make a noble thing out of a life from which every circumstance of
romance and dignity seems to be purposely withdrawn.

I do not think that there is in literature a more inspiring and
heartening book than Mrs. Gaskell's Life of Charlotte Bronte. The
book was written with a fine frankness and a daring indiscretion
which cost Mrs. Gaskell very dear. It remains as one of the most
matchless and splendid presentments of duty and passion and genius,
waging a perfectly undaunted fight with life and temperament, and
carrying off the spoils not only of undying fame, but the far more
supreme crown of moral force. Charlotte Bronte never doubted that
she had been set in the forefront of the battle, and that her first
concern was with the issues of life and sorrow and death. She died
at thirty-eight, at a time when many men and women have hardly got
a firm hold of life at all, or have parted with weak illusions. Yet
years before she had said sternly to a friend who was meditating a
flight from hard conditions of life: "The right course is that
which necessitates the greatest sacrifice of self-interest." Many
people could have said that, but I know no figure who more
relentlessly and loyally carried out the principle than Charlotte
Bronte, or who waged a more vigorous and tenacious battle with
every onset of fear. "My conscience tells me," she once wrote about
an anxious decision, "that it would be the act of a moral poltroon
to let the fear of suffering stand in the way of improvement. But
suffer I shall. No matter!"