CHAPTER XII.

WRITING POETRY.

While Emily Bronte's hands were full of trivial labour, while her heart

was buried with its charge of shame and sorrow, think not that her mind

was more at rest. She had always used her leisure to study or create;

and the dreariness of existence made this inner life of hers doubly

precious now. There is a tiny copy of the 'Poems' of Ellis, Currer, and

Acton Bell, which was Emily's own, marked with her name and with the

date of every poem carefully written under its title, in her own cramped

and tidy writing. It has been of great use to me in classifying the

order of these poems, chiefly hymns to imagination, Emily's "Comforter,"

her "Fairy-love;" beseeching her to light such a light in the soul that

the dull clouds of earthly skies may seem of scant significance.

The light that should be lit was indeed of supernatural brightness; a

flame from under the earth; a flame of lightning from the skies; a

beacon of awful warning. Although so much is scarcely evident in these

early poems, gleaming with fantastic glow-worm fires, fairy

prettinesses, or burning as solemnly and pale as tapers lit in daylight

round a bier, yet, in whatever shape, "the light that never was on sea

or land," the strange transfiguring shine of imagination, is present

there.

No one in the house ever saw what things Emily wrote in the moments of

pause from her pastry-making, in those brief sittings under the

currants, in those long and lonely watches for her drunken brother. She

did not write to be read, but only to relieve a burdened heart. "One

day," writes Charlotte in 1850, recollecting the near, vanished past,

"one day in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a manuscript

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, not 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."

Very true; these poems with their surplus of imagination, their

instinctive music and irregular rightness of form, their sweeping

impressiveness, effects of landscape, their scant allusions to dogma or

perfidious man, are, indeed, not at all like the poetry women generally

write. The hand that painted this single line,

"The dim moon struggling in the sky,"

should have shaken hands with Coleridge. The voice might have sung in

concert with Blake that sang this single bit of a song:

"Hope was but a timid friend;

She sat without the grated den,

Watching how my fate would tend,

Even as selfish-hearted men.

"She was cruel in her fear;

Through the bars, one dreary day,

I looked out to see her there,

And she turned her face away!"

Had the poem ended here it would have been perfect, but it and many more

of these lyrics have the uncertainty of close that usually marks early

work. Often incoherent, too, the pictures of a dream rapidly succeeding

each other without logical connection; yet scarcely marred by the

incoherence, since the effect they seek to produce is not an emotion,

not a conviction, but an impression of beauty, or horror, or ecstasy.

The uncertain outlines are bathed in a vague golden air of imagination,

and are shown to us with the magic touch of a Coleridge, a Leopardi--the

touch which gives a mood, a scene, with scarce an obvious detail of

either mood or scene. We may not understand the purport of the song, we

understand the feeling that prompted the song, as, having done with

reading 'Kubla Khan,' there remains in our mind, not the pictured vision

of palace or dancer, but a personal participation in Coleridge's

heightened fancy, a setting-on of reverie, an impression.

Read this poem, written in October, 1845--

"THE PHILOSOPHER.

"Enough of thought, philosopher,

Too long hast thou been dreaming

Unlightened, in this chamber drear,

While summer's sun is beaming!

Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain

Concludes thy musings once again?

"Oh, for the time when I shall sleep

Without identity,

And never care how rain may steep,

Or snow may cover me!

No promised heaven, these wild desires

Could all, or half fulfil;

No threatened hell, with quenchless fires,

Subdue this quenchless will!

"So said I, and still say the same;

Still, to my death, will say--

Three gods, within this little frame,

Are warring night and day;

Heaven could not hold them all, and yet

They all are held in me,

And must be mine till I forget

My present entity!

Oh, for the time, when in my breast

Their struggles will be o'er!

Oh, for the day, when I shall rest,

And never suffer more!

"I saw a spirit, standing, man,

Where thou dost stand--an hour ago,

And round his feet three rivers ran,

Of equal depth, and equal flow--

A golden stream, and one like blood,

And one like sapphire seemed to be;

But, where they joined their triple flood

It tumbled in an inky sea.

