college."
Mr. Bouncer, however, succeeded in explaining matters to the proctor,
who then congratulated the Pet on having displayed pugilistic powers
worthy of the Xystics of the noblest days of Ancient Rome. Both the Pet
and the undergraduates wondered what a Xystic was, but instead of
inquiring further into the matter, they went to the Roebuck, where,
after a supper of grilled bones and welsh-rabbits, Mr. Verdant Green
gave, "by particular request," his now celebrated song, "The Mar-arble
Halls."

The forehead of the singer was decorated with a patch of brown paper,
from which arose a strong smell of vinegar. But he was not ashamed of
it; indeed, he wore it all the next day, and was sorry when he had to
take it off--for was it not, in a way, a badge of courage?

From this time Mr. Verdant Green began to despise mere reading-men who
never went in for sports. He resolved at once to go in for them all. He
took to rowing, and was rescued from a watery grave by Mr. Bouncer.
Then, defeated but undaunted, he took to riding, and was thrown off. But
what did it matter? Before the term ended, he grew more accustomed to
the management of Oxford tubs and Oxford hacks.

It is true that the unfeeling man who reported the Torpid races for
"Bell's Life" had the unkindness to state in cold print; "Worcester
succeeded in making the bump at the Cherwell, in consequence of No. 3 of
the Brazenface boat suffering from fatigue." And on the copy of the
journal sent to Mrs. Green of Manor Green, her son sadly drew a pencil
line under "No. 3," and wrote: "This was me." But both Mrs. Green and
Miss Virginia Green were more than consoled when their beloved boy
returned home about midsummer with a slip of paper on which was written
and printed:

GREEN, VERDANT, E. Coll. AEn. Fac. Quiaestionibus Magistrorum Scholarum
in Parviso pro forma respondit.

Ita testamur (GULIELMUS SMITH.
(ROBERTUS JONES.

In other words, Mr. Verdant Green had got through his Smalls. But, sad
to say, poor Mr. Bouncer had been plucked.

Mr. Verdant Green smiled to himself. It was the sheerest bit of good
luck that he had managed to get through. Still, he had learned more at
Oxford than was taught in books--he had learned to be a manly fellow in
spite of his gig-lamps.


*       *       *       *       *



CHARLOTTE BRONTE


Jane Eyre

Charlotte Bronte was born at Thornton, Yorkshire, England, on
the 21st of April, 1816, of Irish and Cornish stock. By reason
of her father's manner of living, she was utterly deprived of
all companions of her own age. She therefore lived in a little
world of her own, and by the time she was thirteen years of
age, it had become her constant habit, and one of her few
pleasures, to weave imaginary tales, idealising her favorite
historical heroes, and setting forth in narrative form her own
thoughts and feelings. Both Charlotte and her sisters Emily
and Anne early found refuge in their habits of composition,
and about 1845 made their first literary venture--a small
volume of poems. This was not successful, but the authors were
encouraged to make a further trial, and each began to prepare
a prose tale. "Jane Eyre," perhaps the most poignant
love-story in the English tongue, was published on October 16,
1847. Its title ran: "Jane Eyre: an Autobiography. Edited by
Currer Bell." The romantic story of its acceptance by the
publishers has been told in our condensation of Mrs. Gaskell's
"Life of Charlotte Bronte." (See LIVES AND LETTERS, Vol. IX.)
Written secretly under the pressure of incessant domestic
anxiety, as if with the very life-blood of its author, the
wonderful intensity of the story kindled the imagination of
the reading public in an extraordinary degree, and the
popularity at once attained has never flagged. Though the
experiences of Jane Eyre were not, except in comparatively
unimportant episodes, the experiences of the authoress, Jane
Eyre is Charlotte Bronte. One of the most striking features of
the book--a feature preserved in the following summary--is the
haunting suggestion of sympathy between nature and human
emotion. The publication of "Jane Eyre" removed its authoress
from almost straitened circumstances and a narrow round of
life to material comfort and congenial society. In reality it
endowed at once the most diffident of women with lasting fame.
After a brief period of married life, Charlotte Bronte died on
March 31, 1855.


_I.--The Master of Thornfield Hall_


Thornfield, my new home after I left school, was, I found, a fine old
battlemented hall, and Mrs. Fairfax, who had answered my advertisement,
a mild, elderly lady, related by marriage to Mr. Rochester, the owner of
the estate and the guardian of Adela Varens, my little pupil.

