Biographical Notes on the Pseudonymous Bells | Page 3

discerned the real nature of
'Wuthering Heights,' and has, with equal accuracy, noted its beauties
and touched on its faults. Too often do reviewers remind us of the mob
of Astrologers, Chaldeans, and Soothsayers gathered before the 'writing
on the wall,' and unable to read the characters or make known the
interpretation. We have a right to rejoice when a true seer comes at last,
some man in whom is an excellent spirit, to whom have been given
light, wisdom, and understanding; who can accurately read the 'Mene,
Mene, Tekel, Upharsin' of an original mind (however unripe, however
inefficiently cultured and partially expanded that mind may be); and
who can say with confidence, 'This is the interpretation thereof.
Yet even the writer to whom I allude shares the mistake about the

authorship, and does me the injustice to suppose that there was
equivoque in my former rejection of this honour (as an honour I regard
it). May I assure him that I would scorn in this and in every other case
to deal in equivoque; I believe language to have been given us to make
our meaning clear, and not to wrap it in dishonest doubt?
'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,' by Acton Bell, had likewise an
unfavourable reception. At this I cannot wonder. The choice of subject
was an entire mistake. Nothing less congruous with the writer's nature
could be conceived. The motives which dictated this choice were pure,
but, I think, slightly morbid. She had, in the course of her life, been
called on to contemplate, near at hand, and for a long time, the terrible
effects of talents misused and faculties abused: hers was naturally a
sensitive, reserved, and dejected nature; what she saw sank very deeply
into her mind; it did her harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to
be a duty to reproduce every detail (of course with fictitious characters,
incidents, and situations), as a warning to others. She hated her work,
but would pursue it. When reasoned with on the subject, she regarded
such reasonings as a temptation to self- indulgence. She must be honest;
she must not varnish, soften, nor conceal. This well-meant resolution
brought on her misconstruction, and some abuse, which she bore, as it
was her custom to bear whatever was unpleasant, with mild, steady
patience. She was a very sincere, and practical Christian, but the tinge
of religious melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief,
blameless life.
Neither Ellis nor Acton allowed herself for one moment to sink under
want of encouragement; energy nerved the one, and endurance upheld
the other. They were both prepared to try again; I would fain think that
hope and the sense of power were yet strong within them. But a great
change approached; affliction came in that shape which to anticipate is
dread; to look back on, grief. In the very heat and burden of the day, the
labourers failed over their work.
My sister Emily first declined. The details of her illness are
deep-branded in my memory, but to dwell on them, either in thought or
narrative, is not in my power. Never in all her life had she lingered over
any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank
rapidly. She made haste to leave us. Yet, while physically she perished,
mentally she grew stronger than we had yet known her. Day by day,

when I saw with what a front she met suffering, I looked on her with an
anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it; but, indeed, I
have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler
than a child, her nature stood alone. The awful point was, that while
full of ruth for others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was
inexorable to the flesh; from the trembling hand, the unnerved limbs,
the faded eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in
health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a
pain no words can render.
Two cruel months of hope and fear passed painfully by, and the day
came at last when the terrors and pains of death were to be undergone
by this treasure, which had grown dearer and dearer to our hearts as it
wasted before our eyes. Towards the decline of that day, we had
nothing of Emily but her mortal remains as consumption left them. She
died December 19, 1848.
We thought this enough: but we were utterly and presumptuously
wrong. She was not buried ere Anne fell ill. She had not been
committed to the grave a fortnight, before we received distinct
intimation that it was necessary to prepare our minds to see the younger
sister go after the