of his own household, he exhibited
in a marked degree many of the characteristics which Charlotte
Brontë afterwards sketched in the portrait of the Mr. Helstone of
‘Shirley.’... Among the many stories told of him by his children, there
is one relating to the meek and gentle woman who was his wife....
Somebody had given Mrs. Brontë a very pretty dress, and her husband,
who was as proud as he was self-willed, had taken offence at the gift.
A word to his wife, who lived in habitual dread of her lordly master,
would have secured all he wanted; but in his passionate determination
that she should not wear the obnoxious garment, he deliberately cut it
to pieces, and presented her with the tattered fragments. Even during
his wife’s lifetime he formed the habit of taking his meals alone; he
constantly carried loaded pistols in his pockets, and when excited he
would fire these at the doors of the out-houses, so that the villagers
were quite accustomed to the sound of pistol-shots at any hour of
the day in their pastor’s house. It would be a mistake to suppose
that violence was one of the weapons to which Mr. Brontë habitually
resorted. However stern and peremptory might be his dealings with
his wife (who soon left him to spend the remainder of his life in a
dreary widowhood), his general policy was to secure his end by craft
rather than by force. A profound belief in his own superior wisdom was
conspicuous among his characteristics, and he felt convinced that no
one was too clever to be outwitted by his diplomacy. He had also an
amazing persistency, which led him to pursue any course on which he had
embarked with dogged determination. It happened in later years, when
his strength was failing, and when at last he began to see his daughter
in her true light, that he quarreled with her regarding the character
of one of their friends [Mr. Nicholls]. The daughter, always dutiful
and respectful, found that any effort to stem the torrent of his bitter
and unjust wrath when he spoke of the friend who had offended him, was
attended by consequences which were positively dangerous. The veins of
his forehead swelled, his eyes glared, his voice shook, and she was
fain to submit lest her father’s passion should prove fatal to him.
But when, wounded beyond endurance by his violence and injustice, she
withdrew for a few days from her home, and told her father she would
receive no letters from him in which this friend’s name was mentioned,
the old man’s cunning took the place of passion. He wrote long and
affectionate letters to her on general subjects; but accompanying each
letter was a little slip of paper, which professed to be a note from
Charlotte’s dog, Flossy, to his “much-respected and beloved mistress,”
in which the dog, declaring that he saw “a good deal of human nature
that was hid from those who had the gift of language,” was made to
repeat the attacks upon the obnoxious person which Mr. Brontë dared no
longer to make in his own character.

[Sidenote: Childhood of the Brontës.]

The parson’s children were not allowed to associate with their little
neighbors in the hamlet; their aunt, who came to the parsonage after
their mother’s death, had scarcely more sympathy with them than their
father himself; their only friend was the rough but kindly servant
Tabby, who pitied the bairns without understanding them.... So they
grew up strange, lonely, old-fashioned children, with absolutely no
knowledge of the world outside; so quiet and demure in their habits,
that years afterward, when they had invited some of their Sunday
scholars up to the parsonage, and wished to amuse them, they found
that they had to ask the scholars to teach them how to play--they had
never learned. Carefully secluded from the rest of the world, the
little Brontë children found out fashions of their own in the way of
amusement, and curious fashions they were. While they were still in the
nursery, when the oldest of the family, Maria, was barely nine years
old, and Charlotte, the third, was just six, they had begun to take a
quaint interest in literature and politics. Heaven knows who it was who
first told these wonderful pigmies of the great deeds of a Wellington
or the crimes of a Bonaparte; but at an age when other children are
generally busy with their bricks or their dolls, and when all life’s
interests are confined for them within the walls of a nursery, these
marvellous Brontës were discussing the life of the Great Duke, and
maintaining the Tory cause as ardently as the oldest and sturdiest of
the village politicians in the neighboring inn.

[Sidenote: Effect on Charlotte’s work in later life.]

It may be well to bear in mind the frequency with which the critics
have charged Charlotte Brontë with exaggerating the precocity of
children. What we know of the early days of the Brontës proves that
what would have been exaggeration in any other person was in the case
of Charlotte nothing but a truthful reproduction of her own experiences.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’ New York: Scribner,
Armstrong & Co., 1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Early reading.]

On their father’s shelves were few novels, and few books of poetry.
The clergyman’s study necessarily boasted its works of divinity and
reference; for the children there were only the wild romances of
Southey, the poems of Sir Walter Scott, left by their Cornish mother,
and “some mad Methodist magazines full of miracles and apparitions
and preternatural warnings, ominous dreams and frenzied fanaticism;
and the equally mad letters of Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe ‘from the Dead to
the Living’,” familiar to readers of ‘Shirley.’ To counterbalance all
this romance and terror, the children had their interest in politics
and _Blackwood’s Magazine_, “the most able periodical there is,” says
thirteen-year-old Charlotte. They also saw _John Bull_, “a high Tory,
very violent, the _Leeds Mercury_, _Leeds Intelligencer_, a most
excellent Tory newspaper,” and thus became accomplished fanatics in all
the burning questions of the day.

[Sidenote: Their aunt’s training.]

Miss Branwell took care that the girls should not lack more homely
knowledge. Each took her share in the day’s work, and learned all
details of it as accurately as any German maiden at her cooking school.
Emily took very kindly to even the hardest housework; there she felt
able and necessary.

A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Anecdote of Charlotte.]

There is a touching story of Charlotte at six years old which gives
us some notion of the ideal life led by the forlorn little girl at
this time, when, her two elder sisters having been sent to school,
she found herself living at home, the eldest of the motherless brood.
She had read ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’ and had been fascinated, young
as she was, by that wondrous allegory. Everything in it was to her
true and real; her little heart had gone forth with Christian on his
pilgrimage to the Golden City, her bright young mind had been fixed
by the Bedford tinker’s description of the glories of the Celestial
Place; and she made up her mind that she too would escape from the
City of Destruction, and gain the haven towards which the weary
spirits of every age have turned with eager longing. But where was
this glittering city, with its streets of gold, its gates of pearl,
its walls of precious stones, its stream of life and throne of light?
Poor little girl! The only place which seemed to her to answer Bunyan’s
description of the celestial town was one which she had heard the
servants discussing with enthusiasm in the kitchen, and its name was
Bradford! So to Bradford little Charlotte Brontë, escaping from that
Haworth parsonage which she believed to be a doomed spot, set off one
day in 1822. Ingenious persons may speculate if they please upon the
sore disappointment which awaited her when, like older people, reaching
the place which she had imagined to be heaven, she found that it was
only Bradford. But she never even reached her imaginary Golden City.
When her tender feet had carried her a mile along the road, she came to
a spot where overhanging trees made the highway dark and gloomy; she
imagined that she had come to the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and,
fearing to go forward, was presently discovered by her nurse cowering
by the road side.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte at fifteen.]

[Sidenote: First impressions of a school-mate.]

I first saw her coming out of a covered cart, in very old-fashioned
clothes, and looking very cold and miserable. She was coming to
school at Miss Wooler’s. When she appeared in the school-room, her
dress was changed, but just as old. She looked a little old woman, so
short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking something, and
moving her head from side to side to catch a sight of it. She was very
shy and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book was
given her, she dropped her head over it till her nose nearly touched,
and when she was told to hold her head up, up went the book after it,
still close to her nose, so that it was not possible to help laughing.

---- ----: _Communication_, quoted by MRS. GASKELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

I can well imagine that the grave, serious composure, which, when I
knew her, gave her face the dignity of an old Venetian portrait, was
no acquisition of later years, but dated from that early age when
she found herself in the position of an elder sister to motherless
children. But in a girl only just entered on her teens, such an
expression would be called, (to use a country phrase) “old-fashioned;”
and in 1831 ... we must think of her as a little, set, antiquated
girl, very quiet in manners, and very quaint in dress; for, besides
the influence exerted by her father’s ideas concerning the simplicity
of attire befitting the daughters of a country clergyman, her aunt, on
whom the duty of dressing her nieces principally devolved, had never
been in society since she left Penzance, eight or nine years before,
and the Penzance fashions of that day were still dear to her heart.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Miss Nussey’s account of Charlotte at this period.]

[Sidenote: Combined ignorance and precocity.]

She never seemed to me the unattractive little person others designated
her, but certainly she was at this time anything but _pretty_; even her
good points were lost, her naturally beautiful hair of soft silky-brown
being then dry and frizzy-looking, screwed up in tight curls, showing
features that were all the plainer from her exceeding thinness and
want of complexion; she looked “dried in.” A dark, rusty green stuff
dress of old-fashioned make detracted still more from her appearance;
but let her wear what she might, or do what she would, she had ever
the demeanor of a born gentlewoman; vulgarity was an element that
never won the slightest affinity with her nature. Some of the elder
girls, who had been years at school, thought her ignorant. This was
true in one sense; ignorant she was indeed in the elementary education
which is given in schools, but she far surpassed her most advanced
school-fellows in knowledge of what was passing in the world at large,
and in the literature of her country. She knew a thousand things in
these matters unknown to them.

[Sidenote: Near-sightedness.]

[Sidenote: Her hands.]

Music she wished to acquire, for which she had both ear and taste, but
her near-sightedness caused her to stoop so dreadfully in order to see
her notes that she was dissuaded from persevering in the acquirement,
especially as she had at this time an invincible objection to wearing
glasses. Her very taper fingers, tipped with the most circular nails,
did not seem very suited for instrumental execution; but when wielding
the pen or the pencil, they appeared in the very office they were
created for.

[Sidenote: A vegetarian diet.]

[Sidenote: Conscientiousness.]

Her appetite was of the smallest; for years she had not tasted animal
food; she had the greatest dislike to it; she always had something
specially provided for her at our mid-day repast. Toward the close of
the first half-year she was induced to take, little by little, meat
gravy with vegetables, and in the second half-year she commenced taking
a very small portion of animal food daily. She then grew a little bit
plumper, looked younger and more animated, though she was never what
is called lively at this period. She always seemed to feel that a deep
responsibility rested upon her; that she was an object of expense to
those at home, and that she must use every moment to attain her purpose
for which she was sent to school, _i.e._, to fit herself for governess
life. She had almost too much opportunity for her conscientious
diligence. We were so little restricted in our doings, the industrious
might accomplish the appointed tasks of the day and enjoy a little
leisure, but she chose in many things to do double lessons when not
prevented by class arrangement or a companion.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A hard student.]

She did not play or amuse herself when others did. When her companions
were merry round the fire, or otherwise enjoying themselves during the
twilight, which was always a precious time of relaxation, she would be
kneeling close to the window occupied with her studies, and this would
last so long that she was accused of seeing in the dark.

ELLEN NUSSEY: Article on Charlotte Brontë, _Scribner’s Monthly_, now
_The Century_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Life at home after Charlotte’s return from Miss Wooler’s.]

[Sidenote: Emily on the moors.]

Charlotte staid a year and a half at school, and returned in the
July of 1832 to teach Emily and Anne what she had learned in her
absence--French, English and Drawing was pretty nearly all the
instruction she could give. Happily genius needs no curriculum.
Nevertheless the sisters toiled to extract their utmost boon from
such advantages as came within their range. Every morning from nine
till half-past twelve they worked at their lessons; then they walked
together over the moors, just coming into flower. The moors knew
a different Emily to the quiet girl of fourteen who helped in the
housework and learned her lessons so regularly at home. On the moors
she was gay, frolicsome, almost wild. She would set the others laughing
with her quaint, humorous sallies and genial ways. She was quite at
home there, taking the fledgling birds in her hands so softly that
they were not afraid, and telling stories to them.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Emily’s appearance in girlhood.]

Emily Brontë had ... a lithesome, graceful figure. She was the tallest
person in the house, except her father. Her hair, which was naturally
as beautiful as Charlotte’s, was in the same unbecoming tight curl
and frizz; and there was the same want of complexion. She had very
beautiful eyes--kind, kindling, liquid eyes; but she did not often
look at you; she was too reserved. Their color might be said to be
dark-gray, at other times dark-blue, they varied so. She talked very
little. She and Anne were like twins--inseparable companions, and in
the very closest sympathy, which never had any interruption.

ELLEN NUSSEY: Article on Charlotte Brontë, _Scribner’s Monthly_, now
_The Century_.

       *       *       *       *       *

All through her life her temperament was more than merely peculiar. She
inherited not a little of her father’s eccentricity untempered by her
father’s _savoir faire_. Her aversion to strangers has been already
mentioned. When the curates, who formed the only society of Haworth,
found their way to the parsonage, she avoided them as though they had
brought the pestilence in their train. On the rare occasions when she
went out into the world, she would sit absolutely silent in the company
of those who were unfamiliar to her. So intense was this reserve that
even in her own family, where alone she was at ease, something like
dread was mingled with the affection felt towards her.

[Sidenote: Love of animals.]

Her chief delight was to roam on the moors, followed by her dogs, to
whom she would whistle in masculine fashion. Her heart, indeed, was
given to the dumb creatures of the earth. She never forgave those who
ill-treated them, nor trusted those whom they disliked. One is reminded
of Shelley’s “Sensitive Plant” by some traits of Emily Brontë; like the
lady of the poem, her tenderness and charity could reach even

  “----the poor banished insects, whose intent,
  Although they did ill, was innocent.”

[Sidenote: Personal courage.]

[Sidenote: Love of home.]

One instance of her remarkable personal courage is related in
‘Shirley,’ where she herself is sketched under the character of the
heroine. It is her adventure with the mad dog which bit her at the door
of the parsonage kitchen while she was offering it water. The brave
girl took an iron from the fire, where it chanced to be heating, and
immediately cauterized the wound on her arm, making a broad, deep scar,
which was there until the day of her death. Not until many weeks after
this did she tell her sisters what had happened. Passionately fond
of her home among the hills, and of the rough Yorkshire people among
whom she had been reared, she sickened and pined away when absent from
Haworth. A strange, untamed and untamable character was hers; and none
but her two sisters ever seem to have appreciated her remarkable merits.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Emily in 1833.]

In 1833 Emily was nearly fifteen, a tall, long-armed girl, full grown,
elastic of tread; with a slight figure that looked queenly in her
best dresses, but loose and boyish when she slouched over the moors
whistling to her dogs, and taking long strides over the rough earth. A
tall, thin, loose-jointed girl--not ugly, but with irregular features
and a pallid, thick complexion. Her dark-brown hair was naturally
beautiful, and in later days looked well loosely fastened with a tall
comb at the back of her head; but in 1833 she wore it in an unbecoming
tight curl and frizz. She had very beautiful eyes of hazel color....
She had an aquiline nose, a large expressive, prominent mouth. She
talked little. No grace or style in dress belonged to Emily, but under
her awkward clothes her natural movements had the lithe beauty of
the wild creatures that she loved.... Never was a soul with a more
passionate love of Mother Earth, of every weed and flower, of every
bird, beast and insect that lived. She would have peopled the house
with pets had not Miss Branwell kept her niece’s love of animals in due
subjection. Only one dog was allowed, who was admitted into the parlor
at stated hours, but out of doors Emily made friends with all the
beasts and birds. She would come home carrying in her hands some young
bird or rabbit, and softly talking to it as she came. “Ee, Miss Emily,”
the young servant would say, “one would think the bird could understand
you.” “I am sure it can,” Emily would answer. “Oh, I am sure it can.”

[Sidenote: A dual life.]

Two lives went on side by side in her heart, neither ever mingling with
or interrupting the other. Practical housewife with capable hands,
dreamer of strange horrors: each self was independent of the companion
to which it was linked by day and night. People in those days knew
her but as she seemed--“t’ Vicar’s Emily”--a shy, awkward girl, never
teaching in the Sunday-school like her sisters, never talking with the
villagers like merry Branwell, but very good and hearty in helping the
sick and distressed: not pretty in the village estimation--a “slinky
lass,” no prim, trim little body like pretty Anne, nor with Charlotte
Brontë’s taste in dress; just a clever lass with a spirit of her own.
So the village judged her. At home they loved her with her strong
feelings, untidy frocks, indomitable will and ready contempt for the
commonplace; she was appreciated as a dear and necessary member of the
household. Of Emily’s deeper self, her violent genius, neither friend
nor neighbor dreamed in those days.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The turning-point in Charlotte’s career.]

It was Charlotte’s visit to Brussels, first as pupil and afterwards as
teacher in the school of Madame Héger, which was the turning-point in
her life, which changed its currents, and gave to it a new purpose and
a new meaning. Up to the moment of that visit she had been the simple,
kindly, truthful Yorkshire girl, endowed with strange faculties,
carried away at times by burning impulses, moved often by emotions
the nature of which she could not fathom, but always hemmed in by her
narrow experiences, her limited knowledge of life and the world. Until
she went to Belgium, her sorest troubles had been associated with her
dislike to the society of strangers, her heaviest burden had been
the necessity under which she lay of tasting that “cup of life as it
is mixed for governesses,” which she detested so heartily. Under the
belief that they could qualify themselves to keep a school of their
own if they had once mastered the delicacies of the French and German
languages, she and Emily set off for this sojourn in Brussels.

One may be forgiven for speculating as to her future lot had she
accepted the offer of marriage she received in her early governess
days, and settled down as the faithful wife of a sober English
gentleman. In that case ‘Shirley’ perhaps might have been written,
but ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Villette’ never. She learned much during her two
years’ sojourn in the Belgian capital; but the greatest of all the
lessons she mastered while there was that self-knowledge the taste of
which is so bitter to the mouth, though so wholesome to the life.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The sisters’ life in Brussels.]

