Some Poems

Gilbert

Gilbert


I. THE GARDEN.
ABOVE the city hung the moon,
Right o'er a plot of ground

Where flowers and orchardtrees
were fenced
With lofty walls around:

'Twas Gilbert's gardenthere,
tonight
Awhile he walked alone;

And, tired with sedentary toil,
Mused where the moonlight shone.

This garden, in a cityheart,
Lay still as houseless wild,

Though manywindowed
mansion fronts
Were round it closely piled;

But thick their walls, and those within
Lived lives by noise unstirred;

Like wafting of an angel's wing,
Time's flight by them was heard.

Some soft pianonotes
alone
Were sweet as faintly given,

Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth
With song, that wintereven.


The city's manymingled
sounds
Rose like the hum of ocean;

They rather lulled the heart than roused
Its pulse to faster motion.

Gilbert has paced the single walk
An hour, yet is not weary;

And, though it be a winter night,
He feels nor cold nor dreary.

The prime of life is in his veins,
And sends his blood fast flowing,

And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts
Now in his bosom glowing.

Those thoughts recur to early love,
Or what he love would name,

Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds
Might other title claim.

Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,
He to the world clings fast,

And too much for the present lives,
To linger o'er the past.

But now the evening's deep repose
Has glided to his soul;

That moonlight falls on Memory,
And shows her fading scroll.
One name appears in every line



The gentle rays shine o'er,
And still he smiles and still repeats
That one nameElinor.


There is no sorrow in his smile,
No kindness in his tone;
The triumph of a selfish heart
Speaks coldly there alone;
He says: ' She loved me more than life;
And truly it was sweet
To see so fair a woman kneel,
In bondage, at my feet.

There was a sort of quiet bliss
To be so deeply loved,
To gaze on trembling eagerness
And sit myself unmoved.
And when it pleased my pride to grant,
At last some rare caress,
To feel the fever of that hand
My fingers deigned to press.

'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide
What every glance revealed;
Endowed, the while, with despotmight
Her destiny to wield.

I knew myself no perfect man,
Nor, as she deemed, divine;
I knew that I was gloriousbut


By her reflected shine;

Her youth, her native energy,
Her powers newborn
and fresh,
'Twas these with Godhead sanctified

My sensual frame of flesh.
Yet, like a god did I descend
At last, to meet her love;


And, like a god, I then withdrew
To my own heaven above.

And never more could she invoke
My presence to her sphere;
No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers
Could win my awful ear.
I knew her blinded constancy
Would ne'er my deeds betray,
And, calm in conscience, whole in heart,
I went my tranquil way.

Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,
The fond and flattering pain
Of passion's anguish to create,


In her young breast again.

Bright was the lustre of her eyes,
When they caught fire from mine;

If I had powerthis
very hour,
Again I 'd light their shine.

But where she is, or how she lives,
I have no clue to know;

I 've heard she long my absence pined,
And left her home in woe.

But busied, then, in gathering gold,
As I am busied now,

I could not turn from such pursuit,
To weep a broken vow.

Nor could I give to fatal risk
The fame I ever prized;

Even now, I fear, that precious fame
Is too much compromised.'

An inward trouble dims his eye,
Some riddle he would solve;
Some method to unloose a knot,
His anxious thoughts revolve.

He, pensive, leans against a tree,
A leafy evergreen,

The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,
And hide him like a screen;

He startsthe
tree shakes with his tremor,
Yet nothing near him pass'd,

He hurries up the garden alley,
In strangely sudden haste.

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,
Steps o'er the threshold stone;

The heavy door slips from his fingers,
It shuts, and he is gone.

What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul ?
A nervous thought, no more;

'Twill sink like stone in placid pool,
And calm close smoothly o'er.

II. THE PARLOUR.
WARM is the parlour atmosphere,
Serene the lamp's soft light;

The vivid embers, red and clear,
Proclaim a frosty night.

Books, varied, on the table lie,
Three children o'er them bend,

And all, with curious, eager eye,


The turning leaf attend.

Picture and tale alternately
Their simple hearts delight,

And interest deep, and tempered glee,
Illume their aspects bright;

The parents, from their fireside place,
Behold that pleasant scene,

And joy is on the mother's face,
Pride, in the father's mien.

