in. A MONOGRAPH. 611 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. A MONOGRAPH. X. discovery by Bond, at which time it was most favourably placed for observation, it was observed that the outline of the planet could be seen across the entire breadth of the dark ring. All the observations agreed in this respect. It was, indeed, noticed in the life of Charlotte Brontë was ushered WITH the autumn of 1851 another epoch by Dawes that outside the planet's disc the dark ring showed varieties of tint, its inner thing has already been said of the true half being darker than its outer portion. which her own deepest experiences and She began to write "Villette." SomeLassell, observing the planet under most character of that marvellous book, in favorable conditions with his two-feet ripest wisdom are given to the world. Of mirror at Malta, could not perceive these the manner in which it was written her varieties of tint, which therefore we may readers know nothing. Yet this, the bestjudge to have been either not permanent beloved child of her genius, was brought or very slightly marked. But, as I have forth with a travail so bitter that more than said, all observers agreed that the outline once she was tempted to lay aside her pen of the planet could be seen athwart the and hush her voice forever. Every senentire width of the dark ring. Mr. Trouve-tence was wrung from her as though it had lot, however, has found that during the last four years the planet has not been visible through the whole width of the dark ring, but only through the inner half of the ring's breadth. It appears, then, that either the inner portion is getting continually thinner and thinner satellites composing it are becoming con- that is, the tinually more sparsely strewn - or that the outer portion is becoming more compact, doubtless by receiving stray satellites from the interior of the inner bright ring. may be sys It is clear that in Saturn's ring-system, if not in the planet itself, mighty changes are still taking place. It may be that the rings are being so fashioned under the forces to which they are subjected as to be on their way to becoming changed into separate satellites, inner members of that system which at present consists of eight secondary planets. But, whatever the end towards which these changes are tending, we see processes of evolution taking place which may be regarded as typifying the more extensive and probably more energetic processes whereby the solar tem itself reached its present condition. I ventured more than ten years ago, in the preface to my treatise upon the planet Saturn, to suggest the possibility "that in the variations perceptibly proceeding in the Saturnian ring-system a key may one day be found to the law of development under which the solar system has reached its present condition." This suggestion seems to me strikingly confirmed by the recent discoveries. The planet Saturn and its appendages, always interesting to astronomers, are found more than ever worthy of close investigation and We may here, as it were, seize nature in scrutiny. the act and trace out the actual progress of developments which at present are matters rather of theory than of observation. been a drop of blood, and the book was built up bit by bit, amid paroxysms of positive anguish, occasioned in part by her own physical weakness and suffering, but still more by the torture through which her mind passed as she depicted scene after scene from the darkest chapter in whom she wrote. her own life, for the benefit of those for that at this time also we get the best indications of what she was passing through. It is from her letters suppose that their writer was at that very Few, perhaps, reading these letters, would time engaged in the production of a great masterpiece, destined to hold its own among the ripest and finest fruits of English genius. But no one can read them without seeing how true the woman's soul was, how deep her sympathy with those she loved, how keen her criticisms of even around her, how vivid and sincere her the dull and commonplace characters interest in everything which was passing either in the great world which lay afar off, or in the little world, the drama of which Even the ordinary incidents mentioned in was being enacted under her own eyes. her letters, the chance expressions which drop from her pen, have an interest when we remember who it is that speaks, and at what hour in her life this speech falls from her. September, 1851. look it over to see what there is in it to an- soon becoming a mother. No doubt it is very | attention and kindness. She says she has not natural in her to feel as if no woman had ever for many days known such enjoyment as she been a mother before; but I could not help experienced during the ten days she stayed inditing an answer calculated to shake her up here. Yet you know what Haworth is - dull a bit. A day or two since I had another note enough. Before answering X-'s letter from her, quite as good as usual, but I think a from Australia I got up my courage to write trifle nonplussed by the rather unceremonious to and beg him to give me an impartial fashion in which her terrors and the expected account of X- -'s character and disposition, personage were handled. . . . It is useless to owning that I was very much in the dark on tell you how I live. I endure life; but whether these points and did not like to continue corI enjoy it or not is another question. How- respondence without further information. I ever, I get on. The weather, I think, has not got the answer which I inclose. Since receivbeen very good lately; or else the beneficial ing it I have replied to X in a calm, civil effects of change of air and scene are evapo- manner. At the earliest I cannot hear from rating. In spite of regular exercise the old him again before the spring. headaches and starting, wakeful nights are coming upon me again. But I do get on, and have neither wish nor right to complain. October, 1851. I am not at all intending to go from home at present. I have just refused successively Miss