The flower-market out of doors, with clove-pinks, tall Mary-lilies, and
delicate _roses d’amour_, filling the quaint mediæval square before the
beautiful old façade of the Hôtel de Ville; Sainte-Gudule, with its
spires and arches; the Montagne de la Cour (almost as steep as Haworth
Street), its windows ablaze at night with jewels; the little, lovely
park, its great elms just coming into leaf, its statues just bursting
from their winter sheaths of straw; the galleries of ancient pictures,
their walls a sober glory of colors, blues, deep as a summer night,
rich reds, brown-golds, most vivid greens. All this should have made an
impression on the two home-keeping girls from Yorkshire; and Charlotte,
indeed, perceived something of its beauty and strangeness. But Emily,
from a bitter sense of exile, from a natural narrowness of spirit,
rebelled against it all as an insult to the memory of her home--she
longed, hopelessly, uselessly, for Haworth. The two Brontës were very
different to the Belgian school-girls in Madame Héger’s Pensionnat.
They were, for one thing, ridiculously old to be at school--twenty-four
and twenty-six--and they seemed to feel their position; their speech
was strained and odd; all the “sceptical, wicked, immoral French
novels, over forty of them, the best substitute for French conversation
to be met with,” which the girls had toiled through with so much
singleness of spirit, had not cured the broadness of their accent
nor the artificial idioms of their Yorkshire French. Monsieur Héger,
indeed, considered that they knew no French at all. Their manners, even
among English people, were stiff and prim; the hearty, vulgar, genial
expansion of their Belgian school-fellows must have made them seem as
lifeless as marionettes. Their dress--Haworth had permitted itself
to wonder at the uncouthness of those amazing leg-of-mutton sleeves
(Emily’s pet whim in and out of fashion), at the ill-cut lankness of
those skirts, clumsy enough on round little Charlotte, but a very
caricature of mediævalism on Emily’s tall, thin, slender figure. They
knew they were not in their element, and kept close together, rarely
speaking. Yet, Monsieur Héger, patiently watching, felt the presence of
a strange power under those uncouth exteriors. It was with the delight
of a botanist discovering a rare plant in his garden, of a politician
detecting a future statesman in his nursery, that he perceived the
unusual faculty which lifted his two English pupils above their
school-fellows.... It was Emily who had the larger share of Monsieur
Héger’s admiration.... He gave her credit for logical powers, for a
capacity for argument unusual in a man, and rare, indeed, in a woman.
She, not Charlotte, was the genius in his eyes, although he complained
that her stubborn will rendered her deaf to all reason, when her own
determination, or her own sense of right, was concerned.

That time in Brussels was wasted upon Emily. The trivial characters
which Charlotte made immortal merely annoyed her. The new impressions
which gave another scope to Charlotte’s vision were nothing to her.
All that was grand, remarkable, passionate, under the surface of
that conventional Pensionnat de Demoiselles, was invisible to Emily.
Notwithstanding her genius she was very hard and narrow. Poor girl,
she was sick for home.... Charlotte’s engrossment in her new life,
her eagerness to please her master, was a contemptible weakness to
the imbittered heart. She would laugh when she found her elder sister
trying to arrange her homely gowns in the French taste, and stalk
silently through the large school-rooms with a fierce satisfaction in
her own ugly sleeves, in the Haworth cut of her skirts. She seldom
spoke a word to any one; only sometimes she would argue with Monsieur
Héger, perhaps secretly glad to have the chance of shocking Charlotte.
If they went out to tea, she would sit still on her chair, answering
“Yes,” and “No;” inert, miserable, with a heart full of tears. When her
work was done she would walk in the Crossbowmen’s ancient garden, under
the trees, leaning on her shorter sister’s arm, pale, silent--a tall,
stooping figure.... Emily did indeed work hard. She was there to work,
and not till she had learned a certain amount would her conscience
permit her to return to Haworth. It was for dear liberty that she
worked. She began German, a favorite study in after years, and of some
purpose, since the style of Hoffman left its impression on the author
of ‘Wuthering Heights.’ She worked hard at music; and in half a year
the stumbling school-girl became a brilliant and proficient musician.
Her playing is said to have been singularly accurate, vivid, and full
of fire. French, too, both in grammar and literature, was a constant
study.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Emily at home during Charlotte’s second sojourn in Brussels.]

Emily was alone in the gray house, save for her secluded father and old
Tabby now over seventy. She was not unhappy. No life could be freer
than her own; it was she that disposed, she too that performed most
of the household work. She always got up first in the morning, and
did the roughest part of the day’s labor before frail old Tabby came
down; since kindness and thought for others were part of the nature
of this unsocial, rugged woman. She did the household ironing and
most of the cookery. She made the bread; and her bread was famous in
Haworth for its lightness and excellence. As she kneaded the dough,
she would glance now and then at an open book propped up before her.
It was her German lesson. But not always did she study out of books;
those who worked with her in that kitchen, young girls called in to
help in stress of business, remember how she would keep a scrap of
paper, a pencil, at her side, and how, when the moment came that she
could pause in her cooking or her ironing, she would jot down some
impatient thought and then resume her work. With these girls she was
always friendly and hearty--“pleasant, sometimes quite jovial, like a
boy,” “so genial and kind, a little masculine,” say my informants; but
of strangers she was exceedingly timid, and if the butcher’s boy or the
baker’s man came to the kitchen door, she would be off like a bird into
the hall or the parlor till she heard their hob-nails clumping down the
path. Not easy getting sight of that rare bird. Therefore, it may be,
the Haworth people thought more of her powers than of those of Anne or
Charlotte, who might be seen at school any Sunday. They say: “A deal of
folk thout her th’ clever’st o’ them a’, hasumiver shoo wur so timid,
shoo cudn’t frame to let it aat.”

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Origin of the three-fold book of Poems.]

[Sidenote: Pseudonyms.]

One day in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume
of verse, in my sister Emily’s handwriting. Of course, I was not
surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse: I looked it
over, and something more than surprise seized me--a deep conviction
that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women
generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and
genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, melancholy,
and elevating. My sister Emily was not a person of a demonstrative
character, nor one, on the recesses of whose mind and feelings, even
those nearest and dearest to her, could, with impunity, intrude
unlicensed: it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had
made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication....
Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own
compositions, intimating that since Emily’s had given me pleasure, I
might like to look at hers. I could not but be a partial judge, yet
I thought that these verses too had a sweet sincere pathos of their
own.... We agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if
possible, get them printed. Averse to personal publicity, we veiled
our own names under those of ‘Currer,’ ‘Ellis,’ and ‘Acton Bell’; the
ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple
at assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not
like to declare ourselves women, because,----without at the time
suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called
“feminine,”--we had a vague impression that authoresses are likely to
be looked on with prejudice.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Biographical Preface to_ ‘Wuthering Heights.’
London, 1850.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Evenings at Haworth novel-writing.]

The sisters retained the old habit, which was begun in their aunt’s
life-time, of putting away their work at nine o’clock, and beginning
their study, pacing up and down their sitting-room. At this time,
they talked over the stories they were engaged upon, and described
their plots. Once or twice a week, each read to the other what she had
written, and heard what they had to say about it. Charlotte told me,
that the remarks made had seldom any effect in inducing her to alter
her work, so possessed was she with the feeling that she had described
reality; but the readings were of great and stirring interest to all,
taking them out of the gnawing pressure of daily-recurring cares,
and setting them in a free place. It was on one of these occasions
that Charlotte determined to make her heroine plain, small, and
unattractive, in defiance of the accepted canon.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s firmness.]

The three tales, ‘Wuthering Heights,’ ‘Agnes Grey,’ and ‘The
Professor,’ had tried their fate in vain together; at length they were
sent forth separately, and for many months with still-continued ill
success. I have mentioned this here, because, among the dispiriting
circumstances connected with her anxious visit to Manchester, Charlotte
told me that her tale came back upon her hands, curtly rejected by
some publisher, on the very day when her father was to submit to
his operation [for cataract]. But she had the heart of Robert Bruce
within her, and failure upon failure daunted her no more than him.
Not only did ‘The Professor’ return again to try his chance among the
London publishers, but she began, in this time of care and depressing
inquietude--in those gray, weary, uniform streets where all faces, save
those of her kind doctor, were strange and untouched with sunlight to
her--there and then, did the brave genius begin ‘Jane Eyre.’

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Immediate success of ‘Jane Eyre.’]

Those who remember that winter [of 1847] know how something like
a ‘Jane Eyre’ fever raged among us. The story which had suddenly
discovered a glory in uncomeliness, a grandeur in overmastering
passion, moulded the fashion of the hour, and “Rochester airs” and
“Jane Eyre graces” became the rage. The book, and its fame and
influence, travelled beyond the seas with a speed which in those days
was marvellous. In sedate New England homes the history of the English
governess was read with an avidity which was not surpassed in London
itself, and within a few months of the publication of the novel it was
famous throughout two continents. No such triumph has been achieved
in our time by any other English author; nor can it be said, upon the
whole, that many triumphs have been better merited. It happened that
this anonymous story, bearing the unmistakable marks of an unpractised
hand, was put before the world at the very moment when another great
masterpiece of fiction was just beginning to gain the ear of the
English public. But at the moment of publication ‘Jane Eyre’ swept
past ‘Vanity Fair’ with a marvellous and impetuous speed which left
Thackeray’s work in the distant background; and its unknown author in a
few weeks gained a wider reputation than that which one of the master
minds of the century had been engaged for long years in building up.
The reaction from this exaggerated fame of course set in, and it was
sharp and severe.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mr. Brontë informed about ‘Jane Eyre.’]

The sisters had kept the knowledge of their literary ventures
from their father, fearing to increase their own anxieties and
disappointment by witnessing his.... 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.... 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 adverse to it.
She informed me that something like the following conversation took
place:

“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 let me read you a review or two, and tell you more about it.”

So she sat 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?”

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s subsequent portrait of Emily.]

Shirley [is] a fancy likeness of Emily Brontë. Emily Brontë, but
under very different conditions. No longer poor, no longer thwarted,
no longer acquainted with misery and menaced by untimely death; not
thus, but as a loving sister would fain have seen her, beautiful,
triumphant, the spoiled child of happy fortune. Yet in these altered
circumstances Shirley keeps her likeness to Charlotte’s hard-working
sister. Under the pathetic finery so lovingly bestowed, under the
borrowed splendors of a thousand a year, a lovely face, an ancestral
manor-house, we recognize our hardy and headstrong heroine, and smile
a little sadly at the inefficacy of this masquerade of grandeur, so
indifferent and unnecessary to her. Through these years we discern the
brilliant heiress to be a person of infinitely inferior importance to
the ill-dressed and over-worked vicar’s daughter.... Shirley is indeed
the exterior Emily, the Emily that was to be met and known thirty-five
years ago, only a little polished, with the angles a little smoothed,
by a sister’s anxious care. The nobler Emily, deeply suffering,
brooding, pitying, creating, is only to be found in a stray word here
and there, a chance memory, a happy answer, gathered from the pages of
her work, and the loving remembrance of her friends. But to know how
Emily Brontë looked, moved, sat and spoke, we still return to Shirley.
A host of corroborating memories start up in turning the pages. Who
but Emily was always accompanied by a “rather large, strong, and
fierce-looking dog, very ugly, being of a breed between a mastiff and a
bull-dog”? It is familiar to us as Una’s lion.

Certainly “Captain Keeldar,” with her cavalier airs, her ready disdain,
her love of independence, does bring back with vivid brilliance the
memory of our old acquaintance, “the Major,”[9]... We know her, too,
by her kindness to her inferiors. A hundred little stories throng our
minds. Unforgotten delicacies made with her own hands for her servant’s
friend, yet remembered visits of Martha’s little cousin to the kitchen,
where Miss Emily would bring in her own chair for the ailing girl;
anecdotes of her early rising through many years to do the hardest
work, because the first servant was too old, and the second too young
to get up so soon; and she, Emily, was so strong. A hundred little
sacrifices, dearer to remember than Shirley’s open purse, awaken in our
hearts and remind us that, after all, Emily was the nobler and more
lovable heroine of the twain.... And Shirley’s love of picturesque and
splendid raiment is not without an echo in our memories. It was Emily
who, shopping in Bradford with Charlotte and her friend, chose a white
stuff patterned with lilac thunder and lightning, to the scarcely
concealed horror of her more sober companions.... She, too, had
Shirley’s taste for the management of business.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “Keeper.”]

The same tawny bull-dog, called “Tartar” in ‘Shirley,’ was “Keeper”
in Haworth parsonage; a gift to Emily. With the gift came a warning.
Keeper was faithful to the depths of his nature as long as he was
with friends; but he who struck him with a stick or whip, roused the
relentless nature of the brute, who flew at his throat forthwith,
and held him there till one or the other was at the point of death.
Now Keeper’s household fault was this: He loved to steal up-stairs,
and stretch his square, tawny limbs on the comfortable beds, covered
over with delicate white counterpanes. But the cleanliness of the
parsonage arrangements was perfect; and this habit of Keeper’s was so
objectionable, that Emily in reply to Tabby’s remonstrances, declared
that, if he was found again transgressing, she herself, in defiance
of warning and his well-known ferocity of nature, would beat him so
severely that he would never offend again. In the gathering dusk of an
autumn evening, Tabby came, half triumphantly, half tremblingly, but in
great wrath, to tell Emily that Keeper was lying on the best bed, in
drowsy voluptuousness. Charlotte saw Emily’s whitening face, and set
mouth, but dared not speak to interfere: no one dared when Emily’s eyes
glowed in that manner out of the paleness of her face, and when her
lips were so compressed into stone. She went up-stairs, and Tabby and
Charlotte stood in the gloomy passage below, full of the dark shadows
of coming night. Down the stairs came Emily, dragging after her the
unwilling Keeper, his hind legs set in a heavy attitude of resistance,
held by the “scaft of his neck,” but growling low and savagely all the
time. The watchers would fain have spoken, but durst not, for fear of
taking off Emily’s attention, and causing her to avert her head for a
moment from the enraged brute. She let him go, planted in a dark corner
at the bottom of the stairs; no time was there to fetch stick or rod,
for fear of the strangling clutch at her throat--her bare clenched
fist struck against his red fierce eyes, before he had time to make
his spring, and in the language of the turf, she “punished him” till
his eyes were swelled up, and the half-blind, stupefied beast was led
to his accustomed lair, to have his swelled head fomented and cared
for by the very Emily herself. The generous dog owed her no grudge; he
loved her dearly ever after; he walked first among the mourners at her
funeral; he slept moaning for nights at the door of her empty room, and
never, so to speak, rejoiced, dog fashion, after her death.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Emily saves Branwell’s life.]

At last [Branwell] grew ill, and would be content to go to bed early,
and lie there half-stupefied with opium and drink. One such night,
their father and Branwell being in bed, the sisters came up-stairs to
sleep. Emily had gone on first into the little passage room where she
still slept, when Charlotte, passing Branwell’s partly-opened door, saw
a strange bright flare inside. “Oh, Emily!” she cried, “the house is on
fire!”

Emily came out, her fingers at her lips. She had remembered her
father’s great horror of fire; it was the one dread of a brave man;
he would have no muslin curtains, no light dresses in his house. She
came out silently and saw the flame; then, very white and determined,
dashed from her room down stairs into the passage, where every night
full pails of water stood. One in each hand she came up-stairs. Anne,
Charlotte, the young servant, shrinking against the wall, huddled
together in amazed horror--Emily went straight on and entered the
blazing room. In a short while the bright light ceased to flare.
Fortunately the flame had not reached the woodwork; drunken Branwell,
turning in his bed, must have upset the light on to his sheets, for
they and the bed were all on fire, and he unconscious in the midst,
when Emily went in, even as Jane Eyre found Mr. Rochester. But it was
no reasonable, thankful human creature with whom Emily had to deal.
After a few long moments, those still standing in the passage saw her
stagger out, white, with singed clothes, half-carrying in her arms,
half-dragging, her besotted brother. She placed him in her bed, and
took away the light; then assuring the hysterical girls that there
could be no further danger, bade them go and rest--but where she slept
herself that night no one remembers now.

A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Emily’s personal resemblance to G. H. Lewes.]

I have seen Lewes.... I could not feel otherwise to him than
half-sadly, half-tenderly--a queer word that last, but I use it
because the aspect of Lewes’s face almost moves me to tears; it is
so wonderfully like Emily--her eyes, her features, the very nose,
the somewhat prominent mouth, the forehead--even, at moments, the
expression.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Letter_, 1850, quoted by Mrs. Gaskell.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Death of Emily Brontë.]

The days drew on towards Christmas; it was already the middle of
December, and still Emily was about the house, able to wait upon
herself, to sew for the others, to take an active share in the duties
of the day. She always fed the dogs herself. One Monday evening, it
must have been about the 14th of December, she rose as usual to give
the creatures their supper. She got up, walking slowly, holding out
in her thin hands an apronful of broken meat and bread. But when she
reached the flagged passage the cold took her; she staggered on the
uneven pavement and fell against the wall. Her sisters, who had been
sadly following her, unseen, came forward much alarmed and begged her
to desist; but, smiling wanly, she went on and gave Floss and Keeper
their last supper from her hands.

The next morning she was worse. Before her waking, her watching sisters
heard the low, unconscious moaning that tells of suffering continued
even in sleep; and they feared for what the coming year might hold in
store. Of the nearness of the end they did not dream. Charlotte had
been out to the moors, searching every glen and hollow for a sprig of
heather, however pale and dry, to take to the moor-loving sister. But
Emily looked on the flower laid on her pillow with indifferent eyes.
She was already estranged and alienated from life.

