world of her own, and by the time she was thirteen years of
     age, it had become her constant habit, and one of her few
     pleasures, to weave imaginary tales, idealising her favorite
     historical heroes, and setting forth in narrative form her own
     thoughts and feelings.  Both Charlotte and her sisters Emily
     and Anne early found refuge in their habits of composition,
     and about 1845 made their first literary venture—­a small
     volume of poems.  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 was very low, but it passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber.