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CHARLOTTE BRONTE AND HER CIRCLE
BY CLEMENT K. SHORTER
LONDON
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
27 PATERNOSTER ROW
1896
[Picture: CHARLOTTE BRONTE]
PREFACE
It is claimed for the following book of some five hundred pages that the
larger part of it is an addition of entirely new material to the romantic
story of the Brontes. For this result, but very small credit is due to
me; and my very hearty acknowledgments must be made, in the first place,
to the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, for whose generous surrender of
personal inclination I must ever be grateful. It has been with extreme
unwillingness that Mr. Nicholls has broken the silence of forty years,
and he would not even now have consented to the publication of certain
letters concerning his marriage, had he not been aware that these letters
were already privately printed and in the hands of not less than eight or
ten people. To Miss Ellen Nussey of Gomersall, I have also to render
thanks for having placed the many letters in her possession at my
disposal, and for having furnished a great deal of interesting
information. Without the letters from Charlotte Bronte to Mr. W. S.
Williams, which were kindly lent to me by his son and daughter, Mr. and
Mrs. Thornton Williams, my book would have been the poorer. Sir Wemyss
Reid, Mr. J. J. Stead, of Heckmondwike, Mr. Butler Wood, of Bradford, Mr.
W. W. Yates, of Dewsbury, Mr. Erskine Stuart, Mr. Buxton Forman, and Mr.
Thomas J. Wise are among the many Bronte specialists who have helped me
with advice or with the loan of material. Mr. Wise, in particular, has
lent me many valuable manuscripts. Finally, I have to thank my friend
Dr. Robertson Nicoll for the kindly pressure which has practically
compelled me to prepare this little volume amid a multitude of
journalistic duties.
CLEMENT K. SHORTER.
198 STRAND, LONDON,
_September_ 1_st_, 1896.
CONTENTS
PRELIMINARY
CHAPTER I PATRICK BRONTE AND MARIA HIS WIFE
CHAPTER II CHILDHOOD
CHAPTER III SCHOOL AND GOVERNESS LIFE
CHAPTER IV PENSIONNAT HEGER, BRUSSELS
CHAPTER V PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTE
CHAPTER VI EMILY JANE BRONTE
CHAPTER VII ANNE BRONTE
CHAPTER VIII ELLEN NUSSEY
CHAPTER IX MARY TAYLOR
CHAPTER X MARGARET WOOLER
CHAPTER XI THE CURATES AT HAWORTH
CHAPTER XII CHARLOTTE BRONTE'S LOVERS
CHAPTER XIII LITERARY AMBITIONS
CHAPTER XIV WILLIAM SMITH WILLIAMS
CHAPTER XV WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
CHAPTER XVI LITERARY FRIENDSHIPS
CHAPTER XVII ARTHUR BELL NICHOLLS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
CHARLOTTE BRONTE Frontispiece
PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTE facing page 120
FACSIMILE OF PAGE OF EMILY BRONTE'S DIARY facing page 146
FACSIMILE OF TWO PAGES OF EMILY BRONTE'S DIARY facing page 154
ANNE BRONTE facing page 182
MISS ELLEN NUSSEY AS A SCHOOLGIRL )
MISS ELLEN NUSSEY TO-DAY ) facing page 207
THE REV. ARTHUR BELL NICHOLLS facing page 467
A BRONTE CHRONOLOGY
_Patrick Bronte born_ 17 _March_ 1777
_Maria Bronte born_ 1783
_Patrick leaves Ireland for Cambridge_ 1802
_Degree of A.B._ 1806
_Curacy at Wetherfield_, _Essex_ 1806
,, _Dewsbury Yorks_ 1809
,, _Hartshead-cum-Clifton_ 1811
_Publishes_ '_Cottage Poems_' (_Halifax_) 1811
_Married to Maria Branwell_ 18 _Dec._ 1812
_First Child_, _Maria_, _born_ 1813
_Publishes_ '_The Rural Minstrel_' 1813
_Elizabeth born_ 1814
_Publishes_ '_The Cottage in the Wood_' 1815
_Curacy at Thornton_ 1816
_Charlotte Bronte born at Thornton_ 21 _April_ 1816
_Patrick Branwell Bronte born_ 1817
