her father was to submit to his operation. But she had the heart
of Robert Bruce within her, and failure upon failure daunted her
no more than him. Not only did "The Professor" return again to
try his chance among the London publishers, but she began, in
this time of care and depressing inquietude, in those grey,
weary, uniform streets; where all faces, save that of her kind
doctor, were strange and untouched with sunlight to her,--there
and then, did the brave genius begin "Jane Eyre". Read what she
herself says:--"Currer Bell's book found acceptance nowhere, nor
any acknowledgment of merit, so that something like the chill of
despair began to invade his heart." And, remember it was not the
heart of a person who, disappointed in one hope, can turn with
redoubled affection to the many certain blessings that remain.
Think of her home, and the black shadow of remorse lying over one
in it, till his very brain was mazed, and his gifts and his life
were lost;--think of her father's sight hanging on a thread;--of
her sister's delicate health, and dependence on her care;--and
then admire as it deserves to be admired, the steady courage
which could work away at "Jane Eyre", all the time "that the
one-volume tale was plodding its weary round in London."

I believe I have already mentioned that some of her surviving
friends consider that an incident which she heard, when at school
at Miss Wooler's, was the germ of the story of Jane Eyre. But
of this nothing. can be known, except by conjecture. Those to
whom she spoke upon the subject of her writings are dead and
silent; and the reader may probably have noticed, that in the
correspondence from which I have quoted, there has been no
allusion whatever to the publication of her poems, nor is there
the least hint of the intention of the sisters to publish any