As Gilbert sees his blooming wife,
Beholds his children fair,

No thought has he of transient strife,
Or past, though piercing fear.

The voice of happy infancy
Lisps sweetly in his ear,

His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye,
Sits, kindly smiling, near.

The fire glows on her silken dress,
And shows its ample grace,

And warmly tints each hazel tress,
Curled soft around her face.

The beauty that in youth he wooed,
Is beauty still, unfaded,

The brow of ever placid mood
No churlish grief has shaded.

Prosperity, in Gilbert's home,
Abides, the guest of years;

There Want or Discord never come,
And seldom Toil or Tears.

The carpets bear the peaceful print
Of comfort's velvet tread,

And golden gleams from plenty sent,
In every nook are shed.

The very silken spaniel seems
Of quiet ease to tell,

As near its mistress' feet it dreams,
Sunk in a cushion's swell;

And smiles seem native to the eyes
Of those sweet children, three;

They have but looked on tranquil skies,
And know not misery.

Alas ! that misery should come
In such an hour as this;

Why could she not so calm a home
A little longer miss ?

But she is now within the door,


Her steps advancing glide;

Her sullen shade has crossed the floor,
She stands at Gilbert's side.

She lays her hand upon his heart,
It bounds with agony;

His fireside chair shakes with the start
That shook the garden tree.

His wife towards the children looks,
She does not mark his mien;

The children, bending o'er their books,
His terror have not seen.

In his own home, by his own hearth,
He sits in solitude,

And circled round with light and mirth,
Cold horror chills his blood.

His mind would hold with desperate clutch
The scene that round him lies;

Nochanged,
as by some wizard's touch,
The present prospect flies.

A tumult vaguea
viewless strife
His futile struggles crush;

'Twixt him and his, an unknown life
And unknown feelings rush.

He seesbut
scarce can language paint
The tissue Fancy weaves;

For words oft give but echo faint
Of thoughts the mind conceives.

Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim,
Efface both light and quiet;

No shape is in those shadows grim,
No voice in that wild riot.

Sustained and strong, a wondrous blast
Above and round him blows;

A greenish gloom, dense overcast,
Each moment denser grows.

He nothing knowsnor
clearly sees,
Resistance checks his breath,

The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze
Blows on him. cold as death.

And still the undulating gloom
Mocks sight with formless motion;

Was such sensation Jonah's doom,
Gulphed in the depths of ocean ?

Streaking the air, the nameless vision,
Fastdriven,
deepsounding,
flows;

Oh ! whence its source, and what its mission ?


How will its terrors close ?

Longsweeping,
rushing, vast and void,
The Universe it swallows;

And still the dark, devouring tide,
A Typhoon tempest follows.

More slow it rolls; its furious race
Sinks to a solemn gliding;

The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase,
To stillness are subsiding.

And, slowly borne along, a form
The shapeless chaos varies;

Poised in the eddy to the storm,
Before the eye it tarries.

A woman drownedsunk
in the deep,
On a long wave reclining;

The circling waters' crystal sweep,
Like glass, her shape enshrining;

Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned,
Seems as in sleep reposing;

A feeble light, now first discerned,
The features well disclosing.

No effort from the haunted air
The ghastly scene could banish;

That hovering wave, arrested there,
Rolledthrobbedbut
did not vanish.

If Gilbert upward turned his gaze,
He saw the oceanshadow;


If he looked down, the endless seas
Lay green as summer meadow.

And straight before, the pale corpse lay,
Upborne by air or billow,

So near, he could have touched the spray
That churned around its pillow.

The hollow anguish of the face
Had moved a fiend to sorrow;

Not Death's fixed calm could rase the trace
Of suffering's deepworn
furrow.

All moved; a strong returning blast,
The mass of waters raising,

Bore wave and passive carcase past,
While Gilbert yet was gazing.

Deep in her isleconceiving
womb,
It seemed the Ocean thundered,

And soon, by realms of rushing gloom,
Were seer and phantom sundered.

Then swept some timbers from a wreck,


On following surges riding;

Then seaweed,
in the turbid rack
Uptorn, went slowly gliding.

