The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is a classic of early feminism

Having just read Anne Brontë's The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, I came away suitably impressed, not so much with the writing or with the deep characterization in the novel, but with the sheer audacity of it. I'm sure any number of monographs and papers of which I am unaware have been written on the subject, but it occurs to me that it must be one of the first mainstream feminist novels.
Anne Brontë is the "other" Brontë, less famous than her overachieving siblings, Emily and Charlotte, and probably less accomplished as an author. It was Anne, the youngest of the sisters, who bore the brunt of caring for her feckless and alcoholic brother, Branwell, and this experience - one that her sisters may not have undergone to the same degree - may well have given her a singularly cynical outlook on the opposite sex. Although Anne is much better known for her other novel, Agnes Grey, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall may be her real legacy.
Not only is the novel a searing account of alcoholism and psychological spousal abuse, common phenomena in 19th century Victorian England, even if not mentioned in polite society. But Ms. Brontë's heroine, after of course doing her Christian duty (and more) in attempting to save her husband from himself and his demons, takes matters into her own hands and walks out on him, taking their young son with her, to live by her own wits and skills. This was all but unheard of in genteel literature, and would really have made the Victorians sit up and take note (and, I am sure, in many cases, grumble and denounce).
The men in the novel are split between thoughtless, adulterous, high-living cads, and rather anaemic, wimpy but sensitive types. They are most definitely not the brooding, romantic, Byronic archetypes of her sisters' novels. Ms. Brontë makes her preference clear, but does not try to hide a certain amount of disdain for both manifestations of manhood. And, while there are a certain number of scheming, unpleasant, upper class women in the book, many of the women are quite strong, matter-of-fact, level-headed individuals, none more so than the heroine, Helen Huntingdon, herself.
Some of Helen's diary entries would definitely cause the eyebrows of the Victorian reading classes to rise:

• "I am satisfied that, if a book is a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels are, or should be, written for both men and women to read."
• "Because, my dear, beauty is that quality which, next to money, is generally the most attractive to the worst kinds of men."
• "His idea of a wife is a thing to love one devotedly, and to stay at home — to wait upon her husband and amuse him and minister to his comfort in every possible way, while he chooses to stay with her; and, when he is absent, to attend to his interests, domestic or otherwise, and patiently wait his return; no matter how he may be occupied in the meantime."
• "Keep both heart and hand in your own possession, till you see good reason to part with them; and if such an occasion should never present itself, comfort your mind with this reflection, that though in single life your joys may not be very many, your sorrows, at least, will not be more than you can bear. Marriage may change your circumstances for the better, but, in my private opinion, it is much more likely to produce a contrary result."

Ouch! Helen's advice to her younger protégée, Esther, in particular, is not merely world-weary and cynical, it is the counsel of a strong independent woman. In Victorian terms of 1848, it is downright sacrilege and heresy! Add to this the way in which Helen manages the attentions of her various suitors - invariably calm, assured, and nothing less than masterful - and the way in which (after an admitted mistake in marrying Arthur in the first place) she vows to live her life on her own terms and to protect her young son, she presents an early model for feminine fortitude and autonomy.
Whether this is indeed the first feminist novel is probably open to debate, and I'm sure it has been debated ad nauseam in circles of literary academia to which I am not privy. But, regardless, eve I can see that it is a most worthy (even if not stylistically outstanding) work of Victorian fiction. Indeed, it is a deep irony that Ms. Brontë felt the need to publish it under the masculine nom-de-plume, Acton Bell.