_Emily Jane Bronte born_ 1818
'_The Maid of Killarney_' _published_ 1818
_Anne Bronte born_ 1819
_Removal to Incumbency of Haworth_ _February_ 1820
_Mrs. Bronte died_ 15 _September_ 1821
_Maria and Elizabeth Bronte at Cowan Bridge_ _July_ 1824
_Charlotte and Emily_ ,, ,, _September_ 1824
_Leave Cowan Bridge_ 1825
_Maria Bronte died_ 6 _May_ 1825
_Elizabeth Bronte died_ 15 _June_ 1825
_Charlotte Bronte at School_, _January_ 1831
_Roe Head_
_Leaves Roe Head School_ 1832
_First Visit to Ellen Nussey at The Rydings_ _September_ 1832
_Returns to Roe Head as governess_ 29 _July_ 1835
_Branwell visits London_ 1835
_Emily spends three months at Roe Head_, _when Anne 1835
takes her place and she returns home_
_Ellen Nussey visits Haworth in Holidays_ _July_ 1836
_Miss Wooler's School removed to Dewsbury Moor_ 1836
_Emily at a School at Halifax for six months_ 1836
(_Miss Patchet of Law Hill_)
_First Proposal of Marriage_ (_Henry Nussey_) _March_ 1839
_Anne Bronte becomes governess at Blake Hall_, _April_ 1839
(_Mrs. Ingham's_)
_Charlotte governess at Mrs. Sidgwick's at Stonegappe_, 1839
_and at Swarcliffe_, _Harrogate_
_Second Proposal of Marriage_ (_Mr. Price_) 1839
_Charlotte and Emily at Haworth_, 1840
_Anne at Blake Hall_
_Charlotte's second situation as governess with _March_ 1841
Mrs. White_, _Upperwood House_, _Rawdon_
_Charlotte and Emily go to School at Brussels_ _February_ 1842
_Miss Branwell died at Haworth_ 29 _Oct._ 1842
_Charlotte and Emily return to Haworth_ _Nov._ 1842
_Charlotte returns to Brussels_ _Jan._ 1843
_Returns to Haworth_ _Jan._ 1844
_Anne and Branwell at Thorp Green_ 1845
_Charlotte visits Mary Taylor at Hounsden_ 1845
_Visits Miss Nussey at Brookroyd_ 1845
_Publication of Poems by Currer_, 1846
_Ellis and Acton Bell_
_Charlotte Bronte visits Manchester with her father for _Aug._ 1846
him to see an Oculist_
'_Jane Eyre_' _published_ (_Smith & Elder_) _Oct._ 1847
'_Wuthering Heights_' _and_ '_Agnes Grey_', (_Newby_) _Dec._ 1847
_Charlotte and Emily visit London_ _June_ 1848
'_Tenant of Wildfell Hall_' 1848
_Branwell died_ 24 _Sept._ 1848
_Emily died_ 19 _Dec._ 1848
_Anne Bronte died at Scarborough_ 28 _May_ 1849
'_Shirley_' _published_ 1849
_Visit to London_, _first meeting with Thackeray_ _Nov._ 1849
_Visit to London_, _sits for Portrait to Richmond_ 1850
_Third Offer of Marriage_ (_James Taylor_) 1851
_Visit to London for Exhibition_ 1851
'_Villette_' _published_ 1852
_Visit to London_ 1853
_Visit to Manchester to Mrs. Gaskell_ 1853
_Marriage_ 29 _June_ 1854
_Death_ 31 _March_ 1855
_Patrick Bronte died_ 7 _June_ 1861
PRELIMINARY: MRS. GASKELL
In the whole of English biographical literature there is no book that can
compare in widespread interest with the _Life of Charlotte Bronte_ by
Mrs. Gaskell. It has held a position of singular popularity for forty
years; and while biography after biography has come and gone, it still
commands a place side by side with Boswell's _Johnson_ and Lockhart's
_Scott_. As far as mere readers are concerned, it may indeed claim its
hundreds as against the tens of intrinsically more important rivals.
There are obvious reasons for this success. Mrs. Gaskell was herself a
popular novelist, who commanded a very wide audience, and _Cranford_, at
least, has taken a place among the classics of our literature. She
brought to bear upon the biography of Charlotte Bronte all those literary
gifts which had made the charm of her seven volumes of romance. And
these gifts were employed upon a romance of real life, not less
fascinating than anything which imagination could have furnished.