The horrid shade, by slow degrees,
A beam of light defeated,

And then the roar of raving seas,
Fast, far, and faint, retreated.

And all was gonegone
like a mist,
Corse, billows, tempest, wreck;

Three children close to Gilbert prest
And clung around his neck.

Good night ! good night ! the prattlers said
And kissed their father's cheek;

'Twas now the hour their quiet bed
And placid rest to seek.

The mother with her offspring goes
To hear their evening prayer;

She nought of Gilbert's vision knows,
And nought of his despair.

Yet, pitying God, abridge the time
Of anguish, now his fate !

Though, haply, great has been his crime,
Thy mercy, too, is great.

Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head,
Bent for some moments low,

And there is neither grief nor dread
Upon his subtle brow.

For well can he his feelings task,
And well his looks command;

His features well his heart can mask,
With smiles and smoothness bland.

Gilbert has reasoned with his mindHe
says 'twas all a dream;

He strives his inward sight to blind
Against truth's inward beam.

He pitied not that shadowy thing,
When it was flesh and blood;

Nor now can pity's balmy spring
Refresh his arid mood.

' And if that dream has spoken truth,'
Thus musingly he says;

' If Elinor be dead, in sooth,
Such chance the shock repays:

A net was woven round my feet,
I scarce could further go,

Are Shame had forced a fast retreat,
Dishonour brought me low. '


' Conceal her, then, deep, silent Sea,
Give her a secret grave !

She sleeps in peace, and I am free,
No longer Terror's slave:

And homage still, from all the world,
Shall greet my spotless name,

Since surges break and waves are curled
Above its threatened shame.'

III. THE WELCOME HOME
ABOVE the city hangs the moon,
Some clouds are boding rain,

Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone,
Tonight
comes home again.

Ten years have passed above his head,
Each year has brought him gain;

His prosperous life has smoothly sped,
Without or tear or stain.

'Tis somewhat latethe
city clocks
Twelve deep vibrations toll,

As Gilbert at the portal knocks,
Which is his journey's goal.

The street is still and desolate,
The moon hid by a cloud;

Gilbert, impatient, will not wait,His
second knock peals loud.

The clocks are hushed; there's not a light
In any window nigh,

And not a single planet bright
Looks from the clouded sky;

The air is raw, the rain descends,
A bitter northwind
blows;

His cloak the traveller scarce defendsWill
not the door unclose ?

He knocks the third time, and the last;
His summons now they hear,

Within, a footstep, hurrying fast,
Is heard approaching near.

The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain
Falls to the floor of stone;

And Gilbert to his heart will strain
His wife and children soon.

The hand that lifts the latchet, holds
A candle to his sight,

And Gilbert, on the step, beholds


A woman, clad in white.

Lo ! water from her dripping dress
Runs on the streaming floor;

From every dark and clinging tress,
The drops incessant pour.

There's none but her to welcome him;
She holds the candle high,

And, motionless in form and limb,
Stands cold and silent nigh;

There's sand and seaweed
on her robe,
Her hollow eyes are blind;

No pulse in such a frame can throb,
No life is there defined.

Gilbert turned ashywhite,
but still
His lips vouchsafed no cry;

He spurred his strength and masterwill
To pass the figure by,


But, moving slow, it faced him straight,
It would not flinch nor quail:

Then first did Gilbert's strength abate,
His stony firmness quail.

He sank upon his knees and prayed;
The shape stood rigid there;

He called aloud for human aid,
No human aid was near.

An accent strange did thus repeat
Heaven's stern but just decree:

' The measure thou to her didst mete,
To thee shall measured be !'

Gilbert sprang from his bended knees,
By the pale spectre pushed,

And, wild as one whom demons seize,
Up the hallstaircase
rushed;

Entered his chambernear
the bed
Sheathed steel and firearms
hung


Impelled by maniac purpose dread,
He chose those stores among.

Across his throat, a keenedged
knife
With vigorous hand he drew;

The wound was widehis
outraged life
Rushed rash and redly through.

And thus died, by a shameful death,
A wise and worldly man,

Who never drew but selfish breath
Since first his life began.

Pilate's Wife's Dream

Pilate's Wife's Dream

I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start
Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fallThe
crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart
Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;
Over against my bed, there shone a gleam
Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.


