Five o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January,

when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and

nearly dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had

washed my face, and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just

setting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I

was to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which passed the lodge gates

at six A.M. Bessie was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in

the nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children

can eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could I.

Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled

milk and bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up some biscuits in a

paper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse

and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the

nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go in

and bid Missis good-bye?”



“No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to

supper, and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins

either; and she told me to remember that she had always been my best

friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly.”



“What did you say, Miss?”



“Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to

the wall.”



“That was wrong, Miss Jane.”



“It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she

has been my foe.”



“O Miss Jane! don’t say so!”



“Good-bye to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and

went out at the front door.



The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose

light glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw

and chill was the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down

the drive. There was a light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it,

we found the porter’s wife just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had

been carried down the evening before, stood corded at the door. It

wanted but a few minutes of six, and shortly after that hour had

struck, the distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach; I went

to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.



“Is she going by herself?” asked the porter’s wife.



“Yes.”



“And how far is it?”



“Fifty miles.”



“What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far

alone.”



The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and

its top laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged

haste; my trunk was hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie’s neck, to

which I clung with kisses.



“Be sure and take good care of her,” cried she to the guard, as he

lifted me into the inside.



“Ay, ay!” was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed

“All right,” and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and

Gateshead; thus whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed, remote

and mysterious regions.



I remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed

to me of a preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over

hundreds of miles of road. We passed through several towns, and in one,

a very large one, the coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the

passengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where the guard

wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in

an immense room with a fireplace at each end, a chandelier pendent from

the ceiling, and a little red gallery high up against the wall filled

with musical instruments. Here I walked about for a long time, feeling

very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one coming in and

kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having

frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside chronicles. At last the guard

returned; once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector

mounted his own seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over

the “stony street” of L——.



The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I

began to feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we

ceased to pass through towns; the country changed; great grey hills

heaved up round the horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a

valley, dark with wood, and long after night had overclouded the

prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.



Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered

when the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open,

and a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and

dress by the light of the lamps.



“Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?” she asked. I answered

“Yes,” and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach

instantly drove away.



I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion

of the coach: gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind,

and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall

before me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new

guide: she shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a house

or houses—for the building spread far—with many windows, and lights

burning in some; we went up a broad pebbly path, splashing wet, and

were admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage into

a room with a fire, where she left me alone.



I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked

round; there was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth

showed, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany

furniture: it was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the

drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was puzzling to

make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door opened,

and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed close

behind.



The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and

large forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her

countenance was grave, her bearing erect.



“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her

candle down on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or

two, then further added—



“She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?”

she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.



“A little, ma’am.”



“And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to

bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to

come to school, my little girl?”



I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they

had been dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could

read, write, and sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with

her forefinger, and saying, “She hoped I should be a good child,”

dismissed me along with Miss Miller.



The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with

me appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice,

look, and air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion,

though of a careworn countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one

who had always a multiplicity of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed,

what I afterwards found she really was, an under-teacher. Led by her, I

passed from compartment to compartment, from passage to passage, of a

large and irregular building; till, emerging from the total and

somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we had

traversed, we came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a

wide, long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on each of

which burnt a pair of candles, and seated all round on benches, a

congregation of girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by

the dim light of the dips, their number to me appeared countless,

though not in reality exceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in

brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It

was the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over their

to-morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the combined result of

their whispered repetitions.



Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking

up to the top of the long room she cried out—



“Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!”



Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered

the books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command—



“Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!”



The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray,

with portions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a

pitcher of water and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were

handed round; those who liked took a draught of the water, the mug

being common to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was

thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue rendering

me incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that it was a thin oaten

cake shared into fragments.



The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed

off, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I

scarcely noticed what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that,

like the schoolroom, I saw it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss

Miller’s bed-fellow; she helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced

at the long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two

occupants; in ten minutes the single light was extinguished, and amidst

silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.



The night passed rapidly: I was too tired even to dream; I only once

awoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in

torrents, and to be sensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my

side. When I again unclosed my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls

were up and dressing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or

two burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and

I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when there was a

basin at liberty, which did not occur soon, as there was but one basin

to six girls, on the stands down the middle of the room. Again the bell

rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the

stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers were

read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out—



“Form classes!”



