Lynchburg daily Virginian. [volume] (Lynchburg [Va.]) 1852-1861, 1855-04-28
VOL. 3.--NO. 224.

close to her eyes. and ltbe first copy) in pencil.
On she went writing necessarily for three weeks
bv which time she carried her heroine away from
1hornfied. and herself in a fever, which
compelled her 10 pause. The rest was written
with less ,ehelnence, and with more anxious care
The world ndds. with less vigor and interest
She could crafty her singular reserve, in regard
to the publication of this remarkable book.
We all remember how long it before We
could learn who wrote it. and any particulars Of
the writer, when the name was revealed. She
wasliving among the wild Yorkshire hills, with
father who too much absorbed in his stud
les to notice her occupations; in a place whero
newspapers were never seen Tor where she never
saw any, and in house where the servants
know nothing about books, manuscripts, proofs,
or the post. When she told her secret to her
father, she carried her book in one hand, and an
adverse review in the other, to save his simple
and unwordy mind from rash expectations of n
fame and fortune which she was determined
should never be the aims of her life. That we
have had only two novels since shows how deep
ly rounded was this resolve.
shirley" was conceived and wrought out in
tho midst of fearful domestic grofs. Her only
brother, young man Of once splendid promise
which was early blighted, and both her remaining
sistcrs,died in one year. There was something
lnerpresshly affecting in the aspect Of the frail
title creature who had done such wonderful
lhihPS anu Whs uole 10 Dchr up Win so bright an
eye and SO composed n countenance, under such
weight cf sorrow and such prospect of solitude
In her deep mourning dress (neat as u Quaker's)
with her beautiful hair smooth and brown, her
fine cyes blazing with meaning, and her sensible
face indicating habit of self control, if not of
silence, she seemed perfect household image
rresi-tibly recalling ngWordsworth's description of
that domestic treasure. And she was this She
was as able at the needle as the pen. The house,
hold knew the excellence of her cookery, before
they heard of that Of her books.
In 81 utter n sccu-ion as she lived in--in those
dreary wilds where she was not strong enough 10
roam over the hills in that retreat where her stu
diouS fathor rarely broke the sience--nnd there
was no one else Ia do il in that forlorn house plan
ted on the very clay Of the church yard, where
the graves of her sisters wcrs before her window;
IN such living sepulehie her mind could not but
prey upon itself, and how il suffered we SEQ in
the more painful portions of her last novel-"Vil-
letie. She snid, with change in her steady coun-
'ennncc, hat she should feel very lonely when
her aged father died. But she formed new ties
nftcr thui. She married and il is the old father
who survives to mourn her.
lie knows,to his comfort, that II Is not for long
Others now mourn her in domestic sense; ond
AS for the public, there be no. doubt that a
pnng will be felt in the midst of the strongest in
ierrsts oitho day through the length and breadth
1T the lind, and in very heart of G Germany (where
her works are singularly Appreciated France
and america, that the '.Currer Bell" who 30 late
ly sten shadow into the field of contempora-
ry literat ~ Inns already become a shadow again
vanshin from our view, and heneeforth haun-
ling only tho memory of the multitudes whose
expectation was fixed upon her.