The spirit sent his dazzling gaze

Down through that ocean's gloomy night

Then, kindling all, with sudden blaze,

The glad deep sparkled wide and bright--

White as the sun, far, far more fair,

Than its divided sources were!

"And even for that spirit, seer,

I've watched and sought my life-time long;

Sought him in heaven, hell, earth and air--

An endless search, and always wrong!

Had I but seen his glorious eye

_Once_ light the clouds that 'wilder me,

I ne'er had raised this coward cry

To cease to think, and cease to be;

I ne'er had called oblivion blest,

Nor, stretching eager hands to death,

Implored to change for senseless rest

This sentient soul, this living breath--

"Oh, let me die--that power and will

Their cruel strife may close;

And conquered good, and conquering ill

Be lost in one repose!"

Some semblance of coherence may, no doubt, be given to this poem by

making the three first and the last stanzas to be spoken by the

questioner, and the fourth by the philosopher. Even so, the subject has

little charm. What we care for is the surprising energy with which the

successive images are projected, the earnest ring of the verse, the

imagination which invests all its changes. The man and the philosopher

are but the clumsy machinery of the magic-lantern, the more kept out of

view the better.

"Conquered good and conquering ill!" A thought that must often have

risen in Emily's mind during this year and those succeeding. A gloomy

thought, sufficiently strange in a country parson's daughter; one

destined to have a great result in her work.

Of these visions which make the larger half of Emily's contribution to

the tiny book, none has a more eerie grace than this day-dream of the

5th of March, 1844, sampled here by a few verses snatched out of their

setting rudely enough:--

"On a sunny brae, alone I lay

One summer afternoon;

It was the marriage-time of May

With her young lover, June.

* * * * *

"The trees did wave their plumy crests,

The glad birds carolled clear;

And I, of all the wedding guests,

Was only sullen there.

* * * * *

"Now, whether it were really so,

I never could be sure,

But as in fit of peevish woe,

I stretched me on the moor,

"A thousand thousand gleaming fires

Seemed kindling in the air;

A thousand thousand silvery lyres

Resounded far and near:

"Methought, the very breath I breathed

Was full of sparks divine,

And all my heather-couch was wreathed

By that celestial shine!

"And, while the wide earth echoing rung

To their strange minstrelsy,

The little glittering spirits sung,

Or seemed to sing, to me."

* * * * *

What they sang is indeed of little moment enough--a strain of the vague

pantheistic sentiment common always to poets, but her manner of

representing the little airy symphony is charming. It recalls the

fairy-like brilliance of the moors at sunset, when the sun, slipping

behind a western hill, streams in level rays on to an opposite crest,

gilding with pale gold the fawn-coloured faded grass; tangled in the

film of lilac seeding grasses, spread, like the bloom on a grape, over

all the heath; sparkling on the crisp edges of the heather blooms, pure

white, wild-rose colour, shell-tinted, purple; emphasising every

grey-green spur of the undergrowth of ground-lichen; striking every

scarlet-splashed, white-budded spray of ling: an iridescent, shimmering,

dancing effect of white and pink and purple flowers; of lilac bloom, of

grey-green and whitish-grey buds and branches, all crisply moving and

dancing together in the breeze on the hilltop. I have quoted that windy

night in a line--

"The dim moon struggling in the sky."

Here is another verse to show how well she watched from her bedroom's

wide window the grey far-stretching skies above the black far-stretching

moors--

"And oh, how slow that keen-eyed star

Has tracked the chilly grey;

What, watching yet! how very far

The morning lies away."

Such direct, vital touches recall well-known passages in 'Wuthering

Heights:' Catharine's pictures of the moors; that exquisite allusion to

Gimmerton Chapel bells, not to be heard on the moors in summer when the

trees are in leaf, but always heard at Wuthering Heights on quiet days

following a great thaw or a season of steady rain.