A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller

repeatedly exclaimed, “Silence!” and “Order!” When it subsided, I saw

them all drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at

the four tables; all held books in their hands, and a great book, like

a Bible, lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some

seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum of numbers; Miss

Miller walked from class to class, hushing this indefinite sound.



A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each

walked to a table and took her seat; Miss Miller assumed the fourth

vacant chair, which was that nearest the door, and around which the

smallest of the children were assembled: to this inferior class I was

called, and placed at the bottom of it.



Business now began: the day’s Collect was repeated, then certain texts

of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of

chapters in the Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise

was terminated, day had fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now

sounded for the fourth time: the classes were marshalled and marched

into another room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a prospect of

getting something to eat! I was now nearly sick from inanition, having

taken so little the day before.



The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables

smoked basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent

forth an odour far from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of

discontent when the fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those

destined to swallow it; from the van of the procession, the tall girls

of the first class, rose the whispered words—



“Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!”



“Silence!” ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the

upper teachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of

somewhat morose aspect, who installed herself at the top of one table,

while a more buxom lady presided at the other. I looked in vain for her

I had first seen the night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller

occupied the foot of the table where I sat, and a strange,

foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards

found, took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was

said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the

teachers, and the meal began.



Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my

portion without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger

blunted, I perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge

is almost as bad as rotten potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over

it. The spoons were moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and

try to swallow it; but in most cases the effort was soon relinquished.

Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. Thanks being returned for

what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the refectory was

evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in

passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and

taste it; she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed

displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—



“Abominable stuff! How shameful!”



A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which

the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it

seemed to be permitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used

their privilege. The whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one

and all abused roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they

had. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room: a group of great

girls standing about her spoke with serious and sullen gestures. I

heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at which

Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made no great effort

to check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.



A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and

standing in the middle of the room, cried—



“Silence! To your seats!”



Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved

into order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of

tongues. The upper teachers now punctually resumed their posts: but

still, all seemed to wait. Ranged on benches down the sides of the

room, the eighty girls sat motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage

they appeared, all with plain locks combed from their faces, not a curl

visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded by a narrow tucker

about the throat, with little pockets of holland (shaped something like

a Highlander’s purse) tied in front of their frocks, and destined to

serve the purpose of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen stockings

and country-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty of

those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather young

women; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to the

prettiest.



I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the

teachers—none of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a

little coarse, the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh

and grotesque, and Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple,

weather-beaten, and over-worked—when, as my eye wandered from face to

face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a common

spring.



What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I

had gathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes

were now turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and

encountered the personage who had received me last night. She stood at

the bottom of the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at

each end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss

Miller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having received

her answer, went back to her place, and said aloud—



“Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!”



While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly

up the room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I

retain yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her

steps. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely;

brown eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine pencilling

of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front; on

each of her temples her hair, of a very dark brown, was clustered in

round curls, according to the fashion of those times, when neither

smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the

mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish

trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not so common then

as now) shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the

picture, refined features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately

air and carriage, and he will have, at least, as clearly as words can

give it, a correct idea of the exterior of Miss Temple—Maria Temple, as

I afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to

carry to church.



The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her

seat before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the

first class round her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the

lower classes were called by the teachers: repetitions in history,

grammar, &c., went on for an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded,

and music lessons were given by Miss Temple to some of the elder girls.

The duration of each lesson was measured by the clock, which at last

struck twelve. The superintendent rose—



“I have a word to address to the pupils,” said she.



The tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth, but it

sank at her voice. She went on—



“You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be

hungry:—I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served

to all.”



The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.



“It is to be done on my responsibility,” she added, in an explanatory

tone to them, and immediately afterwards left the room.



The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the

high delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now

given “To the garden!” Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings

of coloured calico, and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly

equipped, and, following the stream, I made my way into the open air.



The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to

exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one

side, and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of

little beds: these beds were assigned as gardens for the pupils to

cultivate, and each bed had an owner. When full of flowers they would

doubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter end of January, all was

wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I stood and looked round

me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy,

but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still

soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls

ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones

herded together for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst

these, as the dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard

frequently the sound of a hollow cough.