Nevertheless she persisted in rising, dressing herself alone, and doing
everything for herself. A fire had been lit in the room, and Emily sat
on the hearth to comb her hair. She was thinner than ever now--the
tall, loose-jointed, “slinky” girl--her hair in its plenteous dark
abundance was all of her that was not marked by the branding finger of
death. She sat on the hearth combing her long brown hair. But soon the
comb slipped from her feeble grasp into the cinders. She, the intrepid,
active Emily, watched it burn and smoulder, too weak to lift it.... At
last the servant came in: “Martha,” she said, “my comb’s down there; I
was too weak to stoop and pick it up.”

She finished her dressing, and came very slowly, with dizzy head and
tottering steps, down stairs into the little, bare parlor where Anne
was working and Charlotte writing a letter. Emily took up some work and
tried to sew. Her catching breath, her drawn and altered face, were
ominous of the end. But still a little hope flickered in those sisterly
hearts. “She grows daily weaker,” wrote Charlotte, on that memorable
Tuesday morning; seeing surely no portent that this--this! was to be
the last of the days and the hours of her weakness.

The morning grew on to noon, and Emily grew worse. She could no longer
speak, but--gasping in a husky whisper--she said: “If you will send for
a doctor, I will see him now!” Alas, it was too late. The shortness of
breath and rending pain increased; even Emily could no longer conceal
them. Towards two o’clock her sisters begged her, in an agony, to let
them put her to bed. “No, no,” she cried, tormented with the feverish
restlessness that comes before the last, most quiet peace. She tried to
rise, leaning with one hand upon the sofa. And thus the chord of life
snapped. She was dead.

She was twenty-nine years old.

They buried her, a few days after, under the church pavement; under
the slab of stone where the mother lay, and Maria and Elizabeth and
Branwell.... And though no wind ever rustles over the grave on which no
scented heather springs, nor any bilberry bears its sprigs of greenest
leaves and purple fruit, she will not miss them now; she who wondered
how any could imagine unquiet slumbers for them that sleep in the quiet
earth.

A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte alone on the moors.]

“I am free to walk on the moors; but when I go out there alone,
everything reminds me of the times when others were with me, and
then the moors seem a wilderness, featureless, solitary, saddening.
My sister Emily had a particular love for them, and there is not a
knoll of heath, not a branch of fern, not a young bilberry-leaf,
not a fluttering lark or linnet, but reminds me of her. The distant
prospects were Anne’s delight, and when I look round, she is in the
blue tints, the pale mists, the waves and shadows of the horizon. In
the hill-country silence, their poetry comes by lines and stanzas into
my mind: once I loved it; now I dare not read it.”

CHARLOTTE BRONTË: _Letter_, quoted by Mrs. Gaskell.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wearied out by the vividness of her sorrowful recollections, she sought
relief in long walks on the moors. A friend of hers gives an anecdote
which may well come in here.

[Sidenote: Anecdote of the old woman’s “cofe.”]

“They are mistaken in saying that she was too weak to roam the hills
for the benefit of the air. I do not think any one, certainly not any
woman in this locality, went so much on the moors as she did, when the
weather permitted. Indeed, she was so much in the habit of doing so,
that people, who live quite away on the edge of the common, knew her
perfectly well. I remember on one occasion an old woman saw her at a
little distance, and she called out ‘How! Miss Brontë! Hey yah (have
you) seen aught o’ my cofe (calf)?’ Miss Brontë told her she could
not say, for she did not know it. ‘Well!’ she said, ‘Yah know, it’s
getting up like nah (now), between a cah (cow) and a cofe--what we
call a stirk, yah know, Miss Brontë; will yah turn it this way if yah
happen to see’t, as yah’re going back, Miss Brontë; nah _do_, Miss
Brontë.’”

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s first impression.]

A little lady in a black silk gown, whom I could not see at first for
the dazzle in the room; she came up and shook hands with me at once....
She is (as she calls herself) _undeveloped_, thin, and more than half a
head shorter than I am; soft brown hair, not very dark; eyes (very good
and expressive, looking straight and open at you), of the same color
as her hair; a large mouth; the forehead square, broad, and rather
overhanging. She has a very sweet voice; rather hesitates in choosing
her expressions, but when chosen they seem without an effort admirable,
and just befitting the occasion; there is nothing overstrained, but
perfectly simple.

MRS. GASKELL: _Letter_, published in ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte at home.]

Miss Brontë put me in mind of her own ‘Jane Eyre.’ She looked smaller
than ever, and moved about so quietly and noiselessly, just like a
little bird, as Rochester called her, barring that all birds are
joyous, and that joy can never have entered that house since it was
first built.... There is something touching in the sight of that little
creature entombed in such a place, and moving about herself like a
spirit, especially when you think that the slight still frame encloses
a force of strong fiery life, which nothing has been able to freeze or
extinguish.

_Letter from a Visitor_: Quoted by Mrs. Gaskell.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The Rev. Patrick Brontë.]

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s appearance and manner.]

[Sidenote: Her eyes.]

I knocked at the door, and presently a tall, not uncourtly, but ancient
and venerable man, with a gray head, and the most notable Milesian
features, opened it, and smiling kindly upon me as I told my name,
invited me in; and asking pardon for leaving me alone, vanished into a
room on the right hand of the door, telling me he would ring for his
daughter. The bell had hardly sounded before the door opened, and Miss
Brontë stood before me. I was agreeably disappointed at her appearance.
I had always heard that she was very plain and unprepossessing, with
bashful manners. Instead of this, I found her exceedingly agreeable,
from the first moment of her entrance to the last of the interview,
and, instead of being plain, I thought her uncommonly attractive. She
had the slightest, fairy-like figure, and very small hands and feet.
Her head was superb, and her forehead broad and deep and square,
appearing so more especially in her profile. Her eyes had, for me, a
strange fascination, so weird, mystical, unfathomable they seemed; and
this expression was deepened by a slight obliquity in them. She had
over-worked herself, she said, and was tired, and her eyes were very
weary and painful; all which was evident in her appearance; and I saw
that the light was painful to her, although the room was darkened by
the drawn blinds. She was dressed very simply, but neatly, and with
taste.

GEORGE S. PHILLIPS: ‘Visit to Charlotte Brontë.’ ‘_The Ladies’
Repository_,’ September, 1872.

       *       *       *       *       *

A parcel arrived for me, enclosing a book, and a note which was
examined as few notes ever are. The book was ‘Shirley’; and the note
was from ‘Currer Bell.’ Here it is:

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s first meeting with Harriet Martineau.]

“Currer Bell offers a copy of ‘Shirley’ to Miss Martineau’s acceptance,
in acknowledgment of the pleasure and profit he [she] has derived from
her work. When C. B. first read ‘Deerbrook,’ he tasted a new and keen
pleasure, and experienced a genuine benefit. In his mind, ‘Deerbrook’
ranks with the writings that have really done him good, added to his
stock of ideas, and rectified his views of life.”

“November 7th, 1849.”

       *       *       *       *       *

We examined this note to make out whether it was written by a man or a
woman. The hand was a cramped and nervous one, which might belong to
anybody who had written too much, or was in bad health, or who had been
badly taught. The erased “she” seemed at first to settle the matter;
but somebody suggested that the “she” might refer to me under a form
of sentence which might easily have been changed in the penning. I had
made up my mind, as I had repeatedly said, that a certain passage in
‘Jane Eyre,’ about sewing on brass rings, could have been written only
by a woman or an upholsterer. I now addressed my reply externally to
‘Currer Bell, Esq.’ and began it “Madam.” [A second note from Currer
Bell, expressing a wish to meet Miss Martineau, was answered by an
invitation to tea.]

The footman would certainly announce this mysterious personage by
his or her right name; and, as I could not hear the announcement,
I charged my cousins to take care that I was duly informed of it.
Precisely as the time-piece struck six, a carriage stopped at the door;
and after a minute of suspense, the footman announced “Miss Brogden”;
whereupon my cousin informed me that it was Miss Brontë; for we had
heard the name before, among others, in the way of conjecture. I
thought her the smallest creature I had ever seen (except at a fair)
and her eyes blazed, as it seemed to me. She glanced quickly round;
and my trumpet pointing me out, she held out her hand frankly and
pleasantly. I introduced her, of course, to the family, and then came
a moment which I had not anticipated. When she was seated by me on the
sofa, she cast up at me such a look,--so loving, so appealing,--that,
in connection with her deep mourning dress, and the knowledge that she
was the sole survivor of her family, I could with utmost difficulty
return her smile, or keep my composure. I should have been heartily
glad to cry. We soon got on very well; and she appeared more at ease
that evening than I ever saw her afterwards, except when we were alone.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.,
1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mr. Lewes’ account of Charlotte.]

Lewes was describing Currer Bell to me yesterday as a little, plain,
provincial, sickly-looking old maid. Yet what passion, what fire
in her! Quite as much as in George Sand, only the clothing is less
voluptuous.

GEORGE ELIOT: _Letter_ to Sara Hennell, 1853. ‘George Eliot’s Life as
related in her Letters and Journals,’ arranged and edited by J. W.
Cross. New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Thackeray’s recollection.]

I remember the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great
honest eyes. An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the
woman. Twice I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be
errors in doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She
spoke her mind out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions.... She
formed conclusions that might be wrong, and built up whole theories
of character upon them. New to the London world, she entered it
with an independent, indomitable spirit of her own; and judged of
contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or affectation with
extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with her favorites if
their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal. Often she seemed to
me to be judging the London folk prematurely; but perhaps the city is
rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere little Joan of Arc
marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She
gave me the impression of being a very pure and lofty and high-minded
person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth seemed to be with
her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared to me....

WM. M. THACKERAY: ‘Roundabout Papers.’ London: Smith & Elder, 1863.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s elaborate description.]

She was ... very small in figure--“stunted” was the word she applied
to herself--but as her limbs and head were in just proportion to the
slight, fragile body, no word in ever so slight a degree suggestive
of deformity could properly be applied to her. With soft, thick,
brown hair, and peculiar eyes, of which I find it difficult to give a
description as they appeared to me in her later life. They were large
and well shaped; their color a reddish-brown; but if the iris was
closely examined, it appeared to be composed of a great variety of
tints. The usual expression was of quiet, listening intelligence; but
now and then, on some just occasion for vivid interest or wholesome
indignation, a light would shine out, as if some spiritual lamp had
been kindled which glowed behind those expressive orbs. I never saw
the like in any human creature. As for the rest of her features, they
were plain, large, and ill set; but, unless you began to catalogue
them, you were hardly aware of the fact, for the eyes and power of
the countenance overbalanced every physical defect; the crooked mouth
and the large nose were forgotten, and the whole face arrested the
attention, and presently attracted all those whom she herself would
have cared to attract. Her hands and feet were the smallest I ever
saw; when one of the former was placed in mine, it was like the soft
touch of a bird in the middle of my palm. The delicate long fingers
had a peculiar fineness of sensation, which was one reason why all her
handiwork of whatever kind--writing, sewing, knitting--was so clear in
its minuteness. She was remarkably neat in her whole personal attire;
but she was dainty as to the fit of her shoes and gloves.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A caricature.]

[Sidenote: Redeeming features.]

There is a little caricature sketched by herself lying before me
as I write. In it all the more awkward of her physical points are
ingeniously exaggerated. The prominent forehead bulges out in an
aggressive manner, suggestive of hydrocephalus, the nose, “tip-tilted
like the petal of a flower,” and the mouth are made unnecessarily
large, while the little figure is clumsy and ungainly. But though she
could never pretend to beauty, she had redeeming features, her eyes,
hair, and massive forehead all being attractive points.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s well-known portrait.]

[Sidenote: The engraving.]

Mr. Nicholls asked me to step into the parlor and look at Charlotte’s
portrait. It is the one from which the engraving in the ‘Life’ (Mrs.
Gaskell’s) is made; but the latter does no justice to the picture,
which Mr. Nicholls said was a perfect likeness of the original. I
remarked that the engraving gives to the face, and especially to the
eyes, a weird, sinister and unpleasant expression which did not appear
in the portrait. He said he had observed it, and that nothing could
be more unjust, for Charlotte’s eyes were as soft and affectionate in
their expression as could possibly be conceived.

_Account of an Interview with Mr. Brontë and Mr. Nicholls_, quoted by
T. W. REID.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Personal traits: Miss Martineau’s notes.]

[Sidenote: Slightly morbid.]

Between the appearance of ‘Shirley’ and that of ‘Villette’ she came
to me;--in December, 1850. Our intercourse then confirmed my deep
impression of her integrity, her noble conscientiousness about her
vocation, and her consequent self-reliance in the moral conduct of her
life. I saw at the same time tokens of a morbid condition of mind, in
one or two directions;--much less than might have been expected, or
than would have been seen in almost any one else under circumstances so
unfavorable to health of body and mind as those in which she lived.

[Sidenote: Unspoilable.]

She was not only unspoiled by her sudden and prodigious fame, but
obviously unspoilable. She was somewhat amazed by her fame, but oftener
annoyed; at least when obliged to come out into the world to meet
it, instead of its reaching her in her secluded home in the wilds of
Yorkshire.

[Sidenote: Passionate love of truth.]

“I know,” she wrote, “that you will give me your thoughts upon my book,
[‘Villette’] as frankly as if you spoke to some near relative whose
good you preferred to her gratification. I wince under the pain of
condemnation--like any other weak structure of flesh and blood; but I
love, I honor, I kneel to Truth. Let her smite me on one cheek--good!
the tears may spring to the eyes; but courage! There is the other
side--hit again--hit sharply!” This was the genuine spirit of the
woman. She might be weak for once; but her permanent temper was one of
humility, candor, integrity and conscientiousness.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mrs. Gaskell’s record: Charlotte’s dread of a strange face.]

I had several opportunities of perceiving how this nervousness was
ingrained in her constitution, and how acutely she suffered in striving
to overcome it. One evening we had, among other guests, two sisters
who sang Scottish ballads exquisitely. Miss Brontë had been sitting
quiet and constrained till they began “The Bonnie House of Airlie,”
but the effect of that and “Carlisle Yetts,” which followed, was as
irresistible as the playing of the Piper of Hamelin. The beautiful
clear light came into her eyes; her lips quivered with emotion; she
forgot herself, rose, and crossed the room to the piano, where she
asked eagerly for song after song. The sisters begged her to come and
see them the next morning, when they would sing as long as ever she
liked; and she promised gladly and thankfully. But on reaching the
house her courage failed. We walked some time up and down the street;
she upbraiding herself all the while for folly, and trying to dwell on
the sweet echoes in her memory, rather than on the thoughts of a third
sister who would have to be faced if we went in. But it was of no use;
and dreading lest this struggle with herself might bring on one of her
trying headaches, I entered at last and made the best apology I could
for her non-appearance.

[Sidenote: Superstitiousness.]

There was another circumstance that came to my knowledge at this period
which told secrets about the finely-strung frame. One night I was on
the point of relating some dismal ghost story, just before bed-time.
She shrank from hearing it, and confessed that she was superstitious,
and prone at all times to the involuntary recurrence of any thoughts of
ominous gloom which might have been suggested to her. She said that on
first coming to us she had found a letter on her dressing-table from a
friend in Yorkshire, containing a story which had impressed her vividly
ever since;--that it mingled with her dreams at night, and made her
sleep restless and unrefreshing.

[Sidenote: The Brontës not fond of children.]

Neither Charlotte nor her sisters were naturally fond of children.
The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to them, for
they had never been much with those younger than themselves. I am
inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting
information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of
acquiring it.... The little Brontës had been brought up motherless; and
from knowing nothing of the gaiety and sportiveness of childhood--from
never having experienced caresses or fond attentions themselves--they
were ignorant of the very nature of infancy, or how to call out its
engaging qualities. Children were to them the troublesome necessities
of humanity; they had never been drawn into contact with them in any
other way. Years afterward, when Miss Brontë came to stay with us, she
watched our little girls perpetually; and I could not persuade her
that they were only average specimens of well brought up children. She
was surprised and touched by any sign of thoughtfulness for others, of
kindness to animals, or of unselfishness on their part; and constantly
maintained that she was in the right, and I in the wrong, when we
differed on the point of their unusual excellence.

My youngest little girl ... would steal her little hand into Miss
Brontë’s scarcely larger one, and each took pleasure in this apparently
unobserved caress. Yet once when I told Julia to take and show her the
way to some room in the house, Miss Brontë shrank back: “Do not _bid_
her do anything for me,” she said; “it has been so sweet hitherto to
have her rendering her little attentions _spontaneously_.”

As illustrating her feelings with regard to children, I may give what
she says in [one] of her letters to me:

“Whenever I see Florence and Julia again, I shall feel like a fond but
bashful suitor, who views at a distance the fair personage to whom,
in his clownish awe, he dare not risk a near approach. Such is the
clearest idea I can give you of my feeling towards children I like, but
to whom I am a stranger--and to what children am I not a stranger? They
seem to me little wonders; their talk, their ways, are all matter of
half-admiring, half-puzzled speculation.”

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Manner of composing.]