Martineau, Mrs. Gaskell, and Mrs. Forster. I could not go if I would. One person after another in the house has been ailing for the last month and more. First Tabby had the influenza, than Martha took it and is ill in bed now, and I grieve to say papa too has taken cold. So far I keep pretty well, and am thankful for it, for who else would nurse them all? Some painful mental worry I have gone through this autumn; but there is no use in dwelling on all that. At present I seem to have some respite. I feel more disinclined than ever for letter-writing. . . . Life is a struggle. November, 1851. Papa, Tabby, and Martha are at present all better, but yet none of them well. Martha especially looks feeble. I wish she had a better constitution. As it is, one is always afraid of giving her too much to do; and yet there are many things I cannot undertake myself; and we do not like to change when we have had her so long. The other day I received the inclosed letter from Australia. I had had one before from the same quarter, which is still unanswered. I told you I did not expect to hear thence-nor did I. The letter is long, but it will be worth your while to read it. In its way it has merit- that cannot be denied - abundance of information, talent of a certain kind, alloyed (I think) here and there with errors of taste. This little man with all his long letters remains as much a conundrum to me as ever. Your account of the H-"domestic joys" amused me much. The good folks seem very happy; long may they continue so! It somewhat cheers me to know that such happiness does exist on earth. November, 1851. All here is pretty much as usual. . . . The only events of my life consist in that little change occasional letters bring. I have had two from Miss W- since she left Haworth, which touched me much. She seems to think so much of a little congenial company, a little December, 1851. I hope you have got on this last week well. It has been very trying here. Papa so far has borne it unhurt; but these winds and changes have given me a bad cold; however, I am better now than I was. Poor old Keeper (Emily's dog) died last Monday morning after being ill one night. He went gently to sleep; we laid his old faithful head in the garden. Flossy is dull, and misses him. There was something very sad in losing the old dog; yet I am glad he met a natural fate. People kept hinting that he ought to be put away, which neither papa nor I liked to think of. If I were near a town and could get cod-liver oil fresh and sweet, I really would most gladly take your advice and try it; but how I could possibly procure it at Haworth I do not see. You ask about the "Lily and the Bee." If you have read it you have effected an exploit beyond me. I glanced at a few pages and laid it down hopeless, nor can I now find courage to resume it. But, then, I never liked Warren's writings. "Margaret Maitland" is a good book, I doubt not. At this point, the illness of which she makes light in these letters, increased to such an extent as to alarm her father, and at last she consented to lay aside her work and allow herself the pleasure and comfort of a visit from her friend. The visit was a source of happiness whilst it lasted; but when it was over the depression returned, and there was a serious relapse. Something of her sufferings at this time — whilst "Villette" was still upon the stocks — will be gathered from the following letter, dated January, 1852: -- Be I wish you could have seen the coolness with which I captured your letter on its way to papa, and at once conjecturing its tenor, made the contents my own. Be quiet. tranquil. It is, dear Nell, my decided intention to come to B for a few days when I can come; but of this last I must positively judge for myself, and I must take my time. I am better to-day-much better; but you can have little idea of the sort of condition into which mercury throws people to ask me to go from home anywhere in close or open carriage. - weeks quite alone. Change and sea-air had become necessary. Distance and other considerations forbade my accompanying Ellen to the south, much as I should have liked it had I felt quite free and unfettered. Ellen told me sometime ago that you were not likely to visit Scarborough till the autumn, so I forthwith packed my trunk and betook myself here. The first week or ten days I greatly feared the seaside would not suit me, for I suffered almost incessantly from headache and other harassing ailments; the weather, too, was dark, stormy, and excessively bitterly · cold; my solitude under such circumstances partook of the character of desolation; I had some dreary evening hours and night vigils. However, that passed. I think I am now bet The news of E. T.'s death came to me last week in a letter from M-, a long letter, which wrung my heart so in its simple, strong, truthful emotion, I have only ventured to read it once. It ripped up half-scarred wounds with terrible force- the death-bed was just the same breath failing, etc. She fears she will now in her dreary solitude become "a stern, harsh, selfish woman." This fear struck home. Again and again I have felt it for my. self, and what is my position to M's? Iter and stronger for the change, and in a day should break out in energetic wishes that she would return to England, if reason would permit me to believe that prosperity and happiness would there await her. But I see no such prospect. May God help her as God only can help! To another friend she writes as follows, in reply to an invitation to leave Haworth for a short visit: March 12th, 1852. Your kind note holds out a strong temptation, but one that must be resisted. From home I must not go unless health or some cause equally imperative render a change necessary. For nearly four months now (i.e. since I first became ill) I have not put pen to paper; my work has been lying untouched and my faculties have been rusting for want of exercise; further relaxation is out of the question, and I will not permit myself to think of it. My publisher groans over my long delays; I am sometimes provoked to check the expression