But not, alas! in such fantasy, in such loving intimacy with nature,

might much of Emily's sorrowful days be passed. Nor was it in her nature

that all her dreams should be cheerful. The finest songs, the most

peculiarly her own, are all of defiance and mourning, moods so natural

to her that she seems to scarcely need the intervention of words in

their confession. The wild, melancholy, and elevating music of which

Charlotte wisely speaks is strong enough to move our very hearts to

sorrow in such verses as the following, things which would not touch us

at all were they written in prose; which have no personal note. Yet

listen--

"Death! that struck when I was most confiding

In my certain faith of joy to be--

Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing

From the fresh root of Eternity!

"Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,

Full of sap, and full of silver dew;

Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;

Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.

"Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom."

Solemn, haunting with a passion infinitely beyond the mere words, the

mere image; because, in some wonderful way, the very music of the verse

impresses, reminds us, declares the holy inevitable losses of death.

A finer poem yet is 'Remembrance,' written two years later, in the March

of 1845; here the words and the thought are worthy of the music and the

mood. It has vital passion in it; though it can scarcely be personal

passion, since, "fifteen wild Decembers" before 1845, Emily Bronte was a

girl of twelve years old, companionless, save for still living sisters,

Branwell, her aunt, and the vicarage servants. Here, as elsewhere in the

present volume, the creative instinct reveals itself in imagining

emotions and not characters. The artist has supplied the passion of the

lover.

"Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,

Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

"Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover

Over the mountains, on that northern shore,

Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover

Thy noble heart for ever, evermore?

"Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers,

From those brown hills, have melted into spring:

Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers

After such years of change and suffering!

"Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,

While the world's tide is bearing me along;

Other desires and other hopes beset me,

Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.

"No later light has lightened up my heaven,

No second morn has ever shone for me;

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,

All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

"But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,

And even Despair was powerless to destroy,

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,

Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.

"Then did I check the tears of useless passion--

Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;

Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten

Down to that tomb already more than mine.

"And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?"

Better still, of a standard excellence, is a little poem, which, by some

shy ostrich prompting, Emily chose to call

"THE OLD STOIC.

"Riches I hold in light esteem;

And Love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream

That vanished with the morn:

"And if I pray, the only prayer

That moves my lips for me

Is, 'Leave the heart that now I bear,

And give me liberty!'

"Yes, as my swift days near their goal,

'Tis all that I implore;

In life and death, a chainless soul,

With courage to endure."

Throughout the book one recognises the capacity for producing something

finer and quite different from what is here produced; one recognises so

much, but not the author of 'Wuthering Heights.' Grand impressions of

mood and landscape reveal a remarkably receptive artistic temperament;

splendid and vigorous movement of lines shows that the artist is a poet.

Then we are in a _cul-de-sac_. There is no hint of what kind of

poet--too reserved to be consistently lyric, there is not sufficient

evidence of the dramatic faculty to help us on to the true scent. All we

can say is that we have before us a mind capable of very complete and

real illusions, haunted by imagination, always fantastic, and often

terrible; a temperament reserved, fearless and brooding; a character of

great strength and ruggedness, extremely tenacious of impressions. We

must call in Monsieur Taine and his _Milieu_ to account for 'Wuthering

Heights.'

This first volume reveals an overpowering imagination which has not yet

reached its proper outlet. It is painful, in reading these early poems,

to feel how ruthless and horrible that strong imagination often was, as

yet directed on no purposed line. Sometimes, indeed, sweet fancies came

to Emily, but often they were visions of black dungeons, scenes of

death, and hopeless parting, of madness and agony.

"So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun,

And in the glare of Hell;

My spirit drank a mingled tone,

Of seraph's song, and demon's moan;

What my soul bore, my soul alone

Within itself may tell!"

It is painful, indeed, to think that the surroundings of this violent

imagination, with its bias towards the capricious and the terrifying,

were loneliness, sorrow, enforced companionship with degradation; a life

so bitter, for a long time, and made so bitter through another's fault,

that Emily welcomed her fancies, even the gloomiest, as a happy outlet

from reality.