I remember many little particulars which Miss Brontë gave me, in answer
to my inquiries respecting her mode of composition. She said, that it
was not every day that she could write. Sometimes weeks or even months
elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion
of her story which was already written. Then, some morning, she would
waken up, and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before
her, in distinct vision. When this was the case, all her care was to
discharge her household and filial duties, so as to obtain leisure to
sit down and write out the incidents and consequent thoughts, which
were, in fact, more present to her mind at such times than her actual
life itself. Notwithstanding this “possession,” ... those who survive,
of her daily and household companions, are clear in their testimony,
that never was the claim of any duty, never was the call of another
for help, neglected for an instant. It had been necessary to give
Tabby--now nearly eighty years of age--the assistance of a girl. Tabby
relinquished any of her work with jealous reluctance, and could not
bear to be reminded, though ever so delicately, that the acuteness
of her senses was dulled by age. Among other things, she reserved
to herself the right of peeling the potatoes for dinner; but as she
was growing blind, she often left in those black specks, which we in
the North call the “eyes” of the potato. Miss Brontë was too dainty
a housekeeper to put up with this; yet she could not bear to hurt
the faithful old servant, by bidding the younger maiden go over the
potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby that her work was less effectual
than formerly. Accordingly, she would steal into the kitchen, and
quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables, without Tabby’s being aware,
and breaking off in the full flow of interest and inspiration, in her
writing, carefully cut out the specks in the potatoes, and noiselessly
carry them back to their place. This little proceeding may show how
orderly and fully she accomplished her duties, even at those times when
the possession was upon her.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Handwriting, etc.]

Miss Brontë’s handwriting was exceedingly small, nervous, and poor,
but quite legible. Her first manuscript was a very small square book,
or folding of paper, from which she copied, with extreme care. She was
as much surprised to find that I never copy at all, as I was at her
imposing on herself so much toil which seems to me unnecessary.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s pen-portrait of herself.]

Those who would understand Charlotte, even more than those who would
understand Emily, should study the difference of tenderness between the
touch that drew Shirley Keeldar and the touch that drew Lucy Snowe.
This latter figure, as Mr. Wemyss Reid has observed with indisputable
accuracy of insight, was, doubtless, if never meant to win liking or
made to find favor in the general reader’s eyes, yet none the less
evidently on that account the faithful likeness of Charlotte Brontë,
studied from the life, and painted by her own hand with the sharp
austere precision of a photograph rather than a portrait. But it is
herself with the consolation and support of her genius withdrawn, with
the strength of her spiritual arm immeasurably shortened, the cunning
of her right hand comparatively cancelled; and this it is that makes
the main undertone and ultimate result of the book somewhat mournfuller
even than the literal record of her mournful and glorious life.

A. C. SWINBURNE: ‘A Note on Charlotte Brontë.’ London: Chatto & Windus,
1877.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A chat with Mrs. Gaskell.]

[Sidenote: The parlor at Haworth in Charlotte’s last days.]

We talked over the clear, bright fire; it is a cold country, and the
fires were a pretty warm dancing light all over the house. The parlor
has been evidently refurnished within the last few years, since Miss
Brontë’s success has enabled her to have a little more money to spend.
Everything fits into, and is in harmony with, the idea of a country
parsonage, possessed by people of very moderate means. The prevailing
color of the room is crimson, to make a warm setting for the cold, gray
landscape without. There is her likeness by Richmond, and an engraving
from Laurence’s picture of Thackeray; and two recesses on each side of
the high, narrow, old-fashioned mantel-piece, filled with books--books
given to her, books she has bought, and which tell of her individual
pursuits and tastes; not standard books.

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s weak sight.]

She cannot see well, and does little beside knitting. The way she
weakened her eyesight was this: When she was sixteen or seventeen,
she wanted much to draw, and she copied nimini-pimini copper-plate
engravings out of annuals (“stippling,” don’t the artists call it?);
... till at the end of six months she had produced an exquisitely
faithful copy of the engraving. She wanted to learn to express her
ideas by drawing. After she had tried to draw stories, and not
succeeded, she took the better mode of writing, but in so small a hand
that it is almost impossible to decipher what she wrote at this time.

[Sidenote: Habits of order.]

[Sidenote: Emily “a Titan.”]

[Sidenote: A picture by Branwell.]

I soon observed that her habits of order were such that she could
not go on with the conversation if a chair was out of its place;
everything was arranged with delicate regularity.... I told her of
----’s admiration of ‘Shirley,’ which pleased her, for the character
of ‘Shirley’ was meant for her sister Emily, about whom she is never
tired of talking, nor I of listening. Emily must have been a remnant
of the Titans--great-grand-daughter of the giants who used to inhabit
the earth. One day Miss Brontë brought down a rough, common-looking
oil painting, done by her brother, of herself--a little, rather
prim-looking girl of eighteen--and the two other sisters, girls of
sixteen and fourteen, with cropped hair, and sad, dreamy-looking eyes.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s life-long friendship with Ellen Nussey.]

In the sombre web of Charlotte’s existence there shone one thread
of silver, all the brighter and more blessed for the contrast--it
was the warm, steady, unfailing friendship of her school-fellow “E.”
(Ellen Nussey). “Ma bien aimée, ma précieuse E., mon amie chère et
chérie,” she calls her in one of her earlier letters. “If we had but
a cottage and a competency of our own, I do think we might live and
love on till death, without being dependent on any third person for
happiness.” “What am I compared to you?” she exclaims; “I feel my own
utter worthlessness when I make the comparison. I am a very coarse,
commonplace wretch.” But the affection that overflowed in such loving
extravagance was no passing sentiment. As life deepened and grew more
and more intense--and fuller of pain--for each, the closer became
their attachment, the more constantly Charlotte turned for sympathy
and support to her faithful companion. In her, indeed, she found all
the greater rest and refreshment because of the difference in their
natures. Her individuality colors the Caroline Helstone of ‘Shirley.’

R. W. GILDER, in ‘The Old Cabinet,’ in _Scribner’s Monthly_, now _The
Century_, May, 1871.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s marriage.]

It was fixed that the marriage was to take place on the 29th of June
(1854). Her two friends (Ellen Nussey and Miss Wooler) arrived at
Haworth Parsonage the day before; and the long summer afternoon and
evening were spent by Charlotte in thoughtful arrangements for the
morrow, and for her father’s comfort during her absence from home. When
all was finished--the trunk packed, the morning’s breakfast arranged,
the wedding-dress laid out--just at bed-time, Mr. Brontë announced his
intention of stopping at home while the others went to church. What was
to be done? Who was to give the bride away? There were only to be the
officiating clergyman, the bride and bridegroom, the bridesmaid, and
Miss Wooler present. The prayer-book was referred to; and there it was
seen that the rubric enjoins that the minister shall receive “the woman
from her father’s or friend’s hands,” and that nothing is specified as
to the sex of the “friend.” So Miss Wooler, ever kind in emergency,
volunteered to give her old pupil away.... The news of the wedding had
slipped abroad before the little party came out of church, and many
old humble friends were there, seeing her look “like a snow-drop,” as
they say. Her dress was white embroidered muslin, with a lace mantle,
and white bonnet trimmed with green leaves, which might suggest the
resemblance of the pale wintry flower.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her brief married life.]

There was not much time for literary labors during these happy months
of married life. The wife, new to her duties, was engaged in mastering
them with all the patience, self-suppression, and industry which had
characterized her throughout her life. Her husband was now her first
thought; and he took the time which had formerly been devoted to
reading, study, thought, and writing. But occasionally the pressure she
was forced to put upon herself was very severe. Mr. Nicholls had never
been attracted toward her by her literary fame: with literary effort
he had no sympathy, and upon the whole he would rather that his wife
should lay aside her pen entirely than that she should gain any fresh
triumphs in the world of letters. So she submitted, and with cheerful
courage repressed that “gift” which had been her solace in sorrows deep
and many. Yet once the spell was too strong to be resisted, and she
hastily wrote a few pages of a new story called ‘Emma,’ in which once
more she proposed to deal with her favorite theme--the history of a
friendless girl. One would fain have seen how she would have treated
her subject, now that “the color of her thoughts” had been changed, and
that a happy marriage had introduced her to a new phase of that life
which she had studied so closely and so constantly. But it was not to
be.

T. WEMYSS REID: ‘Charlotte Brontë, a Monograph.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her death.]

[Charlotte had been ill since January, 1855.] About the third week in
March there was a change; a low wandering delirium came on; and in it
she begged constantly for food and even for stimulants. She swallowed
eagerly now; but it was too late. Wakening for an instant from this
stupor of intelligence, she saw her husband’s woe-worn face, and caught
the sound of some murmured words of prayer, that God would spare her.
“Oh!” she whispered forth, “I am not going to die, am I? He will not
separate us, we have been so happy.”

Early on Saturday morning, March 31st, the solemn tolling of Haworth
church-bell spoke forth the fact of her death to the villagers who had
known her from a child, and whose hearts shivered within them as they
thought of the two sitting desolate and alone in the old grey house.

MRS. GASKELL: ‘Life of Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s and Emily’s work contrasted.]

[Emily] tells us what she saw; and what she saw and what she was
incapable of seeing are equally characteristic. All the wildness
of that moorland, all the secrets of those lonely farms, all the
capabilities of the one tragedy of passion and weakness that touched
her solitary life, she divined and appropriated: but not the life of
the village at her feet, not the bustle of the mills, the riots, the
sudden alternation of wealth and poverty, not the incessant rivalry of
church and chapel; and while the West Riding has known the proto-type
of nearly every person and nearly every place in ‘Jane Eyre’ and
‘Shirley,’ not a single character in ‘Wuthering Heights’ ever climbed
the hills round Haworth.

Say that two foreigners have passed though Staffordshire, leaving us
their reports of what they have seen. The first, going by day, will
tell us of the hideous blackness of the country, but yet more, no
doubt, of that awful, patient struggle of man with fire and darkness,
of the grim courage of those unknown lives; and he would see what they
toil for, women with little children in their arms; and he would notice
the blue sky beyond the smoke, doubly precious for such horrible
environment. But the second traveller has journeyed through the night;
neither squalor nor ugliness, neither sky nor children, has he seen,
only a vast stretch of blackness shot through with flaming fires, or
here and there burned to a dull red by heated furnaces; and before
these, strange toilers, half naked, scarcely human, and red in the
leaping flicker and gleam of the fire. The meaning of their work he
could not see, but a fearful and impressive phantasmagoria of flame
and blackness and fiery energies at work in the encompassing night. So
differently did the black country of this world appear to Charlotte,
clear-seeing and compassionate, and to Emily Brontë, a traveller
through the shadows.

A. M. F. ROBINSON: ‘Emily Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Their opposite methods.]

[Sidenote: Charlotte’s studies from the life.]

The habit of direct study from life which has given us, among its
finest and most precious results, these two contrasted figures of
Shirley Keeldar and Lucy Snowe, affords yet another point of contrast
or distinction between the manner and motive of work respectively
perceptible in the design of either sister. Emily Brontë, like William
Blake, would probably have said, or at least would presumably have
felt, that such study after the model was to her impossible--an attempt
but too certain to diminish her imaginative insight and disable her
creative hand; while Charlotte evidently never worked so well as when
painting more or less directly from nature. Almost the only apparent
exception, as far as we--the run of her readers--know, is the wonderful
and incomparable figure of Rochester.... In most cases probably the
design begun by means of the camera was transferred for completion to
the canvas. The likeness of Mr. Helstone to Mr. Brontë, for example,
was thus at once enlarged and subdued, heightened and modified, by the
skilful and noble instinct which kept it always within the gracious and
natural bounds prescribed and maintained by the fine tact of filial
respect.

[Sidenote: The gift of the Brontë sisters.]

The gift of which I would speak is that of a power to make us feel in
every nerve, at every step forward which our imagination is compelled
to take under the guidance of another’s, that thus and not otherwise,
but in all things altogether even as we are told and shown, it was
and it must have been with the human figures set before us in their
action and their suffering; that thus and not otherwise they absolutely
must and would have felt and thought and spoken under the proposed
conditions. It is something for a writer to have achieved if he has
made it worth our fancy’s while to consider by the light of imaginative
reason whether the creatures of his own fancy would in actual fact
and life have done as he has made them do or not; it is something,
and by comparison it is much. But no definite terms of comparison
will suffice to express how much more than this it is to have done
what the youngest of capable readers must feel on first opening ‘Jane
Eyre’ that the writer of its very first pages has shown herself
competent to do.... Even in the best and greatest works of our best
and greatest we do not find this one great good quality so innate, so
immanent as in hers. At most we find the combination of event with
character, the coincidence of action with disposition, the coherence
of consequences with emotions, to be rationally credible and acceptable
to the natural sense of a reasonable faith. We rarely or never feel
that, given the characters, the incidents become inevitable; that
such passion must needs bring forth none other than such action, such
emotions cannot choose but find their only issue in such events. And
certainly we do not feel, what it seems to me the highest triumph of
inspired intelligence and creative instinct to succeed in making us
feel, that the main-spring of all, the central relation of the whole,
“the very pulse of the machine,” has in it this occult inexplicable
force of nature. But when Catherine Earnshaw says to Nelly Dean,
“I _am_ Heathcliff!” and when Jane Eyre answers Edward Rochester’s
question, whether she feels in him the absolute sense of fitness and
correspondence to herself which he feels himself in her, with the words
which close and crown the history of their twin-born spirits--“to the
finest fibre of my nature, sir,”--we feel to the finest fibre of our
own that these are no mere words. On this ground at least it might
for once be not unpardonable to borrow their standing reference or
illustration from the comparative school of critics, ... and say, as
was said on another score of Emily Brontë in particular by Sydney
Dobell, that either sister in this single point “has done no less”
than Shakespeare. As easily might we imagine a change of the mutual
relations between the characters of Shakespeare as a corresponding
revolution or reversal of conditions among theirs.

[Sidenote: Emily a true poet.]

There was a dark unconscious instinct as of primitive nature-worship
in the passionate great genius of Emily Brontë, which found no
corresponding quality in her sister’s.... It is possible that to take
full delight in Emily Brontë’s book one must have something by natural
inheritance of her instinct and something by earliest association of
her love for the same special points of earth--the same lights and
sounds and colors and odors, and sights and shapes of the same fierce
free landscape of tenantless and fenceless moor; but however that may
be, it was assuredly with no less justice of insight and accuracy of
judgment than humility of self-knowledge and fidelity of love that
Charlotte in her day of solitary fame assigned to her dead sister the
crown of poetic honor which she has rightfully disclaimed for herself.
Full of poetic quality as her own work is throughout, that quality
is never condensed or crystallised into the proper and final form of
verse. But the pure note of absolutely right expression for things
inexpressible in full by prose at its highest point of adequacy--the
formal inspiration of sound which at once reveals itself, and which can
fully reveal itself by metrical embodiment alone, in the symphonies and
antiphonies of regular word-music and definite instinctive modulation
of corresponsive tones--this is what Emily had for her birthright as
certainly as Charlotte had it not.... The final expression in verse of
Emily’s passionate and inspired intelligence was to be uttered from
lips already whitened though not yet chilled by the present shadow of
unterrifying death. No last words of poet or hero or sage or saint
were ever worthy of longer or more reverent remembrance than that
appeal which is so far above and beyond a prayer ... at once fiery and
solemn, full alike of resignation and of rapture, as wholly stripped
and cleared and lightened from all burdens and all bandages and all
incrustations of creed as it is utterly pervaded and possessed by the
sublime and irrefutable passion of belief.

A. C. SWINBURNE: ‘A Note on Charlotte Brontë.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: George Eliot on ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Villette.’]

I have read ‘Jane Eyre,’ and shall be glad to know what you admire
in it. All self-sacrifice is good, but one would like it to be in a
somewhat nobler cause than that of a diabolical law which chains a
man soul and body to a putrefying carcass. However, the book _is_
interesting; only I wish the characters would talk a little less like
the heroes and heroines of police reports.

GEORGE ELIOT: _Letter_ to Charles Bray, 1848.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am only just returned to a sense of the real world about me, for I
have been reading ‘Villette,’ a still more wonderful book than ‘Jane
Eyre.’ There is something almost preternatural in its power.

GEORGE ELIOT: _Letter_ to Mrs. Bray, in ‘George Eliot’s Life,’ 1853.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Thackeray on Charlotte Brontë’s works and life.]

Which of her readers has not become her friend? Who that has known her
books has not admired the artist’s noble English, the burning love
of truth, the bravery, the simplicity, the indignation at wrong, the
eager sympathy, the pious love and reverence, the passionate honor, so
to speak, of the woman? What a story is that of that family of poets
in their solitude yonder on the gloomy northern moors!... As one
thinks of that life so noble, so lonely--of that passion for truth--of
those nights and nights of eager study, swarming fancies, invention,
depression, elation, prayer; as one reads the necessarily incomplete,
though most touching and admirable, history of the heart that throbbed
in this one little frame--of this one among the myriads of souls that
have lived and died on this great earth--this great earth?--this little
speck in the infinite universe of God--with what wonder do we think
of to-day, with what awe await to-morrow, when that which is now but
darkly seen shall be clear!

WM. M. THACKERAY: ‘Roundabout Papers.’


FOOTNOTES:

[8] Haworth Churchyard.

[9] A name playfully applied to Emily by her sisters.




                     MARIAN EVANS (LEWES) (CROSS).

                            (GEORGE ELIOT.)

                              1819-1880.




                     MARIAN EVANS (LEWES) (CROSS).

                            (GEORGE ELIOT.)


