of fiction; nor do we hesitate to say that, on the whole, Jane Eyre" is the most remarkable novel ever written by a woman. Miss Bronte belonged entirely to the modern school; the school of which George Sand is a veiled Prophet, and of which Dickens and Thackeray are the high Priests. But, among her fellow workers, among contemporary novelists of either sex, she had few superiors. The amiable ladies who monthly supply the circulating libraries with the high-bred woes of the highborn Arethusa; or the sentimental gentlemen who paint the dainty miniature of the incomparable and impossible Harley L'Estrange, were incontinently put aside by this Yorkshire intruder, who hailed Thackeray as the chief among them all, and went into the field, showing his colors. The eye and the heart of the world followed her; and she has done what, perhaps, no other of the score of contemporary female novelists has done; she has enriched literature, and, consequently, human experience, with a new image. She has done what all genius has tested its greatness by doing, created a character that lives as a representative and type, in the human mind.

The story of her life is sad and short. She was born, and mostly lived, and died, among the hills of Yorkshire. Her father was a poor clergyman; her sisters were of the same sensitive, if not morbid, temperament as herself; and they both died young and before her. Her brother was a youth of similar promise, and he died also. She went early to a school, of which the school in "Jane Eyre" is a picture, and there physical privation and suffering confirmed the grave and melancholy bent of her nature. She went, afterward, as a governess, to Brussels, and the fruit of that episode in her life we have in "Villette." Returning to Yorkshire she found her two sisters, Emily and Ann, and there the three novels were written by the three sisters, "Jane Eyre." "Wuthering Heights," and "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." They retained their initials in the names they assumed, and were severally known to the public as Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell. Our readers will all remember the appearance of these remarkable books. There was a startling reality in them which quite staggered criticism. They seized the public almost sternly by the arm, and said, "Quit

your smirking over the amiable imbecilities of Lady Belinda Doriana, and see another, and more real, and more terrific, aspect of human and English life." The books of the two younger sisters were appalling. The reader preferred to disbelieve. They were such revelations as had never been made, and of a state of society that was hardly suspected. They were imperfect in structure, and the protest that breathed through them was so fierce that it seemed almost insane or exaggerated. But "Jane Eyre" was so calm, so intense, and so real, that there was no escape. As a work of literary art it is most admirable. It is so sharply cut, so pointed, and defined: it leaves the moral so wisely where life and nature leave it, that the public mind instantly acknowledged a new power, and the little, brown-haired, sad-eyed, and wasted daughter of the Yorkshire curate, was a famous woman. But she meant to live neither for fame nor fortune. In her estimation, the writing of a book was a work to be done seriously and because it must be done, not because it could be done. She was neither dazzled nor deluded by her success, and wrote her next novel,

Shirley," in the midst of great domestic distress. It is less excellent than "Jane Eyre," but has the same qualities. Then, and last, came "Villette," a book written upon the edge of the churchyard, in which her sisters and brother were buried; and, at the window, whence she looked upon their graves. It is about two years since it was published. She married, then, and died on the last day of March in this year. So, among the wild Yorkshire hills, ended a life that seems bleak enough. It is not possible that she, who could so delicately describe great happiness, as she does in portions of all her works, did not feel, with an aching sorrow, the absence of it in her own life. Yet she wrought that tragedy into forms of pathetic beauty. If the thorn against her heart made her song sad, the world listened and wept. She was not forty years old when she died; but how much has she done, who has made her name dear in many lands, and to all kinds of persons, by the heroic tenderness with which she probed the most private wounds, and the earnest composure with which she poured the balm. The quality of the grief that lingers about her grave is the finest

homage to her power. It is not a romantic sorrow over the death of youth and the blight of beautiful promise; nor the regret that follows the departure of a brilliant wit and scholar: it is not the grief at the decease of an entertaining and familiar author; but, it is the feeling of want and loss in the death of a noble woman, who did not wear her genius as a diamond to dazzle, but as a star, to inspire, and chasten, and console.

LETTER FROM MAJOR WHERREY.

To the Editor of Putnam's Monthly.