It was not till three months after my arrival there that my adventures
began. One day Mrs. Fairfax proposed to show me over the house, much of
which was unoccupied. The third storey especially had the aspect of a
home of the past--a shrine of memory. I liked its hush and quaintness.

"If there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall this would be its haunt," said
Mrs. Fairfax, as we passed the range of apartments on our way to see the
view from the roof.

I was pacing through the corridor of the third floor on my return, when
the last sound I expected in so still a region struck my ear--a laugh,
distinct, formal, mirthless. At first it was very low, but it passed off
in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber.

"Mrs. Fairfax," I called out, "did you hear that laugh? Who is it?"

"Some of the servants very likely," she answered; "perhaps Grace Poole."

The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.

"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I didn't expect Grace to answer, for the laugh was preternatural.

Nevertheless, the door nearest me opened, and a servant came out--a set,
square-made figure, with a hard, plain face.

"Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!"

Grace curtseyed silently, and went in.

Not unfrequently after that I heard Grace Poole's laugh and her
eccentric murmurs, stranger than her laugh.

Late one fine, calm afternoon in January I volunteered to carry to the
post at Hay, two miles distant, a letter Mrs. Fairfax had just written.
The lane to Hay inclined uphill all the way, and having reached the
middle, I sat on a stile till the sun went down, and on the hill-top
above me stood the rising moon. The village was a mile distant, but in
the absolute hush I could hear plainly its murmurs of life.

A rude noise broke on the fine ripplings and whisperings of the evening
calm, a metallic clatter, a horse was coming. The windings of the lane
hid it as it approached. Then I heard a rush under the hedge, and close
by glided a great dog, not staying to look up. The horse followed--a
tall steed, and on its back a rider. He passed; a sliding sound, a
clattering tumble, and man and horse were down. They had slipped on the
sheet of ice which glased the causeway. The dog came bounding back,
sniffed round the prostrate group, and then ran up to me; it was all he
could do. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller struggling
himself free of his steed. I think he was swearing, but am not certain.

"Can I do anything?" I asked.

"You can stand on one side," he answered as he rose. Whereupon began a
heaving, stamping process, accompanied by a barking and baying, and the
horse was re-established and the dog silenced with a "Down, Pilot!"

"If you are hurt and want help, sir," I remarked, "I can fetch someone,
either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay."

"Thank you, I shall do. I have no broken bones, only a sprain." And he
limped to the stile.

He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow. His eyes and
gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted; he was past youth, but had
not reached middle age--perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear
of him and but little shyness. His frown and roughness set me at ease.

He waved me to go, but I said:

"I cannot think of leaving you in this solitary lane till you are fit to
mount your horse."

"You ought to be at home yourself," said he. "Where do you come from?"

"From just below."

"Do you mean that house with the battlements?"

"Yes, sir."

"Whose house is it?"

"Mr. Rochester's."

"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"

"No, I have never seen him."

"You are not a servant at the Hall, of course. You are--"

"I am the governess."

"Ah, the governess!" he repeated. "Deuce take me if I had not forgotten!
Excuse me," he continued, "necessity compels me to make you useful."

He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, limped to his horse, caught the
bridle, and, grimacing grimly, sprang into the saddle and, with a "Thank
you," bounded away.

When I returned from Hay, after posting Mrs. Fairfax's letter, I went to
her room. She was not there, but sitting upright on the rug was a great
black-and-white long-haired dog. I went forward and said, "Pilot," and
the thing got up, came to me, sniffed me, and wagged his great tail. I
rang the bell.

"What dog is this?"

"He came with master, who has just arrived. He has had an accident, and
his ankle is sprained."

The next day I was summoned to take tea with Mr. Rochester and my pupil.
When I entered he was looking at Adela, who knelt on the hearth beside
Pilot.

"Here is Miss Eyre, sir," said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way.

Mr. Rochester bowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog
and the child.

I sat down, disembarrassed. Politeness might have confused me; caprice
laid me under no obligation.

Mrs. Fairfax seemed to think someone should be amiable, and she began to
talk.

"Madam, I should like some tea," was the sole rejoinder she got.