Mary Ann Evans was born at Arbury Farm, in the parish of Chilvers
Coton, on the 22nd of November, 1819. She was the third and youngest
child of Robert Evans and his second wife Christiana Pearson. In
1820 the family removed to Griff House, on the Arbury estate, where
Mary Ann’s happy childhood was passed. At five years of age she was
sent with her sister to Miss Lathom’s boarding-school at Attleboro;
in her eighth or ninth year, to Miss Wallington’s at Nuneaton, where
Miss Lewis, the principal governess, and “an ardent Evangelical
Churchwoman,” became her intimate friend, exercising great influence
over her. In her thirteenth year she was transferred to the school of
the Miss Franklins at Coventry. In the summer of 1836 Mrs. Evans died;
in the following spring the elder sister, Christiana, was married;
and thenceforward Mary Ann took entire charge of the Griff household,
engaging in various studies and active charities at the same time.
In March, 1841, Mr. Robert Evans and his daughter removed to a house
on the Foleshill road, near Coventry; Griff being given up to Isaac,
the brother, who had recently married. In this new neighborhood Miss
Evans formed the friendship of several congenial people--notably Mr.
and Mrs. Charles Bray, and Miss Sara Hennell, a sister of the latter.
The impressible young woman, who had till now held her eager nature
“buckramed in formalities,” adopted the tone of her friends’ thought
the more rapidly and easily because of the inevitable reaction from
artificial restraints. She became an agnostic--though neither this nor
any other single word fully explains her position.

In the spring of 1844 she took up the translation of Strauss’s ‘Life
of Jesus,’ which had already been begun by Mrs. Charles Hennell. Miss
Evans did not complete the work until April, 1846.

On the 31st of May, 1849, Mr. Robert Evans died, after a long illness.
The Brays persuaded his daughter, who was worn out by anxiety and
hard work, to accompany them in a trip to the Continent. At Geneva,
where they arrived in July, she decided to remain a while, living at
a _pension_, and carrying on various studies. In October she left the
_pension_ to board in the family of M. d’Albert Durade, an artist. He
and his wife became her fast friends; M. Durade painted her portrait,
and subsequently translated some of her works into French.

Miss Evans returned to England in March, 1850, and, after visiting her
brother and sister, made her home at Rosehill with the Brays for more
than a year, with occasional visits to London. At the end of September,
1851, she accepted the position of assistant editor of The Westminster
Review, and went to board with the family of the publisher, Mr.
Chapman, in the Strand. She now became acquainted with Herbert Spencer,
George Henry Lewes, and other leading thinkers and writers. In 1854 was
published her translation of Feuerbach’s ‘Essence of Christianity,’
with her name (now written _Marian_ Evans), on the title-page; this,
Mr. Cross informs us, was the only time her real name ever appeared in
connection with her work.

In July, 1854, Marian Evans consented to become the wife of George
Henry Lewes, though a formal and legal marriage was impossible. They
at once went abroad, where they remained until March, 1855; spending
the greater part of the time at Weimar and Berlin. After their return
to England they lived for over three years in lodgings at Richmond,
both working hard, though the health of neither was good. Mrs. Lewes
contributed at this time to The Leader and The Westminster Review.
She also finished a translation of Spinoza’s ‘Ethics,’ which she had
commenced abroad.

In September, 1856, she began, as an experiment, to write fiction. In
November _The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton_ was forwarded
to the Blackwoods by Mr. Lewes as the work of a friend of his. It was
published in Blackwood’s Magazine early in 1857, and fifty guineas paid
for it. An arrangement was made by which “George Eliot” was to supply
further _Scenes from Clerical Life_. _Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story_ came
next, followed by _Janet’s Repentance_. In December these stories were
issued in a volume by the Blackwoods, and the author received £120 for
the first edition.

ADAM BEDE, her first novel, was published in 1859. She received £800
for the copyright during four years. The book was received with
enthusiasm. It was followed by THE MILL ON THE FLOSS (1860), SILAS
MARNER (1861), ROMOLA (1863), FELIX HOLT (1866), _The Spanish Gypsy_,
a drama (1868), MIDDLEMARCH (1871-2), _Poems_, collected “1874,” DANIEL
DERONDA (1876), and _The Impressions of Theophrastus Such_ (1879). The
short story called _The Lifted Veil_ was published in Blackwood’s,
July, 1859; _Brother Jacob_ appeared in The Cornhill Magazine, July,
1864. ROMOLA also made its appearance in The Cornhill, the publishers
paying for it the sum of £7,000. £5,000 was received from the
Blackwoods for FELIX HOLT; and the profits of MIDDLEMARCH and DANIEL
DERONDA were still greater.

In February, 1859, Mr. and Mrs. Lewes removed to Holly Lodge,
Wandsworth; in December, 1860, to 16 Blandford Square; and in November,
1863, to their permanent home, “The Priory,” 21 North Bank, Regent’s
Park. They purchased in 1876 a country-house at Witley, near Godalming,
Surrey. They were both fond of travelling, and the record of their many
continental journeys is full of interest. It was their custom to leave
town at once as soon as George Eliot had finished a book.

In November, 1878, occurred the death of Mr. Lewes. For some time
George Eliot remained in seclusion, broken down by grief. She edited
Mr. Lewes’ MSS., and established as a memorial the George Henry Lewes
studentship at Cambridge.

In May, 1880, she was married to Mr. John Walter Cross, who had long
been the dear friend of herself and Mr. Lewes. Her marriage created
general surprise. It may best be understood by those who have become
acquainted, through Mr. Cross’s delicate and conscientious work,
‘George Eliot’s Life,’ with the needs of her singularly sensitive
nature.

Mr. and Mrs. Cross immediately left England for the Continent,
returning in July to Witley. Mrs. Cross had a long illness in the
autumn, which left her much weakened. On the 22d of December, 1880, she
died at No. 4 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, having been confined to the house
only four days.

Her husband concludes her biography with the words: “Her spirit joined

        ‘---- that choir invisible
  Whose music is the gladness of the world.’”

Nor can any other words be so fit as these of her own--words wherein
“the precious life-blood of a master spirit” is “embalmed and treasured
up on purpose to a life beyond life.”

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Early home.]

[Sidenote: An anecdote of her childhood.]

The road ascends through a deep cutting overhung by trees which cling
to the rocky bank wherever they can find roothold, while festoons of
ivy catch every ray of sunlight on their glossy leaves. Past the wood,
green fields stretch away on the right of the road; and beyond them,
through the branches of fir, elm, oak and birch-trees, a glint of
red brick tells us we have reached our goal, for there stands Griff
House.... It is a pleasant, substantial house, built of warm red brick,
with old-fashioned, small-paned casement windows. The walls are almost
hidden by creepers, a glorious old pear-tree, roses and jessamine,
and over one end a tangle of luxuriant ivy. Across the smooth green
lawn and its flower-beds an old stone vase covered with golden lichen
made a point of color beneath the silver stems of a great birch-tree.
Outside the light iron fence a group of sheep were bleating below a
gnarled and twisted oak. Behind them rose the rich purple-brown wood we
had come through, and beyond the wood we caught glimpses of far-away
blue distance, swelling uplands and wide-stretching valleys, with
here and there a huge chimney sending up a column of black smoke or
white puff of steam. On the house-roof pigeons were cooing forth their
satisfaction at the sunshine. From the yew-tree close by, a concert of
small chirping voices told that Spring was coming.... Within, the house
is much in the same state as in the days of Mary Ann Evans’s girlhood.
She went for a short time to school at Nuneaton, coming home from
Saturday till Monday; but one week, in spite of her love of learning,
the little maiden’s heart failed her, and when the time came to start
for school she had disappeared. After hours of search, she was at last
discovered hiding under the great four-post mahogany bed, which was
shown us in its original place in the spare room.

ROSE G. KINGSLEY: ‘George Eliot’s County,’ in _The Century_, July, 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her father.]

The father was a remarkable man, and many of the leading traits in his
character are to be found in Adam Bede and in Caleb Garth--although, of
course, neither of these is a portrait.

[Sidenote: Her mother.]

[Sidenote: Not a precocious child.]

[Sidenote: “A large slow-growing nature”: Mr. Cross’s important
characterization.]

His second wife was a woman with an unusual amount of natural force;
a shrewd, practical person, with a considerable dash of the Mrs.
Poyser vein in her. Hers was an affectionate, warm-hearted nature,
and her children, on whom she cast “the benediction of her gaze,” were
thoroughly attached to her. She came of a race of yeomen, and her
social position was, therefore, rather better than her husband’s at the
time of their marriage. Her family are, no doubt, prototypes of the
Dodsons in the “Mill on the Floss.” The little girl very early became
possessed with the idea that she was going to be a personage in the
world; and Mr. Charles Lewes has told me an anecdote which George Eliot
related of herself as characteristic of this period of her childhood.
When she was only four years old she recollected playing on the piano,
of which she did not know one note, in order to impress the servant
with a proper notion of her acquirements and generally distinguished
position. This was the time when the love for her brother grew into the
child’s affections. She used always to be at his heels, insisting on
doing everything he did. She was not, in these baby-days, in the least
precocious in learning. In fact, her half-sister, Mrs. Houghton, who
was some fourteen years her senior, told me that the child learned to
read with some difficulty; but Mr. Isaac Evans says that this was not
from any slowness in apprehension, but because she liked playing so
much better. Mere sharpness, however, was not a characteristic of her
mind. Hers was a large, slow-growing nature; and I think it is, at any
rate, certain that there was nothing of the infant phenomenon about
her. In her moral development she showed, from the earliest years,
the trait that was most marked in her all through life, namely, the
absolute need of some one person who should be all in all to her, and
to whom she should be all in all. Very jealous in her affections, and
easily moved to smiles or tears, she was of a nature capable of the
keenest enjoyment or the keenest suffering, knowing “all the wealth
and all the woe” of a pre-eminently exclusive disposition. She was
affectionate, proud, and sensitive in the highest degree.

The sort of happiness that belongs to this budding-time of life, from
the age of three to five, is apt to impress itself very strongly on the
memory; and it is this period which is referred to in the Brother and
Sister Sonnet, “But were another childhood’s world my share, I would be
born a little sister there.”

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life, as related in her Letters and
Journals.’ New York: Harper & Bros., 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: At the Miss Franklin’s school.]

When she was twelve years old, being then, in the words of a neighbor,
who occasionally called at Griff House, “a queer, three-cornered,
awkward girl,” who sat in corners and shyly watched her elders, she
was placed as boarder with the Misses Franklin at Coventry. This
school, then in high repute throughout the neighborhood, was kept
by two sisters, of whom the younger, Miss Rebecca Franklin, was a
woman of unusual attainments and lady-like culture, although not
without a certain taint of Johnsonian affectation. She seems to have
thoroughly grounded Miss Evans in a sound English education, laying
great stress in particular on the propriety of a precise and careful
manner of speaking and reading. She herself always made a point of
expressing herself in studied sentences.... Miss Evans, in whose family
a broad provincial dialect was spoken, soon acquired Miss Rebecca’s
carefully elaborated speech, and, not content with that, she might
be said to have created a new voice for herself. In later life every
one who knew her was struck by the sweetness of her voice, and the
finished construction of every sentence as it fell from her lips;
for by that time the acquired habit had become second nature, and
blended harmoniously with her entire personality. But in those early
days the artificial effort at perfect propriety of expression was
still perceptible, and produced an impression of affectation, perhaps
reflecting that of her revered instructress.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts
Bros., 1883.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Evangelical influences at school--Miss Lewis.]

At Miss Wallington’s the growing girl soon distinguished herself by an
easy mastery of the usual school-learning of her years, and there, too,
the religious side of her nature was developed to a remarkable degree.
Miss Lewis was an ardent Evangelical Churchwoman, and exerted a strong
influence on her young pupil, whom she found very sympathetically
inclined.

[Sidenote: The Miss Franklins.]

In talking about those early days, my wife impressed on my mind the
debt that she felt she owed to the Miss Franklins for their excellent
instruction, and she had also the very highest respect for their moral
qualities. With her chameleon-like nature she soon adopted their
religious views with intense eagerness and conviction, although she
never formally joined the Baptists or any other communion than the
Church of England. She at once, however, took a foremost place in the
school, and became a leader of prayer-meetings among the girls. In
addition to a sound English education the Miss Franklins managed to
procure for their pupils excellent masters for French, German, and
music; so that, looking to the lights of those times, the means of
obtaining knowledge was very much above the average for girls. Her
teachers, on their side, were very proud of their exceptionally gifted
scholar; and years afterwards, when Miss Evans came with her father
to live in Coventry, they introduced her to one of their friends, not
only as a marvel of mental power, but also as a person “sure to get
something up very soon in the way of clothing-club or other charitable
undertaking.”

[Sidenote: Lonely life at Griff: housekeeper, Lady Bountiful, and
student.]

After Christiana’s marriage the entire charge of the Griff
establishment devolved on Mary Ann, who became a most exemplary
housewife, learned thoroughly everything that had to be done, and,
with her innate desire for perfection, was never satisfied unless her
department was administered in the very best manner that circumstances
permitted. She spent a great deal of time in visiting the poor,
organizing clothing-clubs, and other works of active charity. But over
and above this, as will be seen from the following letters, she was
always prosecuting an active intellectual life of her own. Mr. Brezzi,
a well-known master of modern languages at Coventry, used to come over
to Griff regularly to give her lessons in Italian and German. Mr.
McEwen, also from Coventry, continued her lessons in music, and she
got through a large amount of miscellaneous reading by herself. In the
evening she was always in the habit of playing to her father, who was
very fond of music. But it requires no great effort of the imagination
to conceive that this life, though full of interests of its own, and
the source from whence the future novelist drew the most powerful and
the most touching of her creations, was, as a matter of fact, very
monotonous, very difficult, very discouraging. It could scarcely be
otherwise to a young girl with a full, passionate nature and hungry
intellect, shut up in a farm-house in the remote country. For there
was no sympathetic human soul near with whom to exchange ideas on the
intellectual and spiritual problems that were beginning to agitate her
mind.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Butter and cheese making.]

One of her chief beauties was in her large, finely shaped, feminine
hands--but she once pointed out to a friend at Foleshill that one of
them was broader across than the other, saying, with some pride, that
it was due to the quantity of butter and cheese she had made during her
housekeeping days at Griff.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her narrow views of fiction at this period.]

As to the discipline our minds receive from the perusal of fictions,
I can conceive none that is beneficial but may be attained by that
of history. It is the merit of fictions to come within the orbit
of probability: if unnatural they would no longer please. If it be
said the mind must have relaxation, “Truth is strange--stranger than
fiction.” When a person has exhausted the wonders of truth there
is no other resort than fiction: till then, I cannot imagine how
the adventures of some phantom conjured up by fancy can be more
entertaining than the transactions of real specimens of human nature,
from which we may safely draw inferences.

MARY ANN EVANS: _Letter to Miss Lewis_, 1839, in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Opinions on music.]

We have had an oratorio at Coventry lately, Braham, Phillips, Mrs.
Knyvett, and Mr. Shaw--the last, I think, I shall attend. I am not
fitted to decide on the question of the propriety or lawfulness of
such exhibitions of talent and so forth, because I have no soul for
music. “Happy is he that condemneth not himself in that thing which
he alloweth.” I am a tasteless person, but it would not cost me any
regrets if the only music heard in our land were that of strict
worship, nor can I think that a pleasure that involves the devotion
of all the time and powers of an immortal being to the acquirement
of an expertness in so useless (at least in ninety-nine cases out of
a hundred) an accomplishment, can be quite pure or elevating in its
tendency.

MARY ANN EVANS: _Letter to Miss Lewis_, 1838, in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A significant reaction.]

The above remarks on oratorio are the more surprising because, two
years later, when Miss Evans went to the Birmingham festival, in
September, 1840, previous to her brother’s marriage, she was affected
to an extraordinary degree, so much so that Mrs. Isaac Evans--then
Miss Rawlins--told me that the attention of people sitting near was
attracted by her hysterical sobbing. And in all her later life music
was one of the chiefest delights to her, and especially oratorio.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mr. Bray’s impressions in 1841.]

Although I had known Mary Ann Evans as a child at her father’s house at
Griff, our real acquaintance began in 1841, when after she came with
her father to reside near Coventry, my sister, who lived next door
to her, brought her to call upon us one morning, thinking, amongst
other natural reasons for introducing her, that the influence of this
superior young lady of Evangelical opinions might be beneficial to our
heretical minds. She was then about one-and-twenty, and I can well
recollect her appearance and modest demeanor as she sat down on a low
ottoman by the window, and I had a sort of surprised feeling when she
first spoke, at the measured, highly-cultivated mode of expression, so
different from the usual tones of young persons from the country. We
became friends at once. We soon found that her mind was already turning
toward greater freedom of thought in religious opinion, that she had
even bought for herself Hennell’s ‘Inquiry,’ and there was much mutual
interest between the author and herself in their frequent meeting at
our house.

CHARLES BRAY: ‘Phases of Opinion and Experience During a Long Life.’
London: Longmans & Co., 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Remarkable proportions of Miss Evans’ head.]

Mr. Bray, an enthusiastic believer in phrenology, was so much struck
with the grand proportions of her head that he took Marian Evans to
London to have a cast taken. He thinks that, after that of Napoleon,
her head showed the largest development from brow to ear of any
person’s recorded.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The house in the Foleshill road.]

[Sidenote: Marian’s study.]

[Sidenote: Her bedroom.]

