in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. 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, nor 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. My sister Emily 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, with impunity, intrude
unlicensed: it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had
made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication . .
. 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 hers. I could not but be a partial judge, yet I
thought that these verses too had a sweet sincere pathos of their own.
We had very early cherished the dream of one day being authors. We
agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible,
get them printed. Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own
names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; the ambiguous
choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming
Christian names, positively masculine, while we did not like to
declare ourselves women, because--without at the time suspecting that
our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called 'feminine,' we
had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on
with prejudice; we noticed how critics sometimes use for their
chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a
flattery, which is not true praise. The 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
circu