of his impatience with short and crusty an swers. or two hope to return home. Ellen told me that Mr. W- said people with my tendency to congestion of the liver should walk three or four hours every day; accordingly I have walked as much as I could since I came here, and look almost as sunburnt and weatherwith being out in the open air. As to my beaten as a fisherman or a bathing-woman, work, it has stood obstinately still for a long while certainly a torpid liver makes a torpid brain. No spirit moves me. If this state of things does not entirely change my chance of a holiday in the autumn is not worth much; yet I should be very sorry not to meet you for a little while at Scarborough. The duty to be discharged at Scarborough was the chief motive that drew me to the east coast. I have been there, visited the churchyard, and seen the stone. There were five errors, consequently I had to give directions for its being refaced and relettered. The sea-air did her good; but she was still unable to carry her great work forward, in spite of the urgent pressure put upon her by those who in this respect merely expressed the impatience of the public. HAWORTH, July, 1852. Yet the pleasure I now deny myself I would fain regard as only deferred. I heard something about your purposing to visit Scarborough in the course of the summer, and could I by the close of July or August bring my task to a certain point, how glad should I I am again at home, where (thank God) I be to join you there for a while! . . . Howfound all well. I certainly feel much better ever, I dare not lay plans at this distance of than I did, and would fain trust that the imtime; for me so much must depend, first, on papa's health (which throughout the winter first fortnight I was at Filey I had constantly provement may prove permanent. .. The has been, I am thankful to say, really excel-recurring pain in the right side, and sick lent); and, second, on the progress of work a matter not wholly contingent on wish or will, but lying in a great measure beyond the reach of effort, or out of the pale of calculation. headache into the bargain. My spirits at the same time were cruelly depressed - prostrated sometimes. I feared the miseries and the suffering of last winter were all returning; consequently I am now indeed thankful to find myself so much better. . . . You ask about Australia. Let us dismiss the subject in a few words, and not recur to it. All is silent has been bitter disappointment there at my as the grave. Cornhill is silent too: there having no work ready for this season. Ellen, we must not rely upon our fellow-creaturesonly on ourselves, and on Him who is above both us and them. My labors, as you call them, stand in abeyance and I cannot hurry August, 1852. them. I must take my own time, however not finished yet; but now I hope." But long that time may be. though her work pressed so incessantly upon her, and her feverish anxiety to have it done weighed so heavily upon her health and spirits, she could still find time to answer her friend's letters in a way which showed that her interest in the outer world was as keen as ever: I am thankful to say that papa's convalescence seems now to be quite confirmed. There is scarcely any remainder of the inflammation in his eyes, and his general health progresses satisfactorily. He begins even to look forward to resuming his duty ere long, but caution must be observed on that head. Martha has been very willing and helpful during papa's illness. Poor Tabby is ill herself at present with English cholera; which complaint, together with influenza, has lately been almost universally prevalent in this district. Of the last I have myself had a touch; but it went off very gently on the whole, affecting my chest and liver less than any cold has done for the last three years. I write to you about yourself rather under constraint and in the dark; for your letters, dear Nell, are most remarkably oracular, dropping nothing but hints which tie my tongue a good deal. What, for instance, can I say to your last postscript? It is quite sibylline. I can hardly guess what checks you in writing to me. Perhaps you think that as I generally write with some reserve, you ought to do the same. My reserve, however, has its origin not in design, but in necessity. I am silent because I have literally nothing to say. I might indeed repeat over and over again that my life is a pale blank, and often a very weary burden, and that the future sometimes appals me; but what end could be answered by such repetition, except to weary you and enervate myself? The evils that now and then wring a groan from my heart lie in my position. not that I am a single woman and likely to remain a single woman; but because I am a lonely woman and likely to be lonely. But it cannot be helped, and therefore imperatively must be borne, and borne too with as few words about it as may be. I write this just to prove to you that whatever you would freely say to me, you may just as freely write. Understand that I remain just as resolved as ever not to allow myself the holiday of a visit from you, till I have done my work. After labor, pleasure; but while work was lying at the wall undone, I never yet could enjoy recreation. September, 1852. Thank you for A-'s notes. I like to read them, they are so full of news, but they are illegible. A great many words I really cannot make out. It is pleasing to hear that Mis doing so well, and the tidings about seem also good. I get a note from every now and then, but I fear my last reply has not given much satisfaction. It contained a taste of that unpalatable commodity called advice- such advice, too, as might be and I dare say was, construed into faint reproof. I can scarcely tell what there is about that, in spite of one's conviction of her amiability, in spite of one's sincere wish for her welfare, palls upon one, satiates, stirs impatience. She will complacently put forth opinions and tastes as her own which are not her own, nor in any sense natural to her. My patience can really hardly sustain the test of such a jay in