In this section, we aim to provide the reader with an array of perspectives on the text, as well as questions that challenge those perspectives. The commentary has been culled from sources as diverse as reviews contemporaneous with the work, letters written by the author, literary criticism of later generations, and appreciations written throughout the work’s history. Following the commentary, a series of questions seeks to filter Elizabeth Gaskell’s The Life of Charlotte Brontë through a variety of points of view and bring about a richer understanding of this enduring work.

The story of a woman’s life unfolded in this book is calculated to make the old feel young and the young old. Persons who have been conversant with society and manners as they existed in the remote corners of England within the century will feel themselves strangely recalled to the narrow homes, the grim prejudices, the few pleasures and privileges belonging to a period of heavy taxation, costly literature, and limited intercourse, by the picture of a provincial parsonage and its inmates here set before them. Some of those, on the other hand, who are bursting with life, and brimming with creative power, may feel palsied (as it were by some cold prophecy) while they follow the record of a career of self-denial and struggle, sustained to the last with courage, principle, and genius, but without hope. Nevertheless, a true tale of what may be achieved in spite of disabilities, be the facts ever so cheerless, let the pilgrim’s lot have been cast on ever so rugged a road, let his cup have been ever so full of the waters of bitterness, can hardly be followed to its close without some strength being gained for the reader. By all, this book will be read with interest. As a work of Art, we do not recollect a life of a woman by a woman so well executed....

—from an unsigned review in The Athenaeum (April 4, 1857)

Besides the actual poverty of incident that characterizes this life, the materials for largely illustrating it, such as it was, even in its later period, and still more in its growing time, are wanting. Very little correspondence can have passed between the Misses Brontë and other people, and of that little less had been preserved. Their father, who has survived them, is very old and infirm, and little more than vague general recollections seem to have been obtained from him. Charlotte does not appear to have been communicative about herself and her proceedings while she lived, and she lived in such retirement and isolation that no one now seems able to describe minutely what she left unrecorded. Yet in spite of these disadvantages, it is impossible to read through Mrs. Gaskell’s two volumes without a strong conviction that Charlotte Brontë was a woman as extraordinary by her character as by her genius. She possessed in a remarkable degree, not only the poetical imagination shown in her works, but an unconquerable will, and a sense of duty to which everything in her life was subordinated....

—April 4, 1857

I have just finished your “Life of Charlotte Bronte”—which has afforded exquisite delight to my evenings on this remote patch of rock, round which the Atlantic roars, and dashes like a troop of lions, making a solitude almost equal to Haworth moors—quite equal, as far as any society I get here. If I had any public means of expressing my high sense of the skill, delicacy and artistic power of your Biography, I should not trouble you with this note. But it is a law of the literary organization that it must relieve itself in expression, and I discharge my emotion through the penny post; at least, such of it as was not discharged in wet eyes and swelling heart, as chapter after chapter was read.

—from a letter to Elizabeth Gaskell (April 15, 1857)

Women ought to be good biographers. They have a talent for personal discourse and familiar narrative, which, when properly controlled, is a great gift, although too frequently it degenerates into a social nuisance. Mrs. Gaskell, we regret to say, has, in the present work, so employed her talent that she appears too much in the latter light—as a gossip and a gad-about. There was not much to say of Charlotte Brontë, better known as Currer Bell, but the biographer was determined to say a great deal: she therefore makes a pilgrimage to every spot where her heroine was ever known to have set her foot. First of all, she devotes a chapter to Haworth, counting all the rooms and all the windows in the parsonage. The next chapter she devotes to a description of the character of Yorkshiremen, who appear to be the most unsocial beings on the face of the earth. In the third chapter she hies away to Cornwall, gives a long account of the customs of Penzance, Mrs. Brontë’s birthplace; favours us with some of this lady’s letters to her husband in the days of their courtship; informs us how Mr. Brontë used to saw off the backs of chairs, fire pistols through doors when he was angry, tear his wife’s silk dress to shreds, and every day of his life eat his dinner all alone by himself With amazing rapidity she then relates the birth of half-a-dozen children, kills off Mrs. Brontë, and sends Charlotte to school. Here comes a grand opportunity for describing the school at Cowanbridge—how it was started, where it was situated, who were the managers, what were the rules, how the girls were fed. Then comes another school at Roehead, and the biographer writes a gazetteer of the neighbourhood from the days of the Stuarts downwards. So she dwells on every incident. Miss Brontë, in passing through London, went to the Chapter Coffeehouse: Mrs. Gaskell, therefore, gives us the history of that tavern, carefully describes the different rooms, makes us familiar with the waiters, and enlarges on the kind of custom on which the house depends. Miss Brontë went to a school at Brussels: her biographer, therefore, beginning with the thirteenth century, writes the history of the Rue d’Isabelle, in which the school is situated, quotes long pages of Charlotte’s French exercises, with all her teacher’s corrections; is great on the subject of the school hours, the kind of rolls for supper, the number of lamps in the refectory, and presents us with an inventory of the bedroom furniture. All this information of the Dame Quickly sort, with which every chapter abounds, Mrs. Gaskell has seasoned with as much petty scandal as might suffice for half-a-dozen biographies.... The biographer even tries to persuade herself that the sad history of Branwell’s intrigue, every word of which she has since been obliged ignominiously to retract, is given to the public, not at all from any love of scandal, but in the Christian hope that it may meet the eye, and bring repentance to the heart, of the cruel lady who survives, and who is said to mix in the best society of the metropolis. Without pretending to half so high an opinion of Currer Bell as her biographer professes to entertain, we respect her too much not to condemn such an outrage upon her memory, committed in the name of friendship and sky-high religion. If it was impossible to write the biography without entering into these details, then it ought never to have been written. Whoever could speak in this vein of Currer Bell and her relations, has no genuine sympathy with that retiring nature who shrank from popular observation. Mrs. Gaskell is, indeed, lavish of her sympathy; but it is of the patronising apologetic kind, feeling for rather than with the sufferer; crushing her with condescension, overpowering her with affection, and rejoicing itself with a copious discharge of those cheap protestations which Sairey Gamp, over her brown teapot, might offer to Betsy Prig. If we do Mrs. Gaskell any injustice, we ask her pardon, and we dare say that in reality she is very different from the author of these volumes, who appears in the character of a shallow, showy woman, fond of her own prattle, and less intent on describing Currer Bell (even if it be by saying that she is “half a head shorter than I am”), than on speaking of “myself,” “my husband,” “our little girls,” “an aunt of mine,” “a friend of mine,” “a visit I paid,” “a letter I received,” “what I partly knew,” and “what my feelings were.”