"Come to the fire," said the master, when the tray was taken away. "When
you came on me in Hay lane last night I thought unaccountably of fairy
tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse.
I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?"

"I have none."

"I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people when you sat on
that stile?"

"For whom, sir?"

"For the men in green. Did I break through one of your rings that you
spread that ice on the causeway?"

I shook my head.

"The men in green all forsook England a hundred years ago. I don't think
either summer or harvest or winter moon will ever shine on their revels
more."

Mrs. Fairfax dropped her knitting, wondering what sort of talk this was,
and remarked that Miss Eyre had been a kind and careful teacher.

"Don't trouble yourself to give her a character," returned Mr.
Rochester. "I shall judge for myself. She began by felling my horse."

"You said Mr. Rochester was not peculiar, Mrs. Fairfax," I remonstrated,
when I rejoined her in her room after putting Adela to bed.

After a time my master's manner towards me changed. It became more
uniform. I never seemed in his way. He did not take fits of chilling
hauteur. When he met me, the encounter seemed welcome; he always had a
word, and sometimes a smile. I felt at times as if he were my relation
rather than my master, and so happy did I become that the blanks of
existence were filled up. He had now been resident eight weeks, though
Mrs. Fairfax said he seldom stayed at the Hall longer than a fortnight.


_II.--The Mystery of the Third Floor_


One night, I hardly know whether I had been sleeping or musing, I
started wide awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and lugubrious.
It ceased, but my heart beat anxiously; my inward tranquillity was
broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then my
chamber-door was touched as if fingers swept the panels groping a way
along the dark gallery outside. I was chilled with fear. Then I
remembered that it might be Pilot, and the idea calmed me. But it was
fated I should not sleep that night, for at the very keyhole of my
chamber, as it seemed, a demoniac laugh was uttered. My first impulse
was to rise and fasten the bolt, my next to cry: "Who is there?" Ere
long steps retreated up the gallery towards the third floor staircase,
and then all was still.

"Was it Grace Poole?" thought I. I hurried on my frock, and with a
trembling hand opened the door. There, burning outside, left on the
matting of the gallery, was a candle; and the air was filled with smoke,
which rushed in a cloud from Mr. Rochester's room. In an instant I was
within the chamber. Tongues of fire darted round the bed; the curtains
were on fire, and in the midst lay Mr. Rochester, in deep sleep. I shook
him, but he seemed stupefied. Then I rushed to his basin and ewer, and
deluged the bed with water. He woke with the cry: "Is there a flood?
What is it?"

I briefly related what had transpired. He was now in his dressing-gown,
and, warning me to stay where I was and call no one, he added: "I must
pay a visit to the third floor." A long time elapsed ere he returned,
pale and gloomy.

"I have found it all out," said he; "it is as I thought. You are no
talking fool. Say nothing about it."

He held out his hand as we parted. I gave him mine; he took it in both
his own.

"You have saved my life. I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a
debt. I feel your benefits no burden, Jane."

Strange energy was in his voice.

Till morning I was tossed on a buoyant, but unquiet sea. In the morning
I heard the servants exclaim how providential that master thought of the
water-jug when he had left the candle alight; and passing the room, I
saw, sewing rings on the new curtains, no other than--Grace Poole.

Company now came to the hall, including the beautiful Miss Ingram, whom
rumour associated with Mr. Rochester, as I heard from Mrs. Fairfax.

One day Mr. Rochester had been called away from home, and on his return,
as I was the first inmate of the house to meet him, I remarked: "Oh, are
you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived since you left
this morning?"

"A stranger! no; I expected no one; did he give his name?"

"His name is Mason, sir, and he comes from the West Indies."

Mr. Rochester was standing near me, and as I spoke he gave my wrist a
convulsive grip, while a spasm caught his breath, and he turned whiter
than ashes.

"Do you feel ill, sir?" I inquired.

"Jane, I've got a blow; I've got a blow, Jane!" he staggered.

Then he sat down and made me sit beside him.

"My little friend," said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island with only
you; and trouble and danger and hideous recollections were removed from
me."

"Can I help you, sir? I'd give my life to serve you."

"Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your hands."

"Thank you, sir; tell me what to do."

"Go back into the room; step quietly up to Mason, tell him Mr. Rochester
has come and wishes to see him; show him in here, and then leave me."