If you go through the quaint old city of Coventry, with its glorious
spires, its huge factories, its narrow, irregular streets of timbered
houses, you reach at last the road leading to the village of Foleshill,
a mile or so outside the limits of the borough. Dirty coal-wharves and
smoke-grimed houses, last remnants of the town, gradually give place to
scattered cottages, dropped here and there among fields and hedge-rows,
smoke-grimed too, but still green in summer. Then on the right comes a
little brook with a pathway through some posts beside it. Three tall
poplars in a garden fence overshadow it; and through the trees behind,
you catch a glimpse of two unpretending brown-stone, semi-detached
houses, regular suburban villas, with the same carriage-drive winding
up among the trees to each, the same grass-lawn with its beds of
evergreens, the same little strips of garden at the back--a mournful
attempt to combine town and country; as uninspiring a spot as one can
well conceive. To the first of these houses in 1841 came Mr. Evans,
when he left Griff; and with him his grave, soft-voiced daughter, Mary
Ann, or, as she now called herself, Marian.... “How often have I seen
that pale, thoughtful face wandering along the path by the little
stream,” said one of her early friends, as we turned into the gate....
Upstairs I was taken into a tiny room over the front door, with a plain
square window. This was George Eliot’s little study. Here to the left
on entering was her desk; and upon a bracket, in the corner between it
and the window, stood an exquisite statuette of Christ, looking towards
her. Here she lived among her books, which covered the walls. Here she
worked with ardor in the new fields of thought which her friendship
with the Brays opened to her.... Out of the study opened her bedroom,
looking over the little villa garden with its carriage-drive under
the shady trees. But three of these trees remain--a weeping lime, a
venerable acacia, with the silvery sheen of a birch between them. In
old days there were many more--so many, indeed, as to render the house
gloomy in the extreme. But they served to shut off all the sight of the
noisy road thirty yards away, though they could not shut off the sound
of the busy coal-wharf farther on, whence foul and cruel words to horse
and fellow-man floated up through the still summer air, and jarred
painfully on that highly strung organization, as Miss Evans sat plunged
in thought and work beside her window. It was one of the penalties of a
nearer approach to the civilization she had so ardently longed for in
her old country life at Griff. From the study you look on the exquisite
spires of Coventry, or through the tree-stems on gently-swelling fields
with their row of hedge-row elms against the sky.

ROSE G. KINGSLEY: ‘George Eliot’s County.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Marian’s appearance and temperament.]

[Sidenote: A sketch by Mrs. Bray.]

[Sidenote: Her voice.]

Though not above the middle height Marian gave people the impression
of being much taller than she really was, her figure, although thin
and slight, being well-poised and not without a certain sturdiness
of make. She was never robust in health, being delicately strung,
and of a highly nervous temperament. In youth the keen excitability
of her nature often made her wayward and hysterical. In fact her
extraordinary intellectual vigor did not exclude the susceptibilities
and weaknesses of a peculiarly feminine organization. There exists a
colored sketch done by Mrs. Bray about this period, which gives one a
glimpse of George Eliot in her girlhood. In those Foleshill days she
had a quantity of soft pale-brown hair worn in ringlets. Her head was
massive, her features powerful and rugged, her mouth large but shapely,
the jaw singularly square for a woman, yet having a certain delicacy
of outline. A neutral tone of coloring did not help to relieve this
general heaviness of structure, the complexion being pale but not
fair. Nevertheless the play of expression and the wonderful mobility
of the mouth, which increased with age, gave a womanly softness to
the countenance in curious contrast with its frame-work. Her eyes, of
a gray-blue, constantly varying in color, striking some as intensely
blue, others as of a pale, washed-out gray, were small and not
beautiful in themselves, but when she grew animated in conversation,
those eyes lit up the whole face, seeming in a manner to transfigure
it. So much was this the case, that a young lady who had once enjoyed
an hour’s conversation with her, came away under its spell with the
impression that she was beautiful, but afterwards, on seeing George
Eliot again when she was not talking, she could hardly believe her to
be the same person. The charm of her nature disclosed itself in her
manner and her voice, the latter recalling that of Dorothea in being
“like the voice of a soul that has once lived in an Æolian harp.” It
was low and deep, vibrating with sympathy.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Conduct on her great change of opinion.]

It was impossible for such a nature as Miss Evans’s, in the enthusiasm
of this first great change, to rest satisfied in compliance with the
old forms, and she was so uneasy in an equivocal position that she
determined to give up going to church. This was an unforgivable offence
in the eyes of her father, who was a Churchman of the old school,
and nearly led to a family rupture. He went so far as to put into an
agent’s hands the lease of the house in the Foleshill road, with the
intention of going to live with his married daughter. Upon this, Miss
Evans made up her mind to go into lodgings at Leamington, and to try to
support herself by teaching.

The conclusion of the matter was that Mr. Evans withdrew his house from
the agent’s hands, and his daughter went to stay at Griff, with Mr. and
Mrs. Isaac Evans.

[Sidenote: Resumes attendance at church.]

[Sidenote: Her subsequent regrets.]

Miss Evans remained for about three weeks at Griff, at the end of which
time, through the intervention of her brother, the Brays, and Miss
Rebecca Franklin, the father was very glad to receive her again, and
she resumed going to church as before.... In the last year of her life
she told me that, although she did not think she had been to blame, few
things had occasioned her more regret than this temporary collision
with her father, which might, she thought, have been avoided with a
little management.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A devoted daughter.]

As her friend said with loving pride, “She was the most devoted
daughter for those nine years that it is possible to imagine.” Her
father always spent three days in the week away from home; and those
three days were Miss Evans’ holidays, given up to her work and her
friends. But on the evenings he was at home, not the most tempting
invitation in the world would induce her to leave him.

[Sidenote: Her housekeeping.]

“If I am to keep my father’s house, I am going to do it thoroughly,”
she would say. And thoroughly she did try to do her duty, even to
the matter of cooking on certain occasions. A friend recalls a visit
one afternoon, when she found Marian in comical distress over her
failures. The cook was ill, and Miss Evans undertook to manufacture a
batter-pudding. “And when it came to table, it broke. To think that the
mistress could not even make a batter-pudding!”

ROSE G. KINGSLEY: ‘George Eliot’s County.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Remarks on her connection with George Henry Lewes.]

Not only was Mr. Lewes’ previous family life irretrievably spoiled, but
his home had been wholly broken up for nearly two years. In forming
a judgment on so momentous a question, it is, above all things,
necessary to understand what was actually undertaken, what was actually
achieved; and, in my opinion, this can best be arrived at, not from any
outside statement or arguments, but by consideration of the whole tenor
of the life which follows.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her own words on the subject.]

One thing I can tell you in few words. Light and easily broken ties are
what I neither desire theoretically nor could live for practically.
Women who are satisfied with such ties do _not_ act as I have done.
That any unworldly, unsuperstitious person who is sufficiently
acquainted with the realities of life can pronounce my relation to Mr.
Lewes immoral, I can only understand by remembering how subtile and
complex are the influences that mould opinion.... From the majority
of persons, of course, we never looked for anything but condemnation.
We are leading no life of self-indulgence, except, indeed, that being
happy in each other, we find everything easy. We are working hard to
provide for others better than we provide for ourselves, and to fulfil
every responsibility that lies upon us. Levity and pride would not be a
sufficient basis for that.

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: _Letter to Mrs. Bray_, 1855, in ‘George Eliot’s
Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

If I live five years longer the positive result of my existence on the
side of truth and goodness will out-weigh the small negative good that
would have consisted in my not doing anything to shock others, and I
can conceive no consequences that will make me repent the past. Do not
misunderstand me, and suppose that I think myself heroic or great in
any way. Far enough from that! Faulty, miserably faulty I am--but least
of all faulty where others most blame.

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: _Letter to Miss Sara Hennell_, 1857, in ‘George
Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: “George Eliot” and George Lewes.]

What a contrast the pair presented! He, _pétillant d’esprit_, as the
French say, as brimful of life, geniality, and animation, as it was
possible for any human being often oppressed with bodily ailments to
be, ever able to shake off these for the sake of lively, engrossing
talk, ever on the alert to discover intellectual qualities in others;
she, grave, pensive, thoughtful, not disinclined for sportiveness and
wit certainly, as ready as he to bring out the best in those around
her, but equally devoid of his habitual gayety and lightheartedness,
as was he of her own earnest mood. There was something irresistibly
winning and attractive about Mr. Lewes. The heart warmed to him at
once, he was so kindly, so ready to offer help or counsel, so pleased
to be of use. George Eliot’s large-hearted, deep-souled benevolence
took in all human kind, but could not so easily individualize. That
commanding spirit, that loyal, much-tried nature, could not be expected
to testify the same catholicity in personal likings as a man, who,
despite his rare intellectual endowments and devotion to especial
fields of learning, yet remained a man of the world.

Charles Lamb speaks somewhere of a woman’s “divine plain face,”
and perhaps the same criticism might be passed on George Eliot. The
plainness vanished as soon as she smiled, and the tone of the voice
was singularly sympathetic and harmonious. As to Mr. Lewes’ looks or
personal appearance, one never thought of the matter at all. Small,
spare, sallow, much bearded, with brilliant eyes, he could neither be
called handsome nor ugly. Delightful he ever was, kindness itself,
always on the look-out to serve and to amuse. For he knew--none
better--the value of a smile.

With George Eliot acquaintance ripened slower into friendship. In spite
of her warm human sympathies and the keenness of her desire to enter
into the feelings of others, her manner at first awed, perhaps even
repelled. It was so much more difficult for her than for Mr. Lewes to
quit her own world of thought and speculation, and enter into that
of the common joys and sorrows and aspirations of humanity. Yet few
delighted more in gathering her friends together. “From my good father
I learned the pleasure of being hospitable,” she once said to me with
a glow of feeling. “He rejoiced ever to receive his friends, and to my
eyes now the pleasure wears the shape of a duty.”

I am not sure as to the precise words she used, but this was the
sentiment.

It is pleasant to record their love of the good and the beautiful in
the least little thing--George Eliot’s rapture at the sight of an
exquisite flower, Mr. Lewes’ delight in a bright happy child; also
the keenness of their sympathy with common joys and sorrows, and the
unbounded kindliness and pitifulness of their nature.

---- ----: ‘A Week with George Eliot.’ _Temple Bar_, February, 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: First attempt at fiction.]

[Sidenote: “A capital title.”]

[Sidenote: ‘Scenes from Clerical Life.’]

[Sidenote: Last chapters of ‘Amos Barton.’]

September, 1856, made a new era in my life, for it was then I began
to write fiction. It had always been a vague dream of mine that some
time or other I might write a novel; and my shadowy conception of what
the novel was to be, varied, of course, from one epoch of my life to
another. But I never went further towards the actual writing of the
novel than an introductory chapter describing a Staffordshire village
and the life of the neighboring farm-houses; and as the years passed on
I lost any hope that I should ever be able to write a novel, just as I
desponded about every thing else in my future life. I always thought
I was deficient in dramatic power, both of construction and dialogue,
but I felt I should be at my ease in the descriptive parts of a novel.
My “introductory chapter” was pure description, though there were good
materials in it for dramatic presentation. It happened to be among the
papers I had with me in Germany, and one evening at Berlin something
led me to read it to George. He was struck with it as a bit of concrete
description, and it suggested to him the possibility of my being able
to write a novel, though he distrusted--indeed, disbelieved in--my
possession of any dramatic power. Still, he began to think that I
might as well try some time what I could do in fiction, and by and by,
when we came back to England, and I had greater success than he ever
expected in other kinds of writing, his impression that it was worth
while to see how far my mental power would go towards the production of
a novel, was strengthened. He began to say very positively, “You must
try and write a story,” and when we were at Tenby he urged me to begin
at once. I deferred it, however, after my usual fashion with work that
does not present itself as an absolute duty. But one morning, as I was
thinking what should be the subject of my first story, my thoughts
merged themselves into a dreamy doze, and I imagined myself writing a
story, of which the title was ‘The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos
Barton.’ I was soon wide awake again and told G. He said, “Oh, what a
capital title!” and from that time I had settled in my mind that this
should be my first story. George used to say, “It may be a failure--it
may be that you are unable to write fiction. Or, perhaps it may be
just good enough to warrant your trying again.” Again, “You may write
a _chef d’œuvre_ at once--there’s no telling.” But his prevalent
impression was, that though I could not write a _poor_ novel, my effort
would want the highest quality of fiction--dramatic presentation....
I did not begin my story till September 22. After I had begun it, as
we were walking in the park, I mentioned to G. that I had thought of
the plan of writing a series of stories, containing sketches drawn
from my own observation of the clergy, and calling them ‘Scenes from
Clerical Life,’ opening with ‘Amos Barton.’ He at once accepted the
notion as a good one--fresh and striking; and about a week afterwards,
when I read him the first part of ‘Amos,’ he had no longer any doubt
about my ability to carry out the plan. The scene at Cross Farm, he
said, satisfied him that I had the very element he had been doubtful
about--it was clear I could write good dialogue. There still remained
the question whether I could command any pathos; and that was to be
decided by the mode in which I treated Milly’s death. One night G. went
to town on purpose to leave me a quiet evening for writing it. I wrote
the chapter from the news brought by the shepherd to Mrs. Hackit, to
the moment when Amos is dragged from the bedside, and I read it to G.
when he came home. We both cried over it, and then he came up to me and
kissed me, saying, “I think your pathos is better than your fun.”

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her pseudonym.]

I may mention that my wife told me the reason she fixed on this name
[George Eliot] was that George was Mr. Lewes’ Christian name, and Eliot
was a good, mouth-filling, easily pronounced word.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Genesis of “Adam Bede.”]

The germ of “Adam Bede” was an anecdote told me by my Methodist Aunt
Samuel (the wife of my father’s younger brother)--an anecdote from
her own experience. We were sitting together one afternoon during
her visit to me at Griff, probably in 1839 or 1840, when it occurred
to her to tell me how she had visited a condemned criminal--a very
ignorant girl, who had murdered her child and refused to confess; how
she had stayed with her praying through the night, and how the poor
creature at last broke out into tears and confessed her crime. My aunt
afterwards went with her in the cart to the place of execution; and
she described to me the great respect with which this ministry of hers
was regarded by the official people about the jail. The story, told by
my aunt with great feeling, affected me deeply, and I never lost the
impression of that afternoon and our talk together; but I believe I
never mentioned it, through all the intervening years, till something
prompted me to tell it to George in December, 1856, when I had begun
to write the “Scenes of Clerical Life.” He remarked that the scene in
the prison would make a fine element in a story; and I afterwards began
to think of blending this and some other recollections of my aunt in
one story, with some points in my father’s early life and character.
The problem of construction that remained was to make the unhappy girl
one of the chief _dramatis personæ_, and connect her with the hero.
At first I thought of making the story one of the series of “Scenes,”
but afterward when several motives had induced me to close these with
“Janet’s Repentance,” I determined on making what we always called in
our conversation “My Aunt’s Story” the subject of a long novel, which I
accordingly began to write on the 22d October, 1857.

[Sidenote: Dinah.]

The character of Dinah grew out of my recollections of my aunt, but
Dinah is not at all like my aunt, who was a very small, black-eyed
woman, and (as I was told, for I never heard her preach) very vehement
in her style of preaching. She had left off preaching when I knew her,
being probably sixty years old, and in delicate health; and she had
become, as my father told me, much more gentle and subdued than she had
been in the days of her active ministry and bodily strength, when she
could not rest without exhorting and remonstrating in season and out of
season. I was very fond of her, and enjoyed the few weeks of her stay
with me greatly. She was loving and kind to me, and I could talk to
her about my inward life, which was closely shut up from those usually
round me. I saw her only twice again, for much shorter periods--once at
her own home at Wirksworth, in Derbyshire, and once at my father’s last
residence, Foleshill.

[Sidenote: Adam.]

The character of Adam and one or two incidents connected with him were
suggested by my father’s early life; but Adam is not my father any
more than Dinah is my aunt. Indeed, there is not a single portrait
in Adam Bede--only the suggestions of experience wrought up into
new combinations. When I began to write it, the only elements I had
determined on, besides the character of Dinah, were the character of
Adam, his relation to Arthur Donnithorne, and the mutual relation to
Hetty--_i. e._, to the girl who commits child-murder--the scene in the
prison being, of course, the climax toward which I worked. Everything
else grew out of the characters and their mutual relations. Dinah’s
ultimate relation to Adam was suggested by George, when I had read to
him the first part of the first volume: he was so delighted with the
presentation of Dinah, and so convinced that the reader’s interest
would centre in her, that he wanted her to be the principal figure at
the last. I accepted the idea at once, and from the end of the third
chapter worked with it constantly in view.

MARIAN EVANS [LEWES]: in ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: ‘The Mill on the Floss’ not strictly autobiographical.]

[Sidenote: Labor of writing ‘Romola.’]

[Sidenote: Her sense of possession.]

[Sidenote: Dorothea and Rosamond.]

We must be careful not to found too much on _suggestions_ of character
in George Eliot’s books; and this must particularly be borne in mind
in the ‘Mill on the Floss.’ No doubt the early part of Maggie’s
portraiture is the best autobiographical representation we can have of
George Eliot’s own feelings in her childhood, and many of the incidents
in the book are based on real experiences of family life, but so mixed
with fictitious elements and situations that it would be absolutely
misleading to trust to it as a true history. The writing of ‘Romola’
ploughed into her more than any of her other books. She told me she
could put her finger on it as marking a well-defined transition in
her life. In her own words, “I began it a young woman--I finished it
an old woman.” She told me that, in all that she considered her best
writing, there was a “not herself,” which took possession of her, and
that she felt her own personality to be merely the instrument through
which this spirit, as it were, was acting. Particularly she dwelt on
this in regard to the scene in ‘Middlemarch’ between Dorothea and
Rosamond, saying that, although she always knew they had, sooner or
later, to come together, she kept the idea resolutely out of her mind
until Dorothea was in Rosamond’s drawing-room. Then, abandoning herself
to the inspiration of the moment, she wrote the whole scene exactly
as it stands, without alteration or erasure, in an intense state of
excitement and agitation, feeling herself entirely possessed by the
feelings of the two women. Of all the characters she had attempted
she found Rosamond’s the most difficult to sustain. With this sense of
“possession” it is easy to imagine what the cost to the author must
have been of writing books, each of which has its tragedy.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her MSS.]