Charlotte Bronte's success as an author turned the eyes of the world upon
her. Thackeray had sent her his _Vanity Fair_ before he knew her name or
sex. The precious volume lies before me--
[Picture: First Thackeray Inscription]
And Thackeray did not send many inscribed copies of his books even to
successful authors. Speculation concerning the author of _Jane Eyre_ was
sufficiently rife during those seven sad years of literary renown to make
a biography imperative when death came to Charlotte Bronte in 1855. All
the world had heard something of the three marvellous sisters, daughters
of a poor parson in Yorkshire, going one after another to their death
with such melancholy swiftness, but leaving--two of them, at
least--imperishable work behind them. The old blind father and the
bereaved husband read the confused eulogy and criticism, sometimes with a
sad pleasure at the praise, oftener with a sadder pain at the grotesque
inaccuracy. Small wonder that it became impressed upon Mr. Bronte's mind
that an authoritative biography was desirable. His son-in-law, Mr.
Arthur Bell Nicholls, who lived with him in the Haworth parsonage during
the six weary years which succeeded Mrs. Nicholls's death, was not so
readily won to the unveiling of his wife's inner life; and although we,
who read Mrs. Gaskell's _Memoir_, have every reason to be thankful for
Mr. Bronte's decision, peace of mind would undoubtedly have been more
assured to Charlotte Bronte's surviving relatives had the most rigid
silence been maintained. The book, when it appeared in 1857, gave
infinite pain to a number of people, including Mr. Bronte and Mr.
Nicholls; and Mrs. Gaskell's subsequent experiences had the effect of
persuading her that all biographical literature was intolerable and
undesirable. She would seem to have given instructions that no biography
of herself should be written; and now that thirty years have passed since
her death we have no substantial record of one of the most fascinating
women of her age. The loss to literature has been forcibly brought home
to the present writer, who has in his possession a bundle of letters
written by Mrs. Gaskell to numerous friends of Charlotte Bronte during
the progress of the biography. They serve, all of them, to impress one
with the singular charm of the woman, her humanity and breadth of
sympathy. They make us think better of Mrs. Gaskell, as Thackeray's
letters to Mrs. Brookfield make us think better of the author of _Vanity
Fair_.
Apart from these letters, a journey in the footsteps, as it were, of Mrs.
Gaskell reveals to us the remarkable conscientiousness with which she set
about her task. It would have been possible, with so much fame behind
her, to have secured an equal success, and certainly an equal pecuniary
reward, had she merely written a brief monograph with such material as
was voluntarily placed in her hands. Mrs. Gaskell possessed a higher
ideal of a biographer's duties. She spared no pains to find out the
facts; she visited every spot associated with the name of Charlotte
Bronte--Thornton, Haworth, Cowan Bridge, Birstall, Brussels--and she
wrote countless letters to the friends of Charlotte Bronte's earlier
days.
But why, it may be asked, was Mrs. Gaskell selected as biographer? The
choice was made by Mr. Bronte, and not, as has been suggested, by some
outside influence. When Mr. Bronte had once decided that there should be
an authoritative biography--and he alone was active in the matter--there
could be but little doubt upon whom the task would fall. Among all the
friends whom fame had brought to Charlotte, Mrs. Gaskell stood prominent
for her literary gifts and her large-hearted sympathy. She had made the
acquaintance of Miss Bronte when the latter was on a visit to Sir James
Kay Shuttleworth, in 1850; and a letter from Charlotte to her father, and
others to Mr. W. S. Williams, indicate the beginning of a friendship
which was to leave so permanent a record in literary history:--
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'20_th_ _November_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--You said that if I wished for any copies of _Shirley_
to be sent to individuals I was to name the parties. I have thought
of one person to whom I should much like a copy to be
offered--Harriet Martineau. For her character--as revealed in her
works--I have a lively admiration, a deep esteem. Will you inclose
with the volume the accompanying note?
'The letter you forwarded this morning was from Mrs. Gaskell,
authoress of _Mary Barton_; she said I was not to answer it, but I
cannot help doing so. The note brought the tears to my eyes. She is
a good, she is a great woman. Proud am I that I can touch a chord of
sympathy in souls so noble. In Mrs. Gaskell's nature it mournfully
pleases me to fancy a remote affinity to my sister Emily. In Miss
Martineau's mind I have always felt the same, though there are wide
differences. Both these ladies are above me--certainly far my
superiors in attainments and experience. I think I could look up to
them if I knew them.--I am, dear sir, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_November_ 29_th_, 1849.
