TWO SHORT PIECES BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE
OF
ELLIS AND ACTON BELL
It has been thought that all theworks published under the names of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bellwere, in reality, the production of one person. Thismistake I endeavoured to rectify by a few words of disclaimerprefixed to the third edition of ‘Jane Eyre.’ These, too, it appears, failed to gain general credence, and now,on the occasion of a reprint of ‘Wuthering Heights’and ‘Agnes Grey,’ I am advised distinctly to statehow the case really stands.
Indeed, I feel myself that it is time the obscurity attendingthose two names—Ellis and Acton—was done away. The little mystery, which formerly yielded some harmlesspleasure, has lost its interest; circumstances are changed. It becomes, then, my duty to explain briefly the origin andauthorship of the books written by Currer, Ellis, and ActonBell.
About five years ago, my two sisters and myself, after asomewhat prolonged period of separation, found ourselvesreunited, and at home. Resident in a remote district, whereeducation had made little progress, and where, consequently,there was no inducement to seek social intercourse beyond our owndomestic circle, we were wholly dependent on ourselves and eachother, on books and study, for the enjoyments and occupations oflife. The highest stimulus, as well as the liveliestpleasure we had known from childhood upwards, lay in attempts atliterary composition; formerly we used to show each other what wewrote, but of late years this habit of communication andconsultation had been discontinued; hence it ensued, that we weremutually ignorant of the progress we might respectively havemade.
One day, in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on aMS. volume of verse in my sister Emily’s handwriting. Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and didwrite verse: I looked it over, and something more than surpriseseized me—a deep conviction that these were not commoneffusions, nor at all like the poetry women generallywrite. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous andgenuine. To my ear they had also a peculiarmusic—wild, melancholy, and elevating.
My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character,nor one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even thosenearest and dearest to her could, with impunity, intrudeunlicensed; it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I hadmade, and days to persuade her that such poems meritedpublication. I knew, however, that a mind like hers couldnot be without some latent spark of honourable ambition, andrefused to be discouraged in my attempts to fan that spark toflame.
Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her owncompositions, intimating that, since Emily’s had given mepleasure, I might like to look at hers. I could not but bea partial judge, yet I thought that these verses, too, had asweet, sincere pathos of their own.
We had very early cherished the dream of one day becomingauthors. This dream, never relinquished even when distancedivided and absorbing tasks occupied us, now suddenly acquiredstrength and consistency: it took the character of aresolve. We agreed to arrange a small selection of ourpoems, and, if possible, to get them printed. Averse topersonal publicity, we veiled our own names under those ofCurrer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; the ambiguous