At a late hour that night I heard the visitors repair to their chambers
and Mr. Rochester saying: "This way, Mason; this is your room."

He spoke cheerfully, and the gay tones set my heart at ease.

Awaking in the dead of night I stretched my hand to draw the curtain,
for the moon was full and bright. Good God! What a cry! The night was
rent in twain by a savage, shrilly sound that ran from end to end of
Thornfield Hall.

The cry died and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that
fearful shriek could not soon repeat it; not the widest-winged condor on
the Andes could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the
cloud shrouding his eyrie.

It came out of the third storey. And overhead--yes, in the room just
above my chamber, I heard a deadly struggle, and a half-smothered voice
shout, "Help! help!"

A chamber door opened; someone rushed along the gallery. Another step
stamped on the floor above, and something fell. Then there was silence.

The sleepers were all aroused and gathered in the gallery, which but for
the moonlight would have been in complete darkness. The door at the end
of the gallery opened, and Mr. Rochester advanced with a candle. He had
just descended from the upper storey.

"All's right!" he cried. "A servant has had a nightmare, that is all,
and has taken a fit with fright. Now I must see you all back to your
rooms." And so by dint of coaxing and commanding he contrived to get
them back to their dormitories.

I retreated unnoticed and dressed myself carefully to be ready for
emergencies. About an hour passed, and then a cautious hand tapped low
at my door.

"Are you up and dressed?"

"Yes."

"Then come out quietly."

Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.

"Bring a sponge and some volatile salts," said he.

I did so, and followed him.

"You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"

"I think not; I have never been tried yet."

We entered a room with an inner apartment, from whence came a snarling,
snatching sound. Mr. Rochester went forward into this apartment, and a
shout of laughter greeted his entrance. Grace Poole, then, was there.
When he came out he closed the door behind him.

"Here, Jane!" he said.

I walked round to the other side of the large bed in the outer room, and
there, in an easy-chair, his head leaned back, I recognised the pale and
seemingly lifeless face of the stranger, Mason. His linen on one side
and one arm was almost soaked in blood.

Mr. Rochester took the sponge, dipped it in water, moistened the
corpse-like face, and applied my smelling-bottle to the nostrils.

Mr. Mason unclosed his eyes and murmured: "Is there immediate danger?"

"Pooh!--a mere scratch! I'll fetch a surgeon now, and you'll be able to
be removed by the morning."

"Jane," he continued, "you'll sponge the blood when it returns, and put
your salts to his nose; and you'll not speak to him on any pretext--and,
Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her."

Two hours later the surgeon came and removed the injured man.

In the morning I heard Rochester in the yard, saying to some of the
visitors, "Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone
before sunrise. I rose to see him off."


_III.--The Shadowy Walk_


A splendid midsummer shone over England. In the sweetest hour of the
twenty-four, after the sun had gone down in simple state, and dew fell
cool on the panting plain, I had walked into the orchard, to the giant
horse-chestnut, near the sunk fence that separates the Hall grounds from
the lonely fields, when there came to me the warning fragrance of Mr.
Rochester's cigar. I was about to retreat when he intercepted me, and
said: "Turn back, Jane; on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the
house." I did not like to walk alone with my master at this hour in the
shadowy orchard, but could find no reason for leaving him.

"Jane," he recommenced, as we slowly strayed down in the direction of
the horse-chestnut, "Thornfield is a pleasant place in summer, is it
not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you must have become in some degree attached to it?"

"I am attached to it, indeed."

"Pity!" he said, and paused.

"Must I move on, sir?" I asked.

"I believe you must, Jane."

This was a blow, but I did not let it prostrate me.

"Then you are going to be married, sir?"

"In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom. We have been good friends,
Jane, have we not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Here is the chestnut-tree; come, we will sit here in peace to-night."
He seated me and himself.

"Jane, do you hear the nightingale singing in the wood? Listen!"

In listening, I sobbed convulsively, for I could repress what I endured
no longer, and when I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous
wish that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.

"Because you are sorry to leave it?"

The vehemence of emotion was claiming mastery, and struggling for full
sway--to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last; yes--and to speak.

"I grieve to leave Thornfield. I love Thornfield, because I have lived
in it a full and delightful life. I have not been trampled on; I have
not been petrified. I have talked face to face with what I delight
in--an original, a vigorous and expanded mind. I have known you, Mr.
Rochester. I see the necessity of departure, but it is like looking on
the necessity of death."