"Oh, dreadful is the check--intense the agony--

When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;

When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again,

The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain."

Such were the verses that Charlotte discovered one autumn day of 1845,

which surprised her, with good reason, by their originality and music.

Emily was not pleased by what in her eyes, so jealous of her liberty,

must have seemed a deliberate interference with her property. "My sister

Emily," continues Charlotte, "was not a person of demonstrative

character, nor one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those

nearest and dearest to her could intrude unlicensed; it took hours to

reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that

such poems merited publication. I knew, however, that a mind like hers

could not be without some latent spark of honourable ambition, and

refused to be discouraged in my attempts to fan that spark to flame.

"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 some of hers. I could not but be a partial judge,

yet I thought that these verses, too, had a sweet sincere pathos of

their own."

Only a partial judge could find anything much to praise in gentle Anne's

trivial verses. Had the book an index of first lines, what a scathing

criticism on the contents would it be!

"Sweet are thy strains, celestial bard."

"I'll rest me in this sheltered bower."

"Oh, I am very weary, though tears no longer flow."

From such beginnings we too clearly foresee the hopeless bathos of the

end. Poor child, her real, deep sorrows, expressed in such worn-out

ill-fitting phrases, are as little touching as the beauty of a London

shopgirl under the ready-made cast-off adornments of her second-hand

finery.

Charlotte, however, knowing the real sorrow, the real meekness that

inspired them, not unnaturally put into the trivial verses the pathos of

the writer's circumstances. Of a truth, her own poems are not such as

would justify any great rigour of criticism. They are often, as poems,

actually inferior to Anne's, her manner of dragging in a tale or a moral

at the end of a lyric having quite a comical effect; yet, on the whole,

her share of the book clearly distinguishes her as an eloquent and

imaginative _raconteuse_, at the same time that it denies her the least

sprout, the smallest leaf, of that flowerless wreath of bays which Emily

might claim. But at that time the difference was not so clearly

distinguishable; though Charlotte ever felt and owned her sister's

superiority in this respect, it was not recognised as of a sort to quite

outshine her own little tales in verse, and quite outlustre Anne's pious

effusions.

A packet of manuscript was selected, a little packet written in three

different hands and signed by three names. The sisters did not wish to

reveal their identity; they decided on a _nom de plume_, and chose the

common north-country surname of Bell. They did not wish to be known as

women: "we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be

looked on with prejudices;" yet their fastidious honour prevented them

from wearing a mask they had no warrant for; to satisfy both scruples

they assumed names that might equally belong to a man or a woman. In the

part of Yorkshire where they lived children are often christened by

family names; over the shops they would see "Sunderland Akroyd," varied

by "Pighills Sunderland," with scarce a John or James to bear them

company. So there was nothing strange to them in the fashion so

ingeniously turned to their own uses. Ellis veiled Emily; Currer,

Charlotte; Acton, Anne. The first and last are common names enough--a

Miss Currer who was one of the subscribers to Cowan's Bridge may have

suggested her pseudonym to Charlotte. At last every detail was

discussed, decided, and the packet sent off to London to try its

fortunes in the world:--

"This bringing out of our little book was hard work. As was to be

expected neither we nor our poems were at all wanted; but for this we

had been prepared at the outset; though inexperienced ourselves, we had

read the experience of others. The great puzzle lay in the difficulty of

getting answers of any kind from the publishers to whom we applied.

Being greatly harassed by this obstacle, I ventured to apply to the

Messrs. Chambers of Edinburgh for a word of advice: _they_ may have

forgotten the circumstance, but _I_ have not; for from them I received a

brief and business-like but civil and sensible reply, on which we acted,

and at last made a way."[21]

Ultimately the three sisters found a publisher who would undertake the

work upon commission; a favourable answer came from Messrs. Aylott &

Jones, of Paternoster Row, who estimated the expense of the book at

thirty guineas. It was a great deal for the three sisters to spare from

their earnings, but they were eager to print, eager to make sacrifices,

as though in some dim way they saw already the glorious goal. But at

present there was business to do. They bought one of the numerous little

primers that are always on sale to show the poor vain moth of amateur

authorship how least to burn his wings--little books more eagerly bought

and read than any of those that they bring into the world. Such a

publisher's guide, meant for ambitious schoolboys, the Brontes bought

and studied as anxiously as they. By the end of February all was

settled, the type decided upon, the money despatched, the printers at

work. Emily Bronte's copy is dated May 7th, 1846.

What eagerness at the untying of the parcel in which those first copies

came! What disappointment, chequered with ecstasy, at reading their own

verse, unaltered, yet in print! An experience not so common then as now;

to be a poetess in those days had a certain distinction, and the three

sisters must have anxiously waited for a greeting. The poems had been

despatched to many magazines: _Colburne's_, _Bentley's_, _Hood's_,

_Jerrold's_, _Blackwood's_, their early idol; to the _Edinburgh Review_,

_Tait's Edinburgh Magazine_, the _Dublin University Magazine_; to the

_Athenaeum_, the _Literary Gazette_, the _Critic_, and to the _Daily

News_, the _Times_, and to the _Britannia_ newspaper. Surely from some

quarter they would hear such an authentic word of warning or welcome as

should confirm at once their hopes or their despairs. They had grown

used to waiting; but they had long to wait. At last, on July 4th, the

_Athenaeum_ reviewed their book in a short paragraph, and it is

remarkable that, though in such reviews of the poems as appeared after

the publication of 'Jane Eyre,' it is always Currer Bell's "fine sense

of nature," Currer Bell's "matured intellect and masterly hand," that

wins all the praise; still, in this early notice, the yet unblinded

critic has perceived to whom the palm is due. Ellis Bell he places

first of the three supposed brothers, naming him "a fine quaint spirit

with an evident power of wing that may reach heights not here

attempted." Next to him the critic ranks Currer, lastly Anne. Scarce

another notice did they see.

The little book was evidently a failure; it had fallen still-born from

the press. Were all their hopes to die as soon as they were born? At

least they resolved not to be too soon baffled, and already, in the

thick of their disappointment, began to lay the plots of the novels they

would write. Like our army, they gained their battles by never owning

they were beaten.

They kept it all to themselves, this disappointment, these resolutions.

When the inquisitive postman asked Mr. Bronte if he knew who was that

Mr. Currer Bell for whom so many letters always came, the old gentleman

answered with a sense of authority, "My good man, there is no such

person in the parish;" and when, on rare occasions, Branwell came into

the room where they were writing, no word was said of the work that was

going on. Not even to the sisterly Ellen, so near to all their hearts,

was any confession made of the way they spent their time.

"We have done nothing (to _speak_ of) since you were here," says

conscientious Anne. Nevertheless their friend drew her conclusions.

About this time she came to stay at Haworth, and sometimes (a little

amused at their reticence) she would tease them with her suspicions, to

Charlotte's alarmed surprise. Once, at this time, when they were walking

on the moor together, a sudden change and light came into the sky.

"Look," said Charlotte; and the four girls looked up and saw three suns

shining clearly overhead. They stood a little while silently gazing at

the beautiful parhelion; Charlotte, her friend, and Anne clustered

together, Emily a little higher, standing on a heathery knoll. "That is

you!" said Ellen at last. "You are the three suns." "Hush!" cried

Charlotte, indignant at the too shrewd nonsense of her friend; but as

Ellen, her suspicions confirmed by Charlotte's violence, lowered her

eyes to the earth again, she looked a moment at Emily. She was still

standing on her knoll, quiet, satisfied; and round her lips there

hovered a very soft and happy smile. She was not angry, the independent

Emily. She had liked the little speech.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 21: 'Memoir.' C. B.]