'DEAR SIR,--I inclose two notes for postage. The note you sent
yesterday was from Harriet Martineau; its contents were more than
gratifying. I ought to be thankful, and I trust I am, for such
testimonies of sympathy from the first order of minds. When Mrs.
Gaskell tells me she shall keep my works as a treasure for her
daughters, and when Harriet Martineau testifies affectionate
approbation, I feel the sting taken from the strictures of another
class of critics. My resolution of seclusion withholds me from
communicating further with these ladies at present, but I now know
how they are inclined to me--I know how my writings have affected
their wise and pure minds. The knowledge is present support and,
perhaps, may be future armour.
'I trust Mrs. Williams's health and, consequently, your spirits are
by this time quite restored. If all be well, perhaps I shall see you
next week.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_January_ 1_st_, 1850.
'MY DEAR SIR,--May I beg that a copy of _Wuthering Heights_ may be
sent to Mrs. Gaskell; her present address is 3 Sussex Place, Regent's
Park. She has just sent me the _Moorland Cottage_. I felt
disappointed about the publication of that book, having hoped it
would be offered to Smith, Elder & Co.; but it seems she had no
alternative, as it was Mr. Chapman himself who asked her to write a
Christmas book. On my return home yesterday I found two packets from
Cornhill directed in two well-known hands waiting for me. You are
all very very good.
'I trust to have derived benefit from my visit to Miss Martineau. A
visit more interesting I certainly never paid. If self-sustaining
strength can be acquired from example, I ought to have got good. But
my nature is not hers; I could not make it so though I were to submit
it seventy times seven to the furnace of affliction, and discipline
it for an age under the hammer and anvil of toil and self-sacrifice.
Perhaps if I was like her I should not admire her so much as I do.
She is somewhat absolute, though quite unconsciously so; but she is
likewise kind, with an affection at once abrupt and constant, whose
sincerity you cannot doubt. It was delightful to sit near her in the
evenings and hear her converse, myself mute. She speaks with what
seems to me a wonderful fluency and eloquence. Her animal spirits
are as unflagging as her intellectual powers. I was glad to find her
health excellent. I believe neither solitude nor loss of friends
would break her down. I saw some faults in her, but somehow I liked
them for the sake of her good points. It gave me no pain to feel
insignificant, mentally and corporeally, in comparison with her.
'Trusting that you and yours are well, and sincerely wishing you all
a happy new year,--I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO REV. P. BRONTE
'THE BRIERY, WINDERMERE,
'_August_ 10_th_, 1850.
'DEAR PAPA,--I reached this place yesterday evening at eight o'clock,
after a safe though rather tedious journey. I had to change
carriages three times and to wait an hour and a half at Lancaster.
Sir James came to meet me at the station; both he and Lady
Shuttleworth gave me a very kind reception. This place is
exquisitely beautiful, though the weather is cloudy, misty, and
stormy; but the sun bursts out occasionally and shows the hills and
the lake. Mrs. Gaskell is coming here this evening, and one or two
other people. Miss Martineau, I am sorry to say, I shall not see, as
she is already gone from home for the autumn.
'Be kind enough to write by return of post and tell me how you are
getting on and how you are. Give my kind regards to Tabby and
Martha, and--Believe me, dear papa, your affectionate daughter,
'C. BRONTE.'
And this is how she writes to a friend from Haworth, on her return, after
that first meeting:--
'Lady Shuttleworth never got out, being confined to the house with a
cold; but fortunately there was Mrs. Gaskell, the authoress of _Mary
Barton_, who came to the Briery the day after me. I was truly glad
of her companionship. She is a woman of the most genuine talent, of
cheerful, pleasing, and cordial manners, and, I believe, of a kind
and good heart.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_September_ 20_th_, 1850.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I herewith send you a very roughly written copy of
what I have to say about my sisters. When you have read it you can
better judge whether the word "Notice" or "Memoir" is the most
appropriate. I think the former. Memoir seems to me to express a
more circumstantial and different sort of account. My aim is to give
a just idea of their identity, not to write any narration of their
simple, uneventful lives. I depend on you for faithfully pointing
out whatever may strike you as faulty. I could not write it in the
conventional form--_that_ I found impossible.
