Jane Eyre: Tait's Edinburgh Magazine (May 1848)

"Literary Register. Jane Eyre." Tait's Edinburgh Magazine ns 15 (May 1848): 346-8.

JANE EYRE

WE are somewhat tardy in our notice of this work, which is undoubtedly the best novel of the season, if that can be called a novel which is written in the style of an autobiography. We have rarely had the pleasure of reading a better or more interesting work of its class. "Jane Eyre" has already acquired a standard renown, and few circulating libraries, we should think, of any pretensions, are now without it. The earnest tone, deep fervour, and truthful delineation of feeling and nature displayed in its pages, must render it a general favourite.

The story is a love one, but it is love out of the common course, and the scenes and incidents which are evolved out of its development are not of an ordinary kind, though they are not beyond the probability of occurrence in actual life. There is a touch of nature in the whole book, which is one of its greatest charms. The heroine, an orphan, is left, on the death of her parents, to the care of her mother's brother, Mr. Reed of Gateshead-hall, into whose house she is taken in her infancy, to be brought up with his children. Her uncle soon dies, and she is cruelly used by her aunt, Mrs. Reed, and her two daughters, and one son, the latter of whom turns out a profligate. To get rid of her, it is decided that she should be sent, at ten years of age, to Lowood school, a sort of semi-charitable institution, under the management of the Rev. Mr. Brocklehurst, a proud and pompous clergyman, who acted also as treasurer to the same. She finds a friend in Miss Temple, the superintendent, a good and amiable lady, who is kind to all the pupils, as far as the rules of the institution and the directions of Mr. Brocklehurst will allow her. She makes a companion of Helen Burns, a patient, uncomplaining, pious girl, a few years older than herself, with whom she has many interesting conversations, and to whom she relates her treatment from Mrs. Reed.

The following passage describes the hard lot of charity girls, and the sufferings and privations they have often to endure in the coldest season of the year:—

"During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and, after their melting, the almost impassable roads, prevented our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to go to church; but within these limits we had to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing was insufficient to protect us from the severe cold; we had no boots; the snow got into our shoes and melted there; our ungloved hands became numbed and covered with chilblains, as were our feet. I remember well the distracting irritation I endured from this cause, every evening when my feet inflamed; and the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw and stiff toes into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food was distressing; with the keen appetites of growing children, we had scarcely sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on the younger pupils. Whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menace the little ones out of their portion. Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of brown bread distributed at tea time; and, after relinquishing to a third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the exigency of hunger.

"Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated; we set out cold, we arrived at church colder. During the morning service we became almost paralyzed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was served round between the services.

"At the close of the afternoon service, we returned by an exposed and hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces."

The only change that summer brought to their condition was the natural change from heat to cold. In all other respects the life of these forlorn children of charity remained as wretched as ever, and sometimes even more so. Lowood Orphan Asylum was built in a very unhealthy situation in a forest dell, on the banks of a stream, from which fogs continually arose. In summer, therefore, it was often visited by typhus, which carried off great numbers of victims from among the half-starved children. To Lowood, a sum of fifteen pounds was paid for each girl, on her entrance, by her friends, to entitle her to admission—the deficiency for their board and teaching being supplied by subscriptions. It was, therefore, partly a charity school; and yet half-hospital, and one part of right and three parts charitable institutions, are not always the best or most comfortable. There still remains in the breast of the inmates a feeling of pride, arising from their paid title to be there, which leaves a proportionate sense of degradation at the dependent nature of their position, and their knowledge that though their right to admission has been duly purchased, their subsistence and education, their bed, board, and lodging, have to be provided for by the often unwilling subscriptions of what Helen Burns fitly styled, in her description of the institution, as "different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in London." This feeling Jane was resolved to conquer.

In due time, from her resoluteness of character and straight-forwardness of disposition, combined with her great aptitude for teaching as well as learning, and her determination to depend upon her own exertions, and never to return to Gateshead-hall, Jane Eyre, after being six years a pupil, became one of the teachers of the Institution, in which situation she remained two years. She had lost, at an early stage of their acquaintance, her companion, Helen Burns, who died of consumption. The character of this girl is one of the finest portraitures in the book, and the description of her decline and death is most affecting.

The marriage of Miss Temple altered Jane's desire to remain at Lowood, for she found she could not be so happy with any other superintendent, as she had been with that gentle and kind friend. She, therefore, inserted an advertisement in the county paper for a situation as governess in a private family. In the course of a week (what will an advertisement not accomplish?) she received an answer from a Mrs. Fairfax, residing at a place called Thornfield Hall, a considerable distance from Lowood, in another county altogether, offering her the charge of a little girl, under ten years of age, which she accepted, and here begins the really striking and exciting part of her story.

