as well as that of the two other works by the younger sisters, which although certainly inferior in power and grasp of intellect, were yet evidently works of genius. Alas I they were the only ones which their authors lived to complete. With "Wuthering Heights," finished the mental and all other labours of Emily Bronte, who died of consumption in December, 1848; and in six months from that time, the grave, on which the grass had only just begun to spring, was opened to receive the mortal remains of the younger sister Ann. In the same year died also the brother, a young man, we are told, of great promise; and Charlotte Bronte and her infirm father were left alone, to think over their bereavements, and to bear up as best they could against these heavy blows of affliction. In a touching tribute to the memory of her sisters, appended to her last work, "Villette," Miss Bronte observes—"I may sum up all by saying, that for strangers they were nothing, for superficial observers less than nothing; but for those who had known them all their lives, in the intimacy of close relationship, they were genuine, good, and truly great."
The novel in which these remarks appeared, was published in 1853; "unlike her preceding works it was marked by no stirring incidents, no remote details. It is simply the history of life in a foreign school, (such as her own experience could supply,) but that little world is made to contain the elements of a sphere as extensive as humanity itself. Although not calculated from its deficiency of story, to be as universally popular as "Jane Eyre," it met with high appreciation, as a remarkable result of that high order of genius which imparts its own powerful fascinations to the detail of events of the simplest character." The critic from whom we here quote, also observes that "Currer Bell may almost be said to have founded a school of fiction, in which the 'flower is shewn in the bud,' and the child literally made 'father to the man;' in which some young spirit, starved of sympathy, turns inward and revenges the injuries of the few in scorn and distrust of the many; isolated and self-concentrated, till the well-spring of love, frozen, but not dried up, bursts its bonds under the influence of the first sunshine of affection, and expands itself with the reckless prodigality of a miser suddenly turned spendthrift."
Miss Bronte's second novel, "Shirley," appeared in 1849. It was conceived and wrought out in the midst of fearful domestic grief, the sad experiences of that terrible year of bereavements. "There was something inexpressibly touching in the aspect of the frail little creature who had done such wonderful things, and who was able to bear up with so bright an eye, and so composed a countenance under such a weight of sorrow and such a prospect of solitude, In her deep mourning dress, (neat as a Quaker's,) with her beautiful hair, smooth and brown, her fine eyes blazing with meaning, and her sensible face indicating a habit of self-control, if not of silence, she seemed a perfect household image, irresistably recalling Wordsworth's description of the domestic treasure; and she was this. She was as able at the needle as the pen. The household knew the excellency of her cookery, before they heard of that of her books. In so utter a seclusion as she lived, in those dreary wilds where she was not strong enough to roam over the hills; in that retreat where her studious father rarely broke the silence, and there was no (me else to do it; in that forlorn house planted in