It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom;
How far is night advanced, and when will day
Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom,
And fill this void with warm, creative ray ?
Would I could sleep again till, clear and red,
Morning shall on the mountaintops
be spread!


I'd call my women, but to break their sleep,
Because my own is broken, were unjust;


They've wrought all day, and wellearned
slumbers steep
Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust;
Let me my feverish watch with patience bear,
Thankful that none with me its sufferings share.


Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise
My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can;
I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies:
These trembling stars at dead of night look wan,
Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear
Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear.


All blackone
great cloud, drawn from east to west,
Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below;
Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast
On yonder stony mount a lurid glow.
I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears;
A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears.


Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring
From street to street, not loud, but through the night
Distinctly heardand
some strange spectral thing
Is now uprearedand,
fixed against the light
Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky,
It stands up like a column, straight and high.


I see it allI
know the dusky signA
cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear


While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine
Pilate, to judge the victim will appear,
Pass sentenceyield
him up to crucify;
And on that cross the spotless Christ must die.


Dreams, then, are truefor
thus my vision ran;



Surely some oracle has been with me,
The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan,
To warn an unjust judge of destiny:
I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know,
Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe.


I do not weep for Pilatewho
could prove
Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway
No prayer can soften, no appeal can move;
Who tramples hearts as others trample clay,
Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread,
That might stir up reprisal in the dead.


Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds;
Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour,
In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads
A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power;
A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge
Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge.


How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ?
I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung;


I, who for grief have wept my eyesight
dim;
Because, while life for me was bright and young,
He robbed my youthhe
quenched my life's fair rayHe
crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay.


And at this houralthough
I be his wifeHe
has no more of tenderness from me
Than any other wretch of guilty life;
Less, for I know his household privacyI
see him as he iswithout
a screen;
And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien !


Has he not sought my presence, dyed in bloodInnocent,
righteous blood, shed shamelessly ?
And have I not his red salute withstood ?
Aye,when,
as erst, he plunged all Galilee
In dark bereavementin
affliction sore,
Mingling their very offerings with their gore.


Then came hein
his eyes a serpentsmile,
Upon his lips some false, endearing word,
And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while,
His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious swordAnd
I, to see a man cause men such woe,
Trembled with ireI
did not fear to show.


And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought
Jesuswhom
they in mockery call their king



To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought;
By this mean reptile, innocence to sting.
Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert,
And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt!


Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear,
Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf;
Could he this night's appalling vision hear,
This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe,
Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail,
And make even terror to their malice quail.


Yet if I tell the dreambut
let me pause.
What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear,
Graved on my brainat
once some unknown cause
Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear,
Like a vague remnant of some bypast
scene;Not
what will be, but what, long since, has been.


I suffered many things, I heard foretold
A dreadful doom for Pilate,lingering
woes,
In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold
Built up a solitude of trackless snows,
There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side,
There he lived famishedthere
methought he died;


But not of hunger, nor by malady;
I saw the snow around him, stained with gore;


I said I had no tears for such as he,
And, lo ! my cheek is wetmine
eyes run o'er;
I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt,
I weep the impious deedthe
blood selfspilt.


More I recall not, yet the vision spread
Into a world remote, an age to comeAnd
still the illumined name of Jesus shed
A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloomAnd
still I saw that sign, which now I see,
That cross on yonder brow of Calvary.


What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown,
His lineagedoctrinemissionyet
how clear,
Is Godlike
goodness, in his actions shewn !
How straight and stainless is his life's career !
The ray of Deity that rests on him,
In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim.


The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite
Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay;
The searching soul demands a purer light



To guide it on its upward, onward way;
Ashamed of sculptured godsReligion
turns
To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns.


Our faith is rottenall
our rites defiled,
Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man,
With his new ordinance, so wise and mild,
Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan


And sever from the wheat; but will his faith
Survive the terrors of tomorrow's
death ?


* * * * *

I feel a firmer trusta
higher hope
Rise in my soulit
dawns with dawning day;
Lo ! on the Temple's roofon
Moriah's slope
Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray,
Which I so wished for when shut in by night;
Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light !


Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear !
Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high !
Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear,
The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh.
Oh ! to behold the truththat
sun divine,
How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine !


This day, time travails with a mighty birth,
This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth,
Ere night descends, I shall more surely know
What guide to follow, in what path to go;
I wait in hopeI
wait in solemn fear,
The oracle of Godthe
soletrue
Godto
hear.
Charlotte Brontë (21 April 1816 – 31 March 1855) Charlotte Brontë was an English novelist and poet, the eldest of the three Brontë sisters who survived into adulthood, whose novels are English literature standards. She wrote Jane Eyre under the pen name Currer Bell. Early life and education Charlotte was born in Thornton, Yorkshire in 1816, the third of six children, to Maria (née Branwell) and her husband Patrick Brontë (formerly surnamed Brunty or Prunty), an Irish Anglican clergyman. In 1820, the family moved a few miles to the village of Haworth, where Patrick had been appointed Perpetual Curate of St Michael and All Angels Church. Charlotte's mother died of cancer on 15 September 1821, leaving five daughters and a son to be taken care of by her sister Elizabeth Branwell. In August 1824, Charlotte was sent with three of her sisters, Emily, Maria, and Elizabeth, to the Clergy Daughters' School at Cowan Bridge in Lancashire (Charlotte later used the school as the basis for the fictional Lowood School in Jane Eyre). The school's poor conditions, Charlotte maintained, permanently affected her health and physical development and hastened the deaths of her two elder sisters, Maria (born 1814) and Elizabeth (born 1815), who died of tuberculosis in June 1825. Soon after their father removed them from the school. At home in Haworth Parsonage Charlotte acted as "the motherly friend and guardian of her younger sisters". She and the other surviving children — Branwell and Anne – created their own literary fictional worlds, and began chronicling the lives and struggles of the inhabitants of these imaginary kingdoms. Charlotte and Branwell wrote Byronic stories about their imagined country ("Angria") and Emily and Anne wrote articles and poems about theirs ("Gondal"). The sagas which they created were elaborate and convoluted (and still exist in partial manuscripts) and provided them with an obsessive interest during childhood and early adolescence, which prepared them for their literary vocations in adulthood. Charlotte continued her education at Roe Head, Mirfield, from 1831 to 32, where she met her lifelong friends and correspondents, Ellen Nussey and Mary Taylor. During this period, she wrote her novella The Green Dwarf (1833) under the name of Wellesley. Charlotte returned to Roe Head as a teacher from 1835 to 1838. In 1839, she took up the first of many positions as governess to various families in Yorkshire, a career she pursued until 1841. Politically a Tory, she preached tolerance rather than revolution. She held high moral principles, and, despite her shyness in company, she was always prepared to argue her beliefs. Brussels In 1842 Charlotte and Emily travelled to Brussels to enroll in a boarding school run by Constantin Heger (1809–96) and his wife Claire Zoé Parent Heger (1804–87). In return for board and tuition, Charlotte taught English and Emily taught music. Their time at the boarding school was cut short when Elizabeth Branwell, their aunt who joined the family after the death of their mother to look after the children, died of internal obstruction in October 1842. Charlotte returned alone to Brussels in January 1843 to take up a teaching post at the boarding school. Her second stay at the boarding school was not a happy one; she became lonely, homesick and deeply attached to Constantin Heger. She finally returned to Haworth in January 1844 and later used her time at the boarding school as the inspiration for some experiences in The Professor and Villette. First publication In May 1846, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne selffinanced the publication of a joint collection of poetry under the assumed names of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. These pseudonyms deliberately veiled the sisters' gender whilst preserving their real initials, thus Charlotte was "Currer Bell". "Bell" was also the middle name of Haworth's curate, Arthur Bell Nicholls, whom Charlotte would later marry. Of the decision to use nom de plumes, Charlotte later wrote: 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 that time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called 'feminine' – we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice; we had noticed how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise. Although only two copies of the collection of poetry were sold, the sisters continued writing for publication and began their first novels, continuing to use their nom de plumes when sending