borrowed plumes. She prated so much about the fine wilful spirit of her child, whom she describes as a hard, brown little thing, who will do nothing but what pleases himself, that I hit out at last - not very hard, but enough to make her think herself ill-used, I doubt not. Can't help it. She often says she is not "absorbed in self," but the fact is I have seldom seen any one more unconsciously, thoroughly, and often weakly egotistic. Then, too, she is inconsistent. In the same breath she boasts her matrimonial happiness and whines for sympathy. Don't understand it. With a paragon of a husband and child, why that whining, craving note? Either her lot is not all she professes it to be, or she is hard to content. In October the resolute determination to allow herself no relaxation until Villette" was finished broke down. She was compelled to call for help, and to acknowledge herself beaten in her attempt to crush out the yearning for company: October, 1852. Papa expresses so strong a wish that I should ask you to come, and I feel some little refreshment so absolutely necessary myself, that I really must beg you to come to Haworth I thought I would perfor one single week. Slowly page after page of "Villette" was now being written. The reader sees from these letters that the book was composed in no happy mood. Writing to her publisher a few weeks after the date of the last letter printed above, she says, "I can hardly tell you how I hunger to hear some opinions beside my own, and how I have sometimes desponded and almost de- sist in denying myself till I had done my work, spaired, because there was no one to whom but I find it won't do. The matter refuses to to read a line, or of whom to ask a coun-Progress, and this excessive solitude presses sel. 'Jane Eyre' was not written under such circumstances, nor were two-thirds of 'Shirley.' I got so miserable about it I could bear no allusion to the book. It is too heavily. So let me see your dear face, Nell, just for one reviving week. Could you come on Wednesday? Write to-morrow and let me know by what train you would reach Keighley, that may send for you. The visit was a pleasant one in spite of the weariness of body and mind which troubled Charlotte. She laid aside her task for that "one little week," went out upon the moors with her friend, talked as of old, and at last, when she was left alone once more, declared that the change had done her "inexpressible good." Her pen now began to move more quickly, and the closing chapters of "Villette" were written with comparative ease, so that at last she writes thus on November 22nd: Monday Morning. re and thence out into the world. There was some fear on Charlotte's part when the MS. had been despatched. She herself was gradually forming that which mained the fixed conviction of her lifethe conviction that in "Villette" she had done her best, and that, for good or for ill, by it her reputation must stand or fall. But she was intensely anxious, as we have seen, to have the opinions of others upon the story. Nor was it only a general verdict on its merits for which she called. She was uneasy upon some minor points. According to her wont, she had taken most of her characters from life, and it was not during her stay at Brussels alone Truly thankful am I to be able to tell you that I finished my long task on Saturday, packed and sent off the parcel to Cornhill. I that she had studied the models which she said my prayers when I had done it. Whether it is well or ill done I don't know. D.V., I employed when writing the book. Natuwill now try to wait the issue quietly. The rally, she was curious to know whether she book, I think, will not be considered preten- had painted her portraits too literally. So tious, nor is it of a character to excite hostil-"Villette " was allowed to pass, whilst still ity. As papa is pretty well, I may, I trust, in MS., into the hands of the original of dear Nell, do as you wish me and come for a "Dr. John." When that gentleman had few days to B. Miss Martineau has also read the story, and criticised all the charurgently asked me to go and see her. I prom- acters with the freedom of unconsciousised if all were well to do so at the close of November or the commencement of Decem-ness, her mind was set at rest, and she ber, so that I could go on from B-to West- knew that she had not transgressed the moreland. Would Wednesday suit you? bounds which divide the storyteller from "Esmond" shall come with me, i.e., Thack- the biographer. eray's novel. Every reader knows in what fashion "Villette" ends, and most persons also know from Mrs. Gaskell that the reason why the actual issue is left in some uncertainty was the author's filial desire to gratify her father. Charlotte herself was firmly resolved that she would not make Lucy Snowe the happy wife of Paul Emanuel. She never meant to "appoint her lot in pleasant places." Lucy was to bear the storm and stress of life in the same manner as that in which her creator had been compelled to bear it; and she was to be left in the end alone, robbed forever of the hope of spending the happy afternoon of her existence in the sunshine of love and congenial society. But Mr. Brontë, altogether unconscious of that tragedy of heart-sickness and soul-weariness which was being enacted under his own roof, and which furnished so striking a parallel to the story which ran through "Villette," would not brook a gloomy ending to the tale, and by protestations and entreaties induced his daughter at least so far to alter her plan as to leave the issue in doubt. So "Villette" went its way as "Jane Eyre" and "Shirley" had done before it from the secluded parsonage at Haworth up to the busy publishing-house in Cornhill, In the mean time, her work done, she hurried away from Haworth to spend a well-earned holiday at B with her friend. "Esmond" accompanied her, and the quiet afternoons were spent in reading it aloud. On December 9th she writes from Haworth announcing her safe return to her own home: afternoon, and, I am most thankful to say, just as I used to do: it was very pleasant to |