The proprietor of Thornfield Hall is a strange, moody, impetuous person named Rochester, who resides there at uncertain intervals, and leaves the house in charge of his housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax. His ward, the daughter of a French opera dancer, is the little girl of whom Jane Eyre becomes the governess. There is a mystery about that quiet old hall of Thornfield, which Jane, in her solitary wanderings through it, vainly endeavours to penetrate. A strange, unearthly, low, and thrilling laugh is often heart echoing through its lonely passages, which nobody but herself seems to mind, and when she asks for an explanation, she is told it is one of the servants, named Grace Poole, who is addicted to drinking.

It was on the high road, towards evening, as Jane was crossing it to the nearest town to post a letter, that she first met with Rochester, her master, who was afterwards to have such a remarkable effect on her destiny. Here is the scene:—

"The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the lane yet hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet as the path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie's tales wherein figured a North-of-England spirit, called a 'Gytrash;' which, in the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming upon me.

"It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the trees. It was exactly one mask of Bessie's Gytrash—a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however, quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the common-place human form. No Gytrash was this—only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and went on; a few steps and I turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of 'What the deuce is to do now?' and a clattering tumble arrested my attention. Man and horse were down; they slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills echoed the sound; which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could do—there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question:—

"'Are you injured, sir?'

"I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing some formula which prevented him from replying to me directly.

"'Can I do anything?' I asked again.

"'You can just stand on one side,' he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then to his feet. I did: whereupon began a heaving, stamping, clattering process, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me effectually some yards distance: but I would not be driven quite away till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a 'Down, Pilot!' The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen, and sat down.

"I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I now drew near him again.

"'If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one, either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.'

"'Thank you; I shall do: I have no broken bones—only a sprain;' and again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary 'ugh!'

"Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright; I could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared, and steel clasped: its details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of middle height, and considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached middle age:—perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth: never in my life spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.

Mr. Rochester takes a strange fancy for holding long conversations with the humble governess, with whom he is strangely communicative on some points, and peculiarly mysterious on others, and whom he questions closely as to her parentage, former life, education, and accomplishments.

One night, Jane, alarmed by a strong smell of fire, saves her master from being burnt in his bed, the curtains of which had been set fire to by some one. Jane believed it was Grace Poole. Rochester desires to keep the incident a secret, to her great surprise.

The onward progress of the narrative becomes, from this point, more animated and interesting. We can but briefly sum up the plot, desirous, as we are, to give another quotation, to show the tone and temper of the work.

We pass over several scenes and confabulations, of a strikingly graphic and characteristic sort, illustrative of the peculiar stamp of mind and moral and relative position of both. In the portraiture of each, great individuality is exhibited, and the different idiosyncracies of both are admirably brought out. The feeling of love on the part of the haughty and lordly owner of Thornfield Hall for his quiet and humble, but thoughtful and grave, dependent, gradually, but irresistibly, forces itself on and over his heart, until he can no longer master his passion. Rochester is a sort of Byron in prose. It is impossible not to admire the strong energy and graphic fidelity to what one might fancy such a personage in real life to be, with which his character is drawn.

Company came to Thornfield Hall. "Troops of friends," such as Othello refers to as attending him in his best days. Among them a Lady Ingram, the wife of Lord Ingram, with her two daughters, to the eldest of whom Rochester, rumour says, is betrothed. He insists on Jane Eyre joining the company and remaining in it during all their sports and entertainments. A gipsy scene—in which the hero himself, in the character of an old spaewife of the tribe, tells the fortunes of the ladies—is well described. One day, during the temporary absence of Mr. Rochester, a Mr. Mason, a stranger to all parties, arrives and takes up his abode at the hall.

That night, soon after the guests had retired, an alarm was given, and a cry for help rung throughout the house. Some one had attempted to murder Mr. Mason, who is secretly removed from the house by Rochester, ere the morning. Soon after this Jane Eyre goes to visit her aunt Reed, on her deathbed, moved by representations of her having had an apoplectic fit from the bad conduct of her son John Reed, and remains till after her funeral.