manuscripts to potential publishers. Jane Eyre Charlotte's first manuscript, called The Professor, did not secure a publisher, although she was heartened by an encouraging response she received from Smith, Elder & Co of Cornhill, who expressed an interest in any longer works which "Currer Bell" might wish to send. Charlotte responded by finishing and sending a second manuscript in August 1847, and six weeks later this second manuscript (titled Jane Eyre: An Autobiography) was published. Jane Eyre was a success, and initially received favourable reviews. Straightaway there was speculation about the identity of Currer Bell, and whether Bell was a man or a woman. A couple of months later this speculation heightened upon the subsequent publication of the first novels by Charlotte's sisters: Emily's Wuthering Heights (by "Ellis Bell") and Anne's Agnes Grey (by "Acton Bell"). Accompanying this speculation was a change in the critical reaction to Charlotte's work; accusations began to be made that Charlotte's writing was "coarse", a judgement which was made more readily once it was suspected that "Currer Bell" was a woman. However sales of Jane Eyre continued to be strong, and may even have increased due to the novel's developing reputation as an 'improper' book. Shirley and family bereavements Following the success of Jane Eyre, Charlotte began work in 1848 on the manuscript of what was to become her second novel, Shirley. However the manuscript was only partially completed when the Brontë household suffered a tragic turn of events, experiencing the deaths of three family members within a period of only eight months. In September 1848 Charlotte's brother, Branwell, the only son of the family, died of chronic bronchitis and marasmus exacerbated by heavy drinking, although Charlotte believed his death was due to tuberculosis. Branwell was also a suspected "opium eater", (i.e. a laudanum addict). Emily became seriously ill shortly after Branwell's funeral, dying of pulmonary tuberculosis in December 1848. Anne died of the same disease in May 1849. Charlotte was unable to continue writing during this period. After Anne's death Charlotte resumed writing as a way of dealing with her grief,and Shirley was published in October 1849. Shirley deals with the themes of industrial unrest and the role of women in society. Unlike Jane Eyre, which is written from the firstperson perspective of the main character, Shirley is written from the thirdperson perspective of a narrator. It consequently lacks the emotional immediacy of Jane Eyre, and reviewers found it less shocking. In society In view of the success of her novels, particularly Jane Eyre, Charlotte was persuaded by her publisher to visit London occasionally, where she revealed her true identity and began to move in a more exalted social circle, becoming friends with Harriet Martineau and Elizabeth Gaskell, and acquainted with William Makepeace Thackeray and G. H. Lewes. However Charlotte never left Haworth for more than a few weeks at a time as she did not want to leave her ageing father's side. Thackeray’s daughter, the writer Anne Isabella Thackeray Ritchie recalled a visit to her father by Charlotte: …two gentlemen come in, leading a tiny, delicate, serious, little lady, with fair straight hair, and steady eyes. She may be a little over thirty; she is dressed in a little barège dress with a pattern of faint green moss. She enters in mittens, in silence, in seriousness; our hearts are beating with wild excitement. This then is the authoress, the unknown power whose books have set all London talking, reading, speculating; some people even say our father wrote the books – the wonderful books… The moment is so breathless that dinner comes as a relief to the solemnity of the occasion, and we all smile as my father stoops to offer his arm; for, genius though she may be, Miss Brontë can barely reach his elbow. My own personal impressions are that she is somewhat grave and stern, specially to forward little girls who wish to chatter… Every one waited for the brilliant conversation which never began at all. Miss Brontë retired to the sofa in the study, and murmured a low word now and then to our kind governess… the conversation grew dimmer and more dim, the ladies sat round still expectant, my father was too much perturbed by the gloom and the silence to be able to cope with it at all… after Miss Brontë had left, I was surprised to see my father opening the front door with his hat on. He put his fingers to his lips, walked out into the darkness, and shut the door quietly behind him… long afterwards… Mrs. Procter asked me if I knew what had happened… It was one of the dullest evenings [Mrs Procter] had ever spent in her life… the ladies who had all come expecting so much delightful conversation, and the gloom and the constraint, and how finally, overwhelmed by the situation, my father had quietly left the room, left the house, and gone off to his club. Friendship with Elizabeth Gaskell Charlotte sent copies of Shirley to selected leading authors of the day, including Elizabeth Gaskell. Gaskell and