'It gives me real pleasure to hear of your son's success. I trust he
may persevere and go on improving, and give his parents cause for
satisfaction and honest pride.
'I am truly pleased, too, to learn that Miss Kavanagh has managed so
well with Mr. Colburn. Her position seems to me one deserving of all
sympathy. I often think of her. Will her novel soon be published?
Somehow I expect it to be interesting.
'I certainly did hope that Mrs. Gaskell would offer her next work to
Smith & Elder. She and I had some conversation about publishers--a
comparison of our literary experiences was made. She seemed much
struck with the differences between hers and mine, though I did not
enter into details or tell her all. Unless I greatly mistake, she
and you and Mr. Smith would get on well together; but one does not
know what causes there may be to prevent her from doing as she would
wish in such a case. I think Mr. Smith will not object to my
occasionally sending her any of the Cornhill books that she may like
to see. I have already taken the liberty of lending her Wordsworth's
_Prelude_, as she was saying how much she wished to have the
opportunity of reading it.
'I do not tack remembrances to Mrs. Williams and your daughters and
Miss Kavanagh to all my letters, because that makes an empty form of
what should be a sincere wish, but I trust this mark of courtesy and
regard, though rarely expressed, is always understood.--Believe me,
yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
Miss Bronte twice visited Mrs. Gaskell in her Manchester home, first in
1851 and afterwards in 1853, and concerning this latter visit we have the
following letter:--
TO MRS. GASKELL, MANCHESTER
'HAWORTH, _April_ 14_th_, 1853.
'MY DEAR MRS. GASKELL,--Would it suit you if I were to come next
Thursday, the 21st?
'If that day tallies with your convenience, and if my father
continues as well as he is now, I know of no engagement on my part
which need compel me longer to defer the pleasure of seeing you.
'I should arrive by the train which reaches Manchester at 7 o'clock
P.M. That, I think, would be about your tea-time, and, of course, I
should dine before leaving home. I always like evening for an
arrival; it seems more cosy and pleasant than coming in about the
busy middle of the day. I think if I stay a week that will be a very
long visit; it will give you time to get well tired of me.
'Remember me very kindly to Mr. Gaskell and Marianna. As to Mesdames
Flossy and Julia, those venerable ladies are requested beforehand to
make due allowance for the awe with which they will be sure to
impress a diffident admirer. I am sorry I shall not see
Meta.--Believe me, my dear Mrs. Gaskell, yours affectionately and
sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
In the autumn of 1853 Mrs. Gaskell returned Charlotte Bronte's visit at
Haworth. She was not, however, at Charlotte's wedding in Haworth Church.
{8}
TO MISS WOOLER
'HAWORTH, _September_ 8_th_.
'MY DEAR MISS WOOLER,--Your letter was truly kind, and made me warmly
wish to join you. My prospects, however, of being able to leave home
continue very unsettled. I am expecting Mrs. Gaskell next week or
the week after, the day being yet undetermined. She was to have come
in June, but then my severe attack of influenza rendered it
impossible that I should receive or entertain her. Since that time
she has been absent on the Continent with her husband and two eldest
girls; and just before I received yours I had a letter from her
volunteering a visit at a vague date, which I requested her to fix as
soon as possible. My father has been much better during the last
three or four days.
'When I know anything certain I will write to you again.--Believe me,
my dear Miss Wooler, yours respectfully and affectionately,
'C. BRONTE.'
But the friendship, which commenced so late in Charlotte Bronte's life,
never reached the stage of downright intimacy. Of this there is abundant
evidence in the biography; and Mrs. Gaskell was forced to rely upon the
correspondence of older friends of Charlotte's. Mr. George Smith, the
head of the firm of Smith and Elder, furnished some twenty letters. Mr.
W. S. Williams, to whom is due the credit of 'discovering' the author of
_Jane Eyre_, lent others; and another member of Messrs. Smith and Elder's
staff, Mr. James Taylor, furnished half-a-dozen more; but the best help
came from another quarter.