SIR-I am grieved to see that a fair correspondent objects to the inconsistency of certain strictures of mine on an exhibition described to me as the German cotillion, which were reported in the March number of your periodical. The difficulty seems to lie in the fact, that I chose to offer vinous refreshment to my guests upon the occasion under consideration. Poor Barnard was dreadfully hurt at being called an "old masculine prude;" and when came to that passage, he interrupted me and said, "Well, Major! you can make the same reply that Mrs. did when asked why she did not invite her sister (who married the music-master) to her last ball-My dear sir,' she said, you know we must draw the line somewhere! So pray tell this gentle critic that, to a certain extent, you choose to conform to the usages of society; but that you must draw the line somewhere! Your guests shall be welcome to your wines-but not to your wife."

I confess I thought of saying something of this kind, until, upon reading the concluding paragraph of the remonstrance, I learnt that "punch and cigars are behind the age," and, Moreover, that they are "medieval follies." When I asked Barnard how this was, he began to laugh, and exclaimed, "The lady has you there, Major! You have been growing cranberries down here in Bearbrook so long, that you know nothing of the advance the world has made elsewhere. The fact is, that associating the German in any way with such a mediaval folly as an indulgence in stimulating fluids, is simply preposterous. It is well known that, at the great houses in the city, where this is the fashionable dance, no wine, punch, or any kind kind of spirituous liquor is provided, and that no person was ever known to be present at, or assist in, the German, except in a state of the severest sobriety. As for cigars-except as interesting relics illustrative of mediæval folly-they are utterly unknown out of Bearbrook; and for introducing an indulgence so completely extinct, you may well be held responsible." I was so shocked to hear that a past frailty had been revived at my little October party, that I didn't exactly understand an allusion to some marines with

which Barnard concluded his statement. It was, probably, of no consequence.

Dear me! Sir, I fear this letter will be rather a composite affair, for my nephew Tom has just come into the room, and insists upon writing a paragraph, to give his ideas of what should have been the editorial comment upon the critical correspondence you have published. He thinks there is a very "suffithus he writes it as in your person:cient answer" to the lady's complaint-and

"It is certainly a new doctrine, that a writer of fiction can introduce no characters but such as exhibit a spotless propriety or perfect con sistency. We had always supposed it not only perfectly lawful, but decidedly meritorious, to represent people no better than they really are. Our correspondent will scarcely deny that there are many gentlemen of the old school who so far retain former habits as to take wine or punch themselves, and to offer it to their guests, who are, nevertheless, honestly and decidedly shocked at follies to which custom has not hardened them. The notion that a writer is personally responsible for every opinion expressed by the characters he uses, or for all that is done in the scenes he describes, is too plainly absurd to require refutation."

I really forget what I was writing about when Tom interrupted me, so I will conclude by saying that I could never seriously counsel or advise the use of any stimulant. But so long as it is the custom, among any circle of acquaintances, to give wine or punch when friends are received in the evening, I shall probably conform to it. A trifling difference in latitude may make a considerable difference in the habits and necessities of man. I can pesure my graceful censor that the custom of providing spirituous refreshment upon social occasions, which it seems is extinct and mediæval in New York, is, UNFORTUNATELY (and I heartily underscore the word), so prevalent in Bearbrook, that one of the parties-either upon paper or in reality-would be incomplete without its introduction.

I am sorry to have troubled you with so long a letter, and should not have done so had not Tom assured me the public would expect it. If you would now and then give us some agricultural articles, I think I could promise an increased circulation to your Magazine. It may seem presumptuous in me to suggest in this matter, but I am convinced that an occasional paper on the Cranberry could not fail to be popular. Pray assure your correspondent that I am not at all angry at what she called me, and shall endeavor to pacify Barnard as soon as possible. And so, Sir, believe me, with the highest consideration,

Your very obedient servant, PAUL RETRIBUTION WHERREY.

In justice to Major Wherrey, it should be stated that, upon the first intimation of a charge upon his social morals, he was in the field, fully armed; and his present note of explanation was unavoidably deferred from the May number of the Monthly, for which it was designed.-ED.