George Eliot was the most careful and accurate among authors. Her
beautifully written manuscript, free from blur or erasure, and with
every letter delicately and distinctly finished, was only the outward
and visible sign of the inward labor which she had taken to work
out her ideas. She never drew any of her facts or impressions from
second-hand; and thus, in spite of the number and variety of her
illustrations, she had rarely much to correct in her proof-sheets. She
had all that love of doing her work well for the work’s sake, which she
makes a prominent characteristic of ‘Adam Bede,’ and ‘Stradivarius.’

---- ----: ‘George Eliot,’ _Blackwood’s Magazine_, February, 1881.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Inscriptions on MSS.]

The manuscript of ‘Adam Bede’ bears the following inscription: “To
my dear husband, George Henry Lewes, I give the MS. of a work which
would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has
conferred on my life.”

The manuscript of ‘The Mill on the Floss’ bears the following
inscription:

“To my beloved husband, George Henry Lewes, I give this MS. of my third
book, written in the sixth year of our life together, at Holly Lodge,
South Field, Wandsworth, and finished 21st March, 1860.”

The manuscript of ‘Romola’ bears the following inscription:

“To the Husband whose perfect love has been the best source of her
insight and strength, this manuscript is given by his devoted wife, the
writer.”

The manuscript of ‘Felix Holt’ bears the following inscription: “From
George Eliot to her dear Husband, this thirteenth year of their united
life, in which the deepening sense of her own imperfectness has the
consolation of their deepening love.”

The manuscript of ‘The Spanish Gypsy’ bears the following inscription:
“To my dear--every day dearer--Husband.”

The manuscript of ‘Middlemarch’ bears the following inscription:

“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes, in this nineteenth year of our
blessed union.”

The manuscript of ‘Daniel Deronda’ bears the following inscription:

“To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes.

  “Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

       *       *       *       *       *

  Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
  With what I most enjoy contented least;
  Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising
  Haply I think on thee--and then my state
  Like to the lark at break of day arising
  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
  For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings,
  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Depression after finishing each book.]

As to the “great novel,” which remains to be written, I must tell you
that I never believe in future books.... Always after finishing a book
I have a period of despair that I can ever again produce anything worth
giving to the world. The responsibility of the writer grows heavier and
heavier--does it not?--as the world grows older and the voices of the
dead more numerous. It is difficult to believe, until the germ of some
new work grows into imperious activity within one, that it is possible
to make a really needed contribution to the poetry of the world--I mean
possible to oneself to do it.

[Sidenote: Attitude towards criticism.]

I hardly ever read anything that is written about myself--indeed, never
unless my husband expressly wishes me to do so by way of exception. I
adopted this rule many years ago as a necessary preservative against
influences that would have ended by nullifying my power of writing....

I hardly think that any critic can have so keen a sense of the
short-comings in my works as that I groan under in the course of
writing them, and I cannot imagine any edification coming to an author
from a sort of reviewing which consists in attributing to him or her
unexpressed opinions, and in imagining circumstances which may be
alleged as petty private motives for the treatment of subjects which
ought to be of general human interest.

GEORGE ELIOT: _Letters_, quoted by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, in ‘Last
Words from George Eliot,’ _Harper’s Magazine_, for March, 1882.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: George Eliot in 1864.]

It was at Villino Trollope, [the Florentine residence of Mr. T.
Adolphus Trollope] that we first saw ... George Eliot. She is a woman
of forty, perhaps, of large frame and fair Saxon coloring. In heaviness
of jaw and height of cheek-bone she greatly resembles a German; nor are
her features unlike those of Wordsworth, judging from his pictures.
The expression of her face is gentle and amiable, while her manner
is particularly timid and retiring. In conversation, Mrs. Lewes is
most entertaining, and her interest in young writers is a trait which
immediately takes captive all persons of this class. We shall not
forget with what kindness and earnestness she addressed a young girl
who had just began to handle a pen, how frankly she related her own
literary experience, and how gently she _suggested_ advice. True genius
is always allied to humility, and in seeing Mrs. Lewes do the work of
a good Samaritan so unobtrusively, we learned to respect the woman as
much as we had ever admired the writer. “For years,” said she to us, “I
wrote reviews because I knew too little of humanity.”

KATE FIELD: ‘English Authors in Florence,’ _The Atlantic Monthly_,
December, 1864.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Mr. Cross’s first impression in 1869.]

I still seem to hear, as I first heard them, the low, earnest, deep,
musical tones of her voice; I still seem to see the fine brows, with
the abundant auburn-brown hair framing them, the long head, broadening
at the back, the gray-blue eyes, constantly changing in expression, but
always with a very loving, almost deprecating look at my mother, the
finely-formed, thin, transparent hands, and a whole _Wesen_ that seemed
in complete harmony with everything one expected to find in the author
of ‘Romola.’

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The Priory.]

[Sidenote: Receptions.]

[Sidenote: Manner of life.]

[Sidenote: Recreations.]

In the course of the year 1865, Mr. and Mrs. Lewes moved from 16
Blandford Square to the Priory, a commodious house in North Bank, St.
John’s Wood, which has come to be intimately associated with the memory
of George Eliot. Here in the pleasant dwelling-rooms decorated by Owen
Jones might be met, at her Sunday afternoon receptions, some of the
most eminent men in literature, art and science. For the rest, her
life flowed on its even tenor, its routine being rigidly regulated.
The morning till lunch time was invariably devoted to writing; in the
afternoon she either went out for a quiet drive of about two hours, or
she took a walk with Lewes in Regent’s Park. There the strange-looking
couple--she with a certain weird, sibylline air, he not unlike some
unkempt Polish refugee of vivacious manners--might be seen, swinging
their arms as they hurried along at a pace as rapid and eager as
their talk. Besides these walks, George Eliot’s chief recreation
consisted in frequenting concerts and picture galleries. To music she
was passionately devoted, hardly ever failing to attend the Saturday
afternoon concerts at St. James’ Hall, besides frequenting various
musical reunions.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: A retired life.]

Perhaps no one filling a large portion of the thoughts of the public in
two hemispheres has ever been so little known to the public at large.
Always in delicate health, always living a student life, caring little
for what is called general society, though taking a genial delight in
that of her chosen friends, she very seldom appeared in public. She
went to the houses of but a few, finding it less fatiguing to see her
friends at home. Those who knew her by sight beyond her own immediate
circle did so from seeing her take her quiet drives in Regent’s Park
and the northern slopes of London, or from her attendance at those
concerts where the best music of the day was to be heard.

C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’ _Harper’s Magazine_, May, 1881.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Visits to the Zoological Gardens.]

[Sidenote: Interest in animals.]

Another favorite resort of George Eliot’s was the Zoölogical Gardens.
She went there a great deal to study the animals, and was particularly
fond of the “poor dear ratel” that used to turn somersaults. In fact
her knowledge of and sympathy with animals was as remarkable as that
which she showed for human nature. Thus she astonished a gentleman
farmer by drawing attention to the fine points of his horses. Her
intimate acquaintance with the dog comes out in a thousand touches in
her novels, and her humorous appreciation of the little pigs led her
to watch them attentively, and to pick out some particular favorite.
In her country rambles, too, she was fond of turning over stones to
inspect the minute insect life teeming in moist, dark places; and she
was as interested as Lewes himself in the creatures, frogs, etc., he
kept for scientific purposes, and which would sometimes, like the frog
in the fairy tale, surprise the household by suddenly making their
entrance into the dining-room. Her liking for the “poor brutes,” as she
called them, had its origin no doubt in the same source of profound
pity which she feels for “the twists and cracks” of imperfect human
beings.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Receptions at the Priory.]

[Sidenote: George Eliot’s conversation.]

When London was full, the little drawing-room in St. John’s Wood was
now and then crowded to overflowing by those who were glad to give
their best of conversation, of information, and sometimes of music,
always to listen with eager attention to whatever their hostess might
say, when all that she said was worth hearing. Without a trace of
pedantry, she led the conversation to some great and lofty strain.
Of herself and her works she never spoke; of the works and thoughts
of others she spoke with reverence, and sometimes even too great
tolerance. But those afternoons had the highest pleasure when London
was empty or the day wet, and only a few friends were present, so that
her conversation assumed a more sustained tone than was possible when
the rooms were full of shifting groups. It was then that, without any
premeditation, her sentences fell as fully formed, as wise, as weighty,
as epigrammatic, as any to be found in her books. Always ready, but
never rapid, her talk was not only good in itself, but it encouraged
the same in others, since she was an excellent listener, and eager to
hear.

C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Appearance.]

One of the images which, on these occasions, recurs oftenest to George
Eliot’s friends, is that of the frail-looking woman who would sit
with her chair drawn close to the fire, and whose winning womanliness
of bearing and manners struck every one who had the privilege of an
introduction to her. Her long, pale face, with its strongly-marked
features, was less rugged in the mature prime of life than in youth,
the inner meanings of her nature having worked themselves more and more
to the surface, the mouth, with its benignant suavity of expression,
especially softening the too prominent under-lip and massive jaw. Her
abundant hair, whose smooth bands made a kind of frame to the face,
was covered by a lace or muslin cap, with lappets of rich point or
Valenciennes lace fastened under her chin. Her gray-blue eyes, under
noticeable eye-lashes, expressed the same acute sensitiveness as her
long, thin, beautifully-shaped hands. She had a pleasant laugh and
smile, her voice being low, distinct, and intensely sympathetic in
quality; it was contralto in singing, but she seldom sang or played
before more than one or two friends.

MATHILDE BLIND: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The entertainment at the Priory was frequently varied by music when
any good performer happened to be present. I think, however, that the
majority of visitors delighted chiefly to come for the chance of a
few words with George Eliot alone. When the drawing-room door opened
a first glance revealed her always in the same low arm-chair on the
left-hand side of the fire. On entering, a visitor’s eye was at once
arrested by the massive head. The abundant hair, streaked with gray
now, was draped with lace, arranged mantilla fashion, coming to a point
at the top of the forehead. If she were engaged in conversation, her
body was usually bent forward with eager, anxious desire to get as
close as possible to the person with whom she talked. She had a great
dislike to raising her voice, and often became so wholly absorbed in
conversation that the announcement of an incoming-visitor sometimes
failed to attract her attention; but the moment the eyes were lifted up
and recognized a friend they smiled a rare welcome--sincere, cordial,
grave; a welcome that was felt to come straight from the heart. Early
in the afternoon, with only one or two guests, the talk was always
genial and delightful. But her talk, I think, was always most enjoyable
_à deux_. Of evening entertainments there were very few. I think,
after 1870, I remember some charming little dinners--never exceeding
six persons; and one notable evening when the Poet Laureate read
aloud ‘Maud,’ ‘The Northern Farmer,’ and parts of other poems. It was
very interesting on this occasion to see the two most widely-known
representatives of contemporary English literature sitting side by side.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: An inward beauty.]

[Sidenote: “A strenuous Demiurge.”]

Everything in her aspect was in keeping with the bent of her soul.
The deeply-lined face, the too-marked and massive features, were
united with an air of delicate refinement, which in one way was the
more impressive because it seemed to proceed so entirely from within.
Nay, the inward beauty would sometimes quite transform the external
harshness; there would be moments when the thin hands that entwined
themselves in their eagerness, the earnest figure that bowed forward
to speak and hear, the deep gaze moving from one face to another
with a grave appeal--all these seemed the transparent symbols that
showed the presence of a wise, benignant soul. But it was the voice
that best revealed her, a voice whose subdued intensity and tremulous
richness seemed to environ her uttered words with the mystery of a
world of feeling that must remain untold.... And then again, when in
moments of more intimate converse some current of emotion would set
strongly through her soul, when she would raise her head in unconscious
absorption and look out into the unseen, her expression was not one to
be soon forgotten. It had not, indeed, the serene felicity of souls to
whose child-like confidence all heaven and earth are fair. Rather it
was the look (if I may use a Platonic phrase) of a strenuous Demiurge,
of a soul on which high tasks are laid, and which finds in their
accomplishment its only imagination of joy.

FREDERICK W. H. MYERS: ‘George Eliot.’ _Century Magazine_, November,
1881.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her personal bearing.]

[Sidenote: Love of laughter.]

[Sidenote: Distinctively feminine qualities.]

In her personal bearing George Eliot was seldom moved by the hurry
which mars all dignity in action. Her commanding brows and deep,
penetrating eyes were seconded by the sweet, restrained, impressive
speech, which claimed something like an awed attention from strangers.
But to those very near to her there was another side of her nature,
scarcely suspected by outside friends and acquaintances. No one could
be more capable of enjoying and of communicating genuine, loving,
hearty, uncontrollable laughter. It was a deep-seated wish, expressed
in the poem of ‘Agatha’--“I would have young things merry.” And I
remember, many years ago, at the time of our first acquaintance, how
deeply it pained her when, in reply to a direct question, I was obliged
to admit that, with all my admiration for her books, I found them, on
the whole, profoundly sad. But sadness was certainly not the note of
her intimate converse. For she had the distinctively feminine qualities
which lend a rhythm to the movement of life. The quick sympathy that
understands without words; the capacity for creating a complete
atmosphere of loving interest; the detachment from outside influences;
the delight in everything worthy--even the smallest thing--for its
own sake; the readiness to receive as well as to give impressions;
the disciplined mental habit which can hold in check and conquer the
natural egoism of a massive, powerful personality; the versatility of
mind; the varied accomplishments--these are characteristics to be found
more highly developed among gifted women than among gifted men.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Type of her face.]

The face was one of a group of four, ... all of the same spiritual
family, and with a curious interdependence of likeness. These four
are Dante, Savonarola, Cardinal Newman and herself.... In the group
of which George Eliot was one, there is the same straight wall of
brow; the droop of the powerful nose; mobile lips, touched with strong
passion kept resolutely under control; a square jaw, which would make
the face stern were it not counteracted by the sweet smile of lips and
eye.

We can hardly hope that posterity will ever know her from likenesses
as those who had the honor of her acquaintance knew her in life. The
two or three portraits that exist, though valuable, give but a very
imperfect presentment. The mere shape of the head would be the despair
of any painter. It was so grand and massive that it would scarcely be
possible to represent it without giving the idea of disproportion to
the frame, of which no one ever thought for a moment when they saw her,
although it was a surprise, when she stood up, to see that, after all,
she was but a little fragile woman who bore this weight of brow and
brain.

C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her appearance described.]

[Sidenote: Conversation.]

... Her face, instead of beauty, possessed a sweet benignity, and
at times flashed into absolute brilliancy. She was older than I had
imagined, for her hair, once fair, was gray, and unmistakable lines
of care and thought were on the low, broad brow.... Dressed in black
velvet, with point lace on her hair, and repeated at throat and wrists,
she made me think at once of Romola and Dorothea Brooke.... She talked
as she wrote; in descriptive passages, with the same sort of humor, and
the same manner of linking events by analogy and inference.

[Sidenote: Her surroundings.]

The walls were covered with pictures. I remember Guido’s Aurora,
Michael Angelo’s prophets, Raphael’s sibyls, while all about were
sketches, landscapes and crayon drawings, gifts from the most famous
living painters, many of whom are friends of the house. A grand piano,
open and covered with music, indicated recent and continual use.

MRS. ANNIE DOWNS: ‘A Visit to George Eliot.’ _The Congregationalist_,
May 28th, 1879.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Account of a visit to George Eliot.]

[Sidenote: Her gracious welcome.]

[Sidenote: Her voice.]

No one who had ever seen her could mistake the large head (her brain
must be heavier than most men’s) covered with a mass of rich auburn
hair. At first I thought her tall; for one could not think that such
a head could rest on an ordinary woman’s shoulders. But, as she rose
up, her figure appeared but of medium height. She received me very
kindly. In seeing, for the first time, one to whom we owed so many
happy hours, it was impossible to feel towards her as a stranger. All
distance was removed by her courtesy. Her manners are very sweet,
because very simple, and free from affectation. To me her welcome
was the more grateful as that of one woman to another. There is a
sort of freemasonry among women, by which they understand at once
those with whom they have any intellectual sympathy. A few words, and
all reserve was gone. “Come, sit by me on this sofa,” she said; and
instantly, seated side by side, we were deep in conversation. It is in
such intimacy that one feels the magnetism of a large mind informed
by a true woman’s heart; then, as the soul shines through the face,
one perceives its intellectual beauty. No portrait can give the full
expression of the eye, any more than of the voice. Looking into that
clear, calm eye, one sees a transparent nature, a soul of goodness and
truth, an impression which is deepened as you listen to her soft and
gentle tones. A low voice is said to be an excellent thing in woman.
It is a special charm of the most finely-cultured English ladies. But
never did a sweeter voice fascinate a listener--so soft and low, that
one must almost bend to hear.

[Sidenote: Conversation.]

[Sidenote: Tact.]

[Sidenote: Earnestness.]

