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