Charlotte subsequently met in August 1850 and began a friendship which, whilst not necessarily close, was significant in that Gaskell would write a biography of Charlotte after Charlotte's death in 1855. The biography, The Life of Charlotte Brontë, was published in 1857 and was unusual at the time in that, rather than analysing its subject's achievements, it instead concentrated on the private details of Charlotte's life, in particular placing emphasis on aspects which countered the accusations of 'coarseness' which had been levelled at Charlotte's writing. Though frank in places, Gaskell was selective about which details she revealed; for example, she suppressed details of Charlotte's love for Heger, a married man, as being too much of an affront to contemporary morals and as a possible source of distress to Charlotte's stillliving friends, father and husband. Gaskell also provided doubtful and inaccurate information about Patrick Brontë, claiming, for example, that he did not allow his children to eat meat. This is refuted by one of Emily Brontë's diary papers, in which she describes the preparation of meat and potatoes for dinner at the parsonage, as Juliet Barker points out in her recent biography, The Brontës. It has been argued that the particular approach of The Life of Charlotte Brontë transferred the focus of attention away from the 'difficult' novels of not just Charlotte but all the Brontë sisters, and began a process of sanctification of their private lives. Villette Charlotte's third published novel (and her last to be published during her lifetime) was Villette, which came out in 1853. The main themes of Villette include isolation, and how such a condition can be borne, and the internal conflict brought about by societal repression of individual desire. The book's main character, Lucy Snowe, travels abroad to teach in a boarding school in the fictional town of Villette, where she encounters a culture and religion different to her own, and where she falls in love with a man ('Paul Emanuel') whom she cannot marry due to societal forces. Her experiences result in her having a breakdown, but eventually she achieves independence and fulfilment in running her own school. Villette marked Charlotte's return to the format of writing from a firstperson perspective (that of Lucy Snowe), a technique which she had used so successfully in Jane Eyre. Also similar to Jane Eyre was Charlotte's use of aspects from her own life history as inspiration for fictional events in the novel, in particular her reworking of her own time spent at the pensionnat in Brussels into Lucy spending time teaching at the boarding school, and her own falling in love with Constantin Heger into Lucy falling in love with 'Paul Emanuel'. Villette was acknowledged by the critics of the day as being a potent and sophisticated piece of writing, although it was still criticised for its 'coarseness' and for not being suitably 'feminine' in its portrayal of Lucy's desires. Illness and subsequent death In June 1854, Charlotte married Arthur Bell Nicholls, her father's curate and, in the opinion of many scholars, the model for several of her literary characters such as Jane Eyre's Rochester and St. John. She became pregnant soon after the marriage. Her health declined rapidly during this time, and according to Gaskell, her earliest biographer, she was attacked by "sensations of perpetual nausea and everrecurring faintness."Charlotte died, along with her unborn child, on 31 March 1855, at the young age of 38. Her death certificate gives the cause of death as phthisis (tuberculosis), but many biographers[who?] suggest she may have died from dehydration and malnourishment, caused by excessive vomiting from severe morning sickness or hyperemesis gravidarum. There is also evidence to suggest that Charlotte died from typhus she may have caught from Tabitha Ackroyd, the Bronte household's oldest servant, who died shortly before her. Charlotte was interred in the family vault in The Church of St. Michael and All Angels, Haworth, West Yorkshire, England. Posthumously, her firstwritten novel was published in 1857, the fragment she worked on in her last years in 1860 (twice completed by recent authors, the more famous version being Emma Brown: A Novel from the Unfinished Manuscript by Charlotte Brontë by Clare Boylan, 2003), and much Angria material over the ensuing decades Eserleri: Juvenilia The Young Men's Magazine, Number 1 3 (August 1830) The Spell The Secret Lily Hart The Foundling The Green Dwarf My Angria and the Angrians Albion and Marina Tales of the Islanders Tales of Angria (written 1838–1839 a collection of childhood and young adult writings including five short novels) Mina Laury Stancliffe's Hotel The Duke of Zamorna Henry Hastings Caroline Vernon The Roe Head Journal Fragments The Green Dwarf Novels Jane Eyre, published 1847 Shirley, published in 1849 Villette, published in 1853 The Professor 1857 Emma Poetry Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846) Selected Poems of The Brontës, Everyman Poetry (1997
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