—from an unsigned review in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine (July 1857)

Nor can we, with a due regard to literary justice, pass over in silence the grave offence of a similar character of which Mrs. Gaskell, the biographer of Miss Brontë, has herself been guilty. The life of this remarkable woman has been read with an avidity which does not surprise us, for both the subject and the manner of the book are well calculated to excite the deepest interest. But Mrs. Gaskell appears to have learnt the art of the novel-writer so well that she cannot discharge from her palette the colours she has used in the pages of ‘Mary Barton’ and ‘Ruth.’ This biography opens precisely like a novel, and the skilful arrangement of lights and shades and colours—the prominence of some objects and the evident suppression of others—leave on the mind the excitement of a highly-wrought drama, rather than the simplicity of daylight and of nature. To heighten the interest of this strange representation, and also to assert her own imperious sense of moral obligations, the biographer has thought it proper and necessary to introduce the episode of Branwell Brontë, a worthless brother of the three mysterious Bells, whose misconduct added a pang to their dreary existence; and in giving the history of this scapegrace Mrs. Gaskell has allowed herself to enter into details affecting the character and conduct of living persons, on whom she proceeds to pass sentence in a tone for which she now feels, or ought to feel, great shame and regret. It turns out that these details were borrowed from imperfect or incorrect evidence; no effort seems to have been made to verify the facts on which Mrs. Gaskell proceeded to consign another woman to infamy and to brand her with maledictions. The name and station of the lady thus assailed were easily identified, and it became known that she is a member of a highly honourable family; legal proceedings were threatened, and we believe commenced, to vindicate her reputation; and on the 30th May a letter appeared in the ‘Times’ newspaper from Mrs. Gaskell’s solicitor, stating that he was instructed ‘to retract every statement contained in that work which imputes to a widowed lady, referred to, but not named therein, any breach of her conjugal, of her maternal, and of her social duties, &c ... [and] to express the deep regret of Mrs. Gaskell that she should have been led to make them.’ This apology has been accepted; though the disavowal of the false statements would have been more becoming to both parties, if it had not been conveyed in the studied phraseology of an attorney.

—from an unsigned review in the Edinburgh Review (July 1857)

I am much pleased with reading the opinions of those in your letters, and other eminent characters, respecting the “Memoir.” Before I knew their’s I had formed my own opinion, and the reading World’s opinion of the “Memoir” is, that it is in every way worthy of what one Great Woman, should have written of Another, and that it ought to stand, and will stand in the first rank, of Biographies, till the end of time.

—from a letter to Elizabeth Gaskell (July 30, 1857)

[Mrs. Gaskell’s] “Life of Charlotte Brontë,” for instance, although a very readable and delightful book, is one which a woman of strong head could not possibly have written; for, full as it is of fine qualities, of affection, of generosity, of sympathy, of imagination, it lacks the prime requisites of a good biography. It is written with a signal want of judgment and of critical power; and it has always seemed to us that it tells the reader considerably more about Mrs. Gaskell than about Miss Brontë.

—from The Nation (February 22, 1866)