"Where do you see the necessity?" he asked suddenly.

"Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?" I retorted, roused
to something like passion. "Do you think, because I am poor, obscure,
plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have
as much soul as you--and full as much heart! I am not talking to you now
through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even mortal flesh.
It is my spirit that addresses your spirit, just as if both had passed
through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal--as we are!"

"As we are!" repeated Mr. Rochester, gathering me to his heart and
pressing his lips on my lips. "So, Jane!"

"Yes, so, sir!" I replied. "I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere
now. Let me go!"

"Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird, rending
its own plumage in its desperation."

"I am no bird, and no net ensnares me. I am a free human being, with an
independent will, which I now exert to leave you."

Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.

"And your will shall decide your destiny," he said. "I offer you my
hand, my heart, and a share in all my possessions."

A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel walk and trembled through
the boughs of the chestnut; it wandered away--away to an infinite
distance--it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the
hour; in listening to it again, I wept.

Mr. Rochester sat looking at me gently, and at last said, drawing me to
him again: "My bride is here, because my equal is here, and my likeness.
Jane, will you marry me? Give me my name--Edward. Say, 'I will marry
you.'"

"Are you in earnest? Do you love me? Do you sincerely wish me to be your
wife?"

"I do. I swear it!"

"Then, sir, I will marry you."

"God pardon me, and man meddle not with me. I have her, and will hold
her!"

But what had befallen the night? And what ailed the chestnut-tree? It
writhed and groaned, while the wind roared in the laurel walk.

"We must go in," said Mr. Rochester; "the weather changes."

He hurried me up the walk, but we were wet before we could pass the
threshold.


_IV.--The Mystery Explained_


There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for or
marshal; none but Mr. Rochester and I. I wonder what other bridegroom
looked as he did--so bent up to a purpose, so resolutely grim. Our place
was taken at the communion rails. All was still; two shadows only moved
in a remote corner of the church.

As the clergyman's lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for
thy wedded wife?" a distinct and near voice said: "The marriage cannot
go on. I declare the existence of an impediment."

"What is the nature of the impediment?" asked the clergyman.

"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage," said the
speaker. "Mr. Rochester has a wife now living."

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated
to thunder. I looked at Mr. Rochester; I made him look at me. His face
was colourless rock; his eye both spark and flint; he seemed as if he
would defy all things.

"Mr. Mason, have the goodness to step forward," said the stranger.

"Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still
living?" inquired the clergyman.

"She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, with white lips. "I
saw her there last April. I am her brother."

I saw a grim smile contract Mr. Rochester's lip.

"Enough," said he. "Wood"--to the clergyman--"close your book; John
Green"--to the clerk--"leave the church; there will be no wedding
to-day."

"Bigamy is an ugly word," he continued, "but I meant to be a bigamist.
This girl thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamt she was going
to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch already
bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner. Follow me. I invite you all
to visit Grace Poole's patient and my wife!"

We passed up to the third storey, and there, in the deep shade of the
inner room beyond the room where I had watched over the wounded Mason,
ran backward and forward, seemingly on all fours, a figure, whether
beast or human one could not at first sight tell. It snatched and
growled like some wild animal. It was covered with clothing; but a
quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.

"That is my wife," said Mr. Rochester, "whom I was cheated into marrying
fifteen years ago--a mad woman and a drunkard, of a family of idiots and
maniacs for three generations. And this is what I wished to
have"--laying his hand on my shoulder--"this young girl who stands so
grave and quiet, at the mouth of hell. Jane," he continued, in an
agonised tone, "I never meant to wound you thus."

Reader! I forgave him at the moment, and on the spot. I forgave him all;
yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my heart's core.

That night I never thought to sleep, but a slumber fell on me as soon as
I lay down in bed, and in my sleep a vision spoke to my spirit:
"Daughter, flee temptation!" I rose with the dim dawn. One word
comprised my intolerable duty--Depart!

After three days wandering and starvation on the north-midland moors,
for hastily and secretly I had travelled by coach as far from Thornfield
as my money would carry me, I found a temporary home at the vicarage of
Morton, until the clergyman of that moorland parish, Mr. St. John
Rivers, secured for me--under the assumed name of Jane Elliott--the
mistresship of the village school.