In the long-run, Rochester owns his passion, and it is agreed that the marriage should take place immediately. The preparations were hurried; but a night or two previous to the bridal day, Jane was disturbed in her bed by the appearance of a large woman, with swollen features and dishevelled hair, who drew aside the curtains of her bed, and after looking at her with threatening aspect, deranged all her marriage garments, and tore in two her splendid marriage veil, trampling it on the ground, with ever mark of contempt and scorn. The bridal morn arrived, so anxiously looked for by expectant brides. But "the course of true love did not run smooth." The banns were forbidden at the altar, and by Mason, whose sister was the wife of Rochester, a dangerous lunatic, kept in concealment in Thornfield Hall, under the charge of Grace Poole, who kept something else in concealment—namely, a private bottle of gin. She it was who, on three occasions, eluding the vigilance of her keeper, had alarmed Jane Eyre, first by setting fire to Rochester's bed; secondly, by stabbing her brother in his; and thirdly, by hanging over and disturbing Jane herself in her solitary chamber, and tearing her marriage veil contemptuously in twain.

The mystery is revealed—the problem is explained—"the Congress is dissolved"—the low hoarse laugh has found an owner, and Jane has lost a husband. Of course she can no longer remain in Rochester's house. That gentleman, in his desperation, proposes that she should accompany him to the continent, and be married, and reside together there. He has a wife, and no wife—a sad lot, my masters!—but his reasons, though convincing enough for himself, have no effect on Jane. She leaves his house secretly during the night, and goes away without leaving message or direction behind, or taking money or clothes along with her.

In the first coach she meets she takes a seat, and is put down in a different part of the country, some fifty miles off, and, on being left to herself, she finds that she has forgotten in the conch-pocket a small parcel, containing some linen, a locket, and a ring, the only things that she had taken with her. Without friends, home, or money, she wanders about the country, sleeping in the fields, and nearly perishes from want of nourishment. In this part of the story there are some powerfully-depicted scenes.

After being exposed to great privations, and enduring much suffering from hunger, and her exposure to the night air, she falls down exhausted at the door of a clergyman—Mr. St. John Rivers—who resides with his two sisters and an honest housekeeper, in a retired cottage by themselves. She is "taken in and done for"—carefully tended, and restored to health and strength.

Mr. Rivers, finding that she had been accustomed to teach, opened a school in a neighbouring village for her. That Rochester might not be able to follow and trace her out, she changes her name to Jane Elliott; and she is going on very successfully with her school, when Mr. Rivers called one day, and discovering the name Jane Eyre, written on a portrait cover, informs her that a person of that name had been advertised for in all the papers, as having fallen heiress to a fortune of £20,000, left her by a deceased uncle of hers, a wine merchant at Funchal, Madeira. Here was a cast of the dice. But another discovery takes place on this notable one, one not less notable—a trump card had turned up, and another followed it. It came out that Rivers and his two sisters were the cousins of Jane Eyre, to whom, on her not being found, the money would have come. She generously divided the sum among them, retaining only £5,000 to herself.

And now Rivers, whose character is drawn as truly as that of a devoted Christian minister, resolved upon going out to the East as a missionary, and attracted by Jane's energy of spirit, and unflinching fidelity of principle, he presses her to accompany him as his wife. Longing to hear some accounts of Rochester, to whom her thoughts often reverted, she was led away by the intensity of her feelings, one night after Rivers had declared his mind to her, to believe that she heard Rochester calling to her most piteously for aid. This supernatural call, heard by her at the distance of at least fifty miles, is the only objectionable thing, in our estimation, to be found in the work. Although very poetical and pathetic, it has no feature of the real about it, and nothing of the probable. The mere force of sympathy could not produce such a result. Imagination inwardly, and mesmerism from outward influences, may do great feats, no doubt, and cause people to believe anything; but the voice has not got a telegraphic communication direct to the ear at fifty miles distance, although intelligence by the magnetic wire may travel hundreds of thousands "in no time." In this case it is not time, but sound, that makes the difference.

Impelled by this mysterious call, she returned to Thornfield Hall, only to find it a blackened ruin. On inquiry, she learnt that the lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had broken loose from her keeper one night late, and having set fire to the house, threw herself from the battlements, and perished miserably among the ruins. Mr. Rochester, in endeavouring to save her, fell along with her, and was only rescued from death by the loss of one of his hands, and of his eye-sight. He was now living in retirement, at a solitary manor house of his own, blind and a cripple. Thither Jane hastens, and is soon restored to him. The meeting between them is very touching, but we have not room to quote it. After sometime they are married, as of course might be anticipated.

The quotations we have given, show the power and vivid painting of Jane Eyre, and bear out our high opinions of its merits. We have only to add, that its views of human nature are in accordance with truth, and the morality it inculcates is throughout of an unexceptionable and instructive nature.

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