... I should do her great injustice, if I gave the impression that
there was in her conversation any attempt at display. There is no wish
to “shine.” She is above that affectation of brilliancy which is often
mere flippancy. Nor does she seek to attract homage and admiration. On
the contrary, she is very averse to speak of herself, or even to hear
the heart-felt praise of others. She does not engross the conversation,
but is more eager to listen than to talk. She has that delicate
tact--which is one of the fine arts among women--to make others talk,
suggesting topics the most rich and fruitful, and by a word drawing
the conversation into a channel where it may flow with a broad, free
current. Thus she makes you forget the celebrated author, and think
only of the refined and highly-cultivated woman. You do not feel awed
by her genius, but only quickened by it, as something that calls out
all that is better and truer. While there is no attempt to impress you
with her intellectual superiority, you feel naturally elevated into a
higher sphere. The conversation of itself floats upward into a region
above the commonplace. The small-talk of ordinary society would seem an
impertinence. There is a singular earnestness about her, as if those
mild eyes looked deep into the great, sad, awful truths of existence.
To her, life is a serious reality, and the gift of genius a grave
responsibility.

MRS. HENRY M. FIELD: ‘Home Sketches in France, and other Papers.’ New
York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1875.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The character of Casaubon.]

[Sidenote: A confession.]

Mr. Lewes and she were one day good-humoredly recounting the mistaken
effusiveness of a too-sympathizing friend, who insisted on assuming
that Mr. Casaubon was a portrait of Mr. Lewes, and on condoling
with the sad experience which had taught the gifted authoress of
‘Middlemarch’ to depict that gloomy man. And there was indeed something
ludicrous in the contrast between the dreary pedant of the novel and
the gay self-content of the living _savant_ who stood acting his vivid
anecdotes before our eyes. “But from whom, then,” said a friend,
turning to Mrs. Lewes, “did you draw Casaubon?” With a humorous
solemnity, which was quite in earnest, nevertheless, she pointed to her
own heart. She went on to say--and this we could well believe--that
there was one character, that of Rosamond Vincy, which she had
found it hard to sustain; such complacency of egoism being alien to
her own habits of mind. But she laid no claim to any such natural
magnanimity as could avert Casaubon’s temptations of jealous vanity,
of bitter resentment. No trace of these faults was ever manifest in
her conversation. But much of her moral weight was derived from the
impression which her friends received that she had not been by any
means without her full share of faulty tendencies to begin with, but
that she had upbuilt with strenuous pains a resolute virtue--what Plato
calls _an iron sense of truth and right_--to which others also, however
faulty, by effort might attain.

F. W. H. MYERS: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Anecdote of her parting with Tennyson.]

She never tired of the lovely scenery about Witley, and the great
expanse of view obtainable from the tops of the many hills. It was
on one of her drives in that neighborhood that a characteristic
conversation took place between her and one of the greatest English
poets, whom she met as he was taking a walk. Even that short interval
enabled them to get into somewhat deep conversation on evolution; and
as the poet afterward related it to a companion on the same spot, he
said, “Here was where I said good-bye to George Eliot; and as she went
down the hill, I said, ‘Well, good-bye, you and your molecules,’ and
she said to me, ‘I am quite content with my molecules.’” A trifling
anecdote, perhaps, but to those who will read between the lines, not
other than characteristic of both speakers.

C. KEGAN PAUL: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: George Eliot’s reading aloud.]

We generally began our reading at Witley with some chapters of the
Bible, which was a very precious and sacred book to her, not only
from early associations, but also from the profound conviction of
its importance in the development of the religious life of man. She
particularly enjoyed reading aloud some of the finest chapters of
Isaiah, Jeremiah, and St. Paul’s Epistles. With a naturally rich,
deep voice, rendered completely flexible by constant practice; with
the keenest perception of the requirements of emphasis, and with the
most subtile modulations of tone, her reading threw a glamour over
indifferent writing, and gave to the greatest writings fresh meanings
and beauty. The Bible and our elder English poets best suited the
organ-like tones of her voice, which required, for their full effect,
a certain solemnity and majesty of rhythm. Her reading of Milton was
especially fine; and I shall never forget four great lines of the
‘Samson Agonistes’ to which it did perfect justice--

  “But what more oft in nations grown corrupt,
  And by their vices brought to servitude,
  Than to love bondage more than liberty,
  Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty.”

The delighted conviction of justice in the thought--the sense of
perfect accord between thought, language, and rhythm--stimulated the
voice of the reader to find the exactly right tone. Such reading
requires for its perfection a rare union of intellectual, moral,
and physical qualities. It cannot be imitated. It is an art, like
singing--a personal possession that dies with the possessor, and leaves
nothing behind except a memory.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Intense mental vitality.]

Nothing was more remarkable in the last period of her life than her
intense mental vitality, which failing health did not seem in the least
to impair. She possessed in an eminent degree that power which has led
to success in so many directions--which is ascribed both to Newton and
to Napoleon--of keeping her mind unceasingly at the stretch without
conscious fatigue. She would cease to read or to ponder when other
duties called her, but never (as it seemed) because she herself felt
tired. Even in so complex an effort as a visit to a picture-gallery
implies, she could continue for hours at the same pitch of earnest
interest, and outweary strong men.

F. W. H. MYERS: ‘George Eliot.’

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Her great stores of reading.]

Her memory held securely her great stores of reading. Even of light
books her recollections were always crisp, definite, and vivid. On
our way home from Venice, after my illness, we were reading French
novels of Cherbuliez, Alphonse Daudet, Gustave Droz, George Sand.
Most of these books she had read years before, and I was astonished
to find what clear-cut, accurate impressions had been retained, not
only of all the principal characters, but also of all the subsidiary
personages--even their names were generally remembered. But, on the
other hand, her verbal memory was not always to be depended on. She
never could trust herself to write a quotation without verifying it.

[Sidenote: Wide culture: languages.]

[Sidenote: Mathematics.]

In foreign languages George Eliot had an experience more unusual among
women than among men. With a complete literary and scholarly knowledge
of French, German, Italian, and Spanish, she _spoke_ all four languages
with difficulty, though accurately and grammatically; but the mimetic
power of catching intonation and accent was wanting. Greek and Latin
she could read with thorough delight to herself; and Hebrew was a
favorite study to the end of her life. In her younger days, especially
at Geneva, inspired by Professor de la Rive’s lectures, she had been
greatly interested in mathematical studies. At one time she applied
herself heartily and with keen enjoyment to geometry, and she thought
that she might have attained to some excellence in that branch if
she had been able to pursue it. In later days the map of the heavens
lay constantly on her table at Witley, and she longed for deeper
astronomical knowledge. She had a passion for the stars; and one of the
things to which we looked forward on returning to London was a possible
visit to Greenwich Observatory, as she had never looked through a great
telescope of the first-class.

[Sidenote: Botany.]

Her knowledge of wild-flowers gave a fresh interest each day to our
walks in the Surrey lanes, as every hedgerow is full of wonders--to
“those who know;” but she would, I think, have disclaimed for herself
real botanical knowledge, except of an elementary sort.

[Sidenote: Self-distrust.]

This wide and varied culture was accompanied with an unaffected
distrust of her own knowledge, with the sense of how little she really
knew, compared with what it was possible for her to have known, in the
world. Her standard was always abnormally high--it was the standard of
an expert.

[Sidenote: A religious mind.]

Her many-sidedness makes it exceedingly difficult to ascertain, either
from her books or from the closest personal intimacy, what her exact
relation was to any existing religious creed or to any political
party. Yet George Eliot’s was emphatically a religious mind. My
own impression is that her whole soul was so imbued with, and her
imagination was so fired by, the scientific spirit of the age--by
the constant rapid development of ideas in the Western world--that
she could not conceive that there was, as yet, any religious formula
sufficient, nor any known political system likely to be final. She had
great hope for the future, in the improvement of human nature by the
gradual development of the affections and the sympathetic emotions, and
“by the slow, stupendous teaching of the world’s events,” rather than
by means of legislative enactments.

[Sidenote: Views on the status of women.]

She was keenly anxious to redress injustices to women, and to raise
their general status in the community. This, she thought, could be best
effected by women improving their work--ceasing to be amateurs. But it
was one of the most distinctly marked traits in her character that she
particularly disliked everything generally associated with the idea of
a “masculine woman.” She was, and as a woman she wished to be, above
all things, feminine--“so delicate with her needle, and an admirable
musician.”

[Sidenote: Interest in higher education.]

[Sidenote: The end of all life.]

George Eliot was deeply interested in the higher education of women,
... and was among the earliest contributors to Girton College.... The
danger she was alive to in the system of collegiate education was
the possible weakening of the bonds of family affection and family
duties. In her view, the family life holds the roots of all that
is best in our mortal lot; and she always felt that it is far too
ruthlessly sacrificed in the case of English _men_ by their public
school and university education, and that much more is such a result
to be deprecated in the case of women. But, the absolute good being
unattainable in our mixed condition of things, those women especially
who are obliged to earn their own living must do their best with the
opportunities at their command, as “they cannot live with posterity,”
when a more perfect system may prevail. Therefore, George Eliot wished
Godspeed to the women’s colleges. It was often in her mind and on her
lips that the only worthy end of all learning, of all science, of all
life, in fact, is, that human beings should love one another better.
Culture merely for culture’s sake can never be anything but a sapless
root, capable of producing at best a shrivelled branch.

[Sidenote: A meliorist.]

In her general attitude toward life George Eliot was neither optimist
nor pessimist. She held to the middle term, which she invented for
herself, of “meliorist.” She was cheered by the hope and by the belief
in gradual improvement of the mass; for in her view each individual
must find the better part of happiness in helping another. She often
thought it wisest not to raise too ambitious an ideal, especially
for young people, but to impress on ordinary natures the immense
possibilities of making a small home circle brighter and better. Few
are born to do the great work of the world, but all are born to this.
And to the natures capable of the larger effort the field of usefulness
will constantly widen.

J. W. CROSS: ‘George Eliot’s Life.’




                   LIST OF WORKS QUOTED IN VOL. II.


ARNOLD.--Mixed Essays, by Matthew Arnold. New York: Macmillan & Co.,
1883. (Quoted on George Sand.)

_Atlantic Monthly._--Anonymous Article on Mrs. Browning, September,
1881. English Authors in Florence, by Kate Field, December, 1864.
(Quoted on George Eliot.)

_Blackwood’s Magazine._--Article on George Eliot, February, 1881.

BLIND.--George Eliot, by Mathilde Blind (Famous Women Series). Boston:
Roberts Bros., 1883.

BRAY.--Phases of Opinion and Experience during a Long Life, by Charles
Bray. London: Longmans & Co., 1885. (Quoted on George Eliot.)

BRONTË.--Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë, with biographical preface
by Charlotte Brontë. London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1850. (Quoted on Emily
Brontë.)

BROWNING.--Letters to R. H. Horne, by E. B. Browning; with prefatory
memoir by R. H. Stoddard. New York: James Miller, 1877. (Quoted also
for H. Martineau and George Sand.)

----.--Last Poems, with memorial preface, by Theodore Tilton. New York:
James Miller, 1862.

_Century Magazine._--George Eliot, by F. W. H. Myers, November, 1881;
George Eliot’s County, by Rose G. Kingsley, July, 1885; Zweibak, or
Notes of a Professional Exile, February, 1886. (Quoted on Geo. Eliot
and H. Martineau.)

CHORLEY.--Autobiography, Memoir and Letters, by Henry F. Chorley.
London: Bentley, 1873. (Quoted on E. B. Browning.)

_Congregationalist._--A Visit to George Eliot, by Mrs. Annie Downs, May
28th, 1879.

COLERIDGE.--Memoir and Letters, by Sara Coleridge, edited by her
daughter. New York: Harper & Bros., 1874. (Quoted on E. B. Browning.)

Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1834-1872.
Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1883. (Quoted on Harriet Martineau and
Margaret Fuller.)

The same.--Supplementary Letters. Boston: Ticknor & Co., 1886.

CROSS.--George Eliot’s Life, by J. W. Cross. New York: Harper & Bros.,
1885. (Quoted also for H. Martineau, Charlotte Brontë and E. B.
Browning.)

EMERSON, R. W., CHANNING, W. H., and CLARKE, J. F.--Memoirs of Margaret
Fuller Ossoli. Boston: Roberts Bros., 1874. (Quoted also for George
Sand.)

FIELD.--Home Sketches in France, etc., by Mrs. H. M. Field. New York:
G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1875. (Quoted on George Eliot.)

FORSTER.--Walter Savage Landor, a Biography, by John Forster. Boston:
Fields, Osgood & Co., 1869. (Quoted on E. B. Browning.)

FOX.--Memoirs of Old Friends, by Caroline Fox. Philadelphia: J. B.
Lippincott & Co., 1882. (Quoted on H. Martineau.)

FROUDE.--Thomas Carlyle: a History of his Life in London, by J.
A. Froude. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1884. (Quoted on H.
Martineau and Margaret Fuller.)

----.--Editor, Letters and Memorials of Jane Welsh Carlyle. New York:
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1883. (Quoted on H. Martineau.)

GASKELL.--Life of Charlotte Brontë, by Elizabeth C. Gaskell. London:
Smith, Elder & Co., 1857. (Quoted also on H. Martineau and George Sand.)

HALL.--Retrospect of a Long Life, by S. C. Hall. New York: D. Appleton
& Co., 1883. (Quoted on H. Martineau.)

_Harper’s Magazine._--Article on the English Lakes, by Moncure D.
Conway, January, 1881. (Quoted on H. Martineau.) George Eliot, by C.
Kegan Paul, May, 1881. Last Words from George Eliot, by Elizabeth
Stuart Phelps, March, 1882. Remarks on Margaret Fuller, by G. W.
Curtis, in Easy Chair, March, 1882.

HAWTHORNE.--Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife: a Biography, by Julian
Hawthorne. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1885. (Quoted on Harriet
Martineau and Margaret Fuller.)

HAWTHORNE.--Passages from the English Note-books of Nathaniel
Hawthorne. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1873. (Quoted on Harriet
Martineau and Mrs. Browning.)

----.--Passages from the French and Italian Note-books of Nathaniel
Hawthorne. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1872. (Quoted on Mrs.
Browning.)

HILLARD.--Six Months in Italy, by George S. Hillard. Boston: James R.
Osgood & Co., 1871. (Quoted on Mrs. Browning.)

HOWE.--Margaret Fuller, by Julia Ward Howe. (Famous Women Series.)
Boston: Roberts Bros., 1883.

HUNT.--Correspondence of Leigh Hunt, edited by his son. London: Smith,
Elder & Co., 1862. (Quoted on Mrs. Browning.)

KEMBLE.--Records of Later Life, by Frances Ann Kemble. New York: Henry
Holt & Co., 1882. (Quoted on Harriet Martineau.)

_Lady’s Repository._--A Visit to Charlotte Brontë, by George S.
Phillips, September, 1872. New York: Nelson & Phillips.

MACREADY.--Reminiscences and Selections from his Diaries and Letters,
by W. C. Macready. Edited by Sir F. Pollock, Bart. New York: Macmillan
& Co., 1875. (Quoted on Harriet Martineau.)

MARTINEAU.--Autobiography of Harriet Martineau, with Memorial by Maria
Weston Chapman. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1887. (Quoted also on
Charlotte Brontë, Margaret Fuller and Mrs. Browning.)

MITFORD.--Recollections of a Literary Life, by Mary Russell Mitford.
New York: Harper & Bros., 1852. (Quoted on Mrs. Browning.)

MILLER.--Harriet Martineau, by Mrs. Fenwick Miller. (Famous Women
Series.) Boston: Roberts Bros., 1885.

PAYN.--Some Literary Recollections, by James Payn. New York: Harper &
Bros., 1884. (Quoted on Harriet Martineau.)

_Record of the Year._--(New York: G. W. Carleton.) September, 1876.
Selection from Paul Vevay on George Sand.

REID.--Charlotte Brontë, A Monograph, by T. Wemyss Reid. New York:
Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 1877.

ROBINSON.--Emily Brontë, by A. Mary F. Robinson. (Famous Women Series.)
Boston: Robert Bros., 1883.

_Scribner’s Monthly._--Charlotte Brontë, by Ellen Nussey; also Note in
The Old Cabinet, by R. W. Gilder, 1871.

SWINBURNE.--A Note on Charlotte Brontë, by A. C. Swinburne. London:
Chatto & Windus, 1877.

STEDMAN.--Victorian Poets, by E. C. Stedman. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin
& Co., 1881. (Quoted on Mrs. Browning.)

TAYLOR.--At Home and Abroad, by Bayard Taylor. (Second Series.) New
York: G. P. Putnam, 1862.

_Temple Bar._--A Week with George Eliot, February, 1885. George Sand,
April, 1885.

THACKERAY.--Roundabout Papers, by William M. Thackeray. London: Chatto
& Windus, 1863. (Quoted on Charlotte Brontë.)

THOMAS.--George Sand, by Bertha Thomas. (Famous Women Series.) Boston:
Roberts Bros., 1883.

WHITTIER.--Complete Poems, by John G. Whittier. Boston: J. R. Osgood &
Co., 1873.




                          Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation errors have been corrected.

A couple of instances of repeated words were fixed.

Page 26: An inconsistency in reference to Martineau’s lower lip was
corrected.

Page 51: “Wherepon the wicked lord” changed to “Whereupon the wicked
lord”

Page 95: “of his own fireside” changed to “of her own fireside”

Page 97: “Rihard Hengist Horne” changed to “Richard Hengist Horne”

Page 118: “Portugese Sonnets” changed to “Portuguese Sonnets”

Page 200: “haze, color” changed to “hazel color”

Page 206: “No easy getting sight” changed to “Not easy getting sight”

Page 220: “which as evident” changed to “which was evident”

Page 224: “just occacasion” changed to “just occasion”

Page 246: “aud subsequently translated” changed to “and subsequently
translated”