In spite of misconstruction and abuse, however, “Wildfell Hall” seems to have attained more immediate success than anything else written by the sisters before 1848, except “Jane Eyre.” It went into a second edition within a very short time of its publication, and Messrs. Newby informed the American publishers with whom they were negotiating that it was the work of the same hand which had produced “Jane Eyre,” and superior to either “Jane Eyre” or “Wuthering Heights”! It was, indeed, the sharp practice connected with this astonishing judgment which led to the sisters’ hurried journey to London in 1848—the famous journey when the two little ladies in black revealed themselves to Mr. Smith, and proved to him that they were not one Currer Bell, but two Miss Brontës. It was Anne’s sole journey to London—her only contact with a world that was not Haworth, except that supplied by her school-life at Roehead and her two teaching engagements.

And there was and is a considerable narrative ability, a sheer moral energy in “Wildfell Hall,” which would not be enough, indeed, to keep it alive if it were not the work of a Brontë, but still betray its kinship and source. The scenes of Huntingdon’s wickedness are less interesting but less improbable than the country-house scenes of “Jane Eyre”; the story of his death has many true and touching passages; the last love-scene is well, even in parts admirably, written. But the book’s truth, so far as it is true, is scarcely the truth of imagination; it is rather the truth of a tract or a report. There can be little doubt that many of the pages are close transcripts from Branwell’s conduct and language,—so far as Anne’s slighter personality enabled her to render her brother’s temperament, which was more akin to Emily’s than to her own. The same material might have been used by Emily or Charlotte; Emily, as we know, did make use of it in “Wuthering Heights”; but only after it had passed through that ineffable transformation, that mysterious, incommunicable heightening which makes and gives rank in literature. Some subtle, innate correspondence between eye and brain, between brain and hand, was present in Emily and Charlotte, and absent in Anne. There is no other account to be given of this or any other case of difference between serviceable talent and the high gifts of “Delos” and Patara’s own “Apollo.”

The same world of difference appears between her poems and those of her playfellow and comrade, Emily. If ever our descendants should establish the schools for writers which are even now threatened or attempted, they will hardly know perhaps any better than we what genius is, nor how it can be produced. But if they try to teach by example, then Anne and Emily Brontë are ready to their hand. Take the verses written by Emily at Roehead which contain the lovely lines which I have already quoted in an earlier “Introduction.”[1] Just before those lines there are two or three verses which it is worth while to compare with a poem of Anne’s called “Home.” Emily was sixteen at the time of writing; Anne about twenty-one or twenty-two. Both sisters take for their motive the exile’s longing thought of home. Emily’s lines are full of faults, but they have the indefinable quality—here, no doubt, only in the bud, only as a matter of promise—which Anne’s are entirely without. From the twilight schoolroom at Roehead, Emily turns in thought to the distant upland of Haworth and the little stone-built house upon its crest:—

There is a spot, ’mid barren hills, Where winter howls, and driving rain; But, if the dreary tempest chills, There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare, Moonless above bends twilight’s dome, But what on earth is half so dear— So longed for—as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone, The dank moss dripping from the wall, The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown, I love them—how I love them all!

Anne’s verses, written from one of the houses where she was a governess, express precisely the same feeling, and movement of mind. But notice the instinctive rightness and swiftness of Emily’s, the blurred weakness of Anne’s!—

For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen, Long winding walks, and borders trim, And velvet lawns between—

Restore to me that little spot, With gray walls compassed round, Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high Invites the foot to roam, And though its halls are fair within— Oh, give me back my Home!

A similar parallel lies between Anne’s lines “Domestic Peace,”—a sad and true reflection of the terrible times with Branwell in 1846—and Emily’s “Wanderer from the Fold”; while in Emily’s “Last Lines,” the daring spirit of the sister to whom the magic gift was granted separates itself for ever from the gentle and accustomed piety of the sister to whom it was denied. Yet Anne’s “Last Lines”—“I hoped that with the brave and strong”—have sweetness and sincerity; they have gained and kept a place in English religious verse, and they must always appeal to those who love the Brontës because, in the language of Christian faith and submission, they record the death of Emily and the passionate affection which her sisters bore her.

And so we are brought back to the point from which we started. It is not as the writer of “Wildfell Hall,” but as the sister of Charlotte and Emily Brontë, that Anne Brontë escapes oblivion—as the frail “little one,” upon whom the other two lavished a tender and protecting care, who was a witness of Emily’s death, and herself, within a few minutes of her own farewell to life, bade Charlotte “take courage.”

“When my thoughts turn to Anne,” said Charlotte many years earlier, “they always see her as a patient, persecuted stranger,—more lonely, less gifted with the power of making friends even than I am.” Later on, however, this power of making friends seems to have belonged to Anne in greater measure than to the others. Her gentleness conquered; she was not set apart, as they were, by the lonely and self-sufficing activities of great powers; her Christianity, though sad and timid, was of a kind which those around her could understand; she made no grim fight with suffering and death as did Emily. Emily was “torn” from life “conscious, panting, reluctant,” to use Charlotte’s own words; Anne’s “sufferings were mild,” her mind “generally serene,” and at the last “she thanked God that death was come, and come so gently.” When Charlotte returned to the desolate house at Haworth, Emily’s large house-dog and Anne’s little spaniel welcomed her in “a strange, heart-touching way,” she writes to Mr. Williams. She alone was left, heir to all the memories and tragedies of the house. She took up again the task of life and labour. She cared for her father; she returned to the writing of “Shirley”; and when she herself passed away, four years later, she had so turned those years to account that not only all she did but all she loved had passed silently into the keeping of fame. Mrs. Gaskell’s touching and delightful task was ready for her, and Anne, no less than Charlotte and Emily, was sure of England’s remembrance.

MARY A. WARD.

AUTHOR’S PREFACE[2] TO THE SECOND EDITION

While I acknowledge the success of the present work to have been greater than I anticipated, and the praises it has elicited from a few kind critics to have been greater than it deserved, I must also admit that from some other quarters it has been censured with an asperity which I was as little prepared to expect, and which my judgment, as well as my feelings, assures me is more bitter than just. It is scarcely the province of an author to refute the arguments of his censors and vindicate his own productions; but I may be allowed to make here a few observations with which I would have prefaced the first edition, had I foreseen the necessity of such precautions against the misapprehensions of those who would read it with a prejudiced mind or be content to judge it by a hasty glance.

My object in writing the following pages was not simply to amuse the Reader; neither was it to gratify my own taste, nor yet to ingratiate myself with the Press and the Public: I wished to tell the truth, for truth always conveys its own moral to those who are able to receive it. But as the priceless treasure too frequently hides at the bottom of a well, it needs some courage to dive for it, especially as he that does so will be likely to incur more scorn and obloquy for the mud and water into which he has ventured to plunge, than thanks for the jewel he procures; as, in like manner, she who undertakes the cleansing of a careless bachelor’s apartment will be liable to more abuse for the dust she raises than commendation for the clearance she effects. Let it not be imagined, however, that I consider myself competent to reform the errors and abuses of society, but only that I would fain contribute my humble quota towards so good an aim; and if I can gain the public ear at all, I would rather whisper a few wholesome truths therein than much soft nonsense.