As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of

me; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was

accustomed; it did not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the

verandah, drew my grey mantle close about me, and, trying to forget the

cold which nipped me without, and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed

me within, delivered myself up to the employment of watching and

thinking. My reflections were too undefined and fragmentary to merit

record: I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my past life

seemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the present was vague

and strange, and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked

round the convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a large

building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new.

The new part, containing the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by

mullioned and latticed windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a

stone tablet over the door bore this inscription:—



LOWOOD INSTITUTION.



This portion was rebuilt A.D. ——, by Naomi Brocklehurst,

of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county.



“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works,

and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”—St. Matt. v. 16.





I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation

belonged to them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was

still pondering the signification of “Institution,” and endeavouring to

make out a connection between the first words and the verse of

Scripture, when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my

head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over a

book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from where I stood I

could see the title—it was “Rasselas;” a name that struck me as

strange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to

look up, and I said to her directly—



“Is your book interesting?” I had already formed the intention of

asking her to lend it to me some day.



“I like it,” she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during

which she examined me.



“What is it about?” I continued. I hardly know where I found the

hardihood thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was

contrary to my nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a

chord of sympathy somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a

frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the

serious or substantial.



“You may look at it,” replied the girl, offering me the book.



I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less

taking than the title: “Rasselas” looked dull to my trifling taste; I

saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety

seemed spread over the closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she

received it quietly, and without saying anything she was about to

relapse into her former studious mood: again I ventured to disturb her—



“Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means?

What is Lowood Institution?”



“This house where you are come to live.”



“And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from

other schools?”



“It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are

charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your

father or your mother dead?”



“Both died before I can remember.”



“Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and

this is called an institution for educating orphans.”



“Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?”



“We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each.”



“Then why do they call us charity-children?”



“Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the

deficiency is supplied by subscription.”



“Who subscribes?”



“Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood

and in London.”



“Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?”



“The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records,

and whose son overlooks and directs everything here.”



“Why?”



“Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment.”



“Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch,

and who said we were to have some bread and cheese?”



“To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr.

Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and

all our clothes.”



“Does he live here?”



“No—two miles off, at a large hall.”



“Is he a good man?”



“He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good.”



“Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?”



“Yes.”



“And what are the other teachers called?”



“The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work,

and cuts out—for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and

everything; the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she

teaches history and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions;

and the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to

her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot: she comes from

Lisle, in France, and teaches French.”



“Do you like the teachers?”



“Well enough.”



“Do you like the little black one, and the Madame ——?—I cannot

pronounce her name as you do.”



“Miss Scatcherd is hasty—you must take care not to offend her; Madame

Pierrot is not a bad sort of person.”



“But Miss Temple is the best—isn’t she?”



“Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest,

because she knows far more than they do.”



“Have you been long here?”



“Two years.”



“Are you an orphan?”



“My mother is dead.”



“Are you happy here?”



“You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for

the present: now I want to read.”



But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the

house. The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more

appetising than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the

dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong

steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of

indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked

together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful was

apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within

myself whether every day’s fare would be like this.



After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons

recommenced, and were continued till five o’clock.



The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with

whom I had conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss

Scatcherd from a history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the

large schoolroom. The punishment seemed to me in a high degree

ignominious, especially for so great a girl—she looked thirteen or

upwards. I expected she would show signs of great distress and shame;

but to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed, though

grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes. “How can she bear it so

quietly—so firmly?” I asked of myself. “Were I in her place, it seems

to me I should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as

if she were thinking of something beyond her punishment—beyond her

situation: of something not round her nor before her. I have heard of

day-dreams—is she in a day-dream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor,

but I am sure they do not see it—her sight seems turned in, gone down

into her heart: she is looking at what she can remember, I believe; not

at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a girl she is—whether

good or naughty.”



Soon after five P.M. we had another meal, consisting of a small mug of

coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank

my coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more—I

was still hungry. Half-an-hour’s recreation succeeded, then study; then

the glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such

was my first day at Lowood.