Of the two schoolfellows with whom Charlotte Bronte regularly
corresponded from childhood till death, Mary Taylor and Ellen Nussey, the
former had destroyed every letter; and thus it came about that by far the
larger part of the correspondence in Mrs. Gaskell's biography was
addressed to Miss Ellen Nussey, now as 'My dearest Nell,' now simply as
'E.' The unpublished correspondence in my hands, which refers to the
biography, opens with a letter from Mrs. Gaskell to Miss Nussey, dated
July 6th, 1855. It relates how, in accordance with a request from Mr.
Bronte, she had undertaken to write the work, and had been over to
Haworth. There she had made the acquaintance of Mr. Nicholls for the
first time. She told Mr. Bronte how much she felt the difficulty of the
task she had undertaken. Nevertheless, she sincerely desired to make his
daughter's character known to all who took deep interest in her writings.
Both Mr. Bronte and Mr. Nicholls agreed to help to the utmost, although
Mrs. Gaskell was struck by the fact that it was Mr. Nicholls, and not Mr.
Bronte, who was more intellectually alive to the attraction which such a
book would have for the public. His feelings were opposed to any
biography at all; but he had yielded to Mr. Bronte's 'impetuous wish,'
and he brought down all the materials he could find, in the shape of
about a dozen letters. Mr. Nicholls, moreover, told Mrs. Gaskell that
Miss Nussey was the person of all others to apply to; that she had been
the friend of his wife ever since Charlotte was fifteen, and that he was
writing to Miss Nussey to beg her to let Mrs. Gaskell see some of the
correspondence.
But here is Mr. Nicholls's actual letter, unearthed after forty years, as
well as earlier letters from and to Miss Nussey, which would seem to
indicate a suggestion upon the part of 'E' that some attempt should be
made to furnish a biography of her friend--if only to set at rest, once
and for all, the speculations of the gossiping community with whom
Charlotte Bronte's personality was still shrouded in mystery; and indeed
it is clear from these letters that it is to Miss Nussey that we really
owe Mrs. Gaskell's participation in the matter:--
TO REV. A. B. NICHOLLS
'BROOKROYD, _June_ 6_th_, 1855.
'DEAR MR. NICHOLLS,--I have been much hurt and pained by the perusal
of an article in _Sharpe_ for this month, entitled "A Few Words about
_Jane Eyre_." You will be certain to see the article, and I am sure
both you and Mr. Bronte will feel acutely the misrepresentations and
the malignant spirit which characterises it. Will you suffer the
article to pass current without any refutations? The writer merits
the contempt of silence, but there will be readers and believers.
Shall such be left to imbibe a tissue of malignant falsehoods, or
shall an attempt be made to do justice to one who so highly deserved
justice, whose very name those who best knew her but speak with
reverence and affection? Should not her aged father be defended from
the reproach the writer coarsely attempts to bring upon him?
'I wish Mrs. Gaskell, who is every way capable, would undertake a
reply, and would give a sound castigation to the writer. Her
personal acquaintance with Haworth, the Parsonage, and its inmates,
fits her for the task, and if on other subjects she lacked
information I would gladly supply her with facts sufficient to set
aside much that is asserted, if you yourself are not provided with
all the information that is needed on the subjects produced. Will
you ask Mrs. Gaskell to undertake this just and honourable defence?
I think she would do it gladly. She valued dear Charlotte, and such
an act of friendship, performed with her ability and power, could
only add to the laurels she has already won. I hope you and Mr.
Bronte are well. My kind regards to both.--Believe me, yours
sincerely,
'E. NUSSEY.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _June_ 11_th_, 1855.
'DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--We had not seen the article in _Sharpe_, and very
possibly should not, if you had not directed our attention to it. We
ordered a copy, and have now read the "Few Words about _Jane Eyre_."
The writer has certainly made many mistakes, but apparently not from
any unkind motive, as he professes to be an admirer of Charlotte's
works, pays a just tribute to her genius, and in common with
thousands deplores her untimely death. His design seems rather to be
to gratify the curiosity of the multitude in reference to one who had
made such a sensation in the literary world. But even if the article
had been of a less harmless character, we should not have felt
inclined to take any notice of it, as by doing so we should have
given it an importance which it would not otherwise have obtained.
Charlotte herself would have acted thus; and her character stands too
high to be injured by the statements in a magazine of small
circulation and little influence--statements which the writer
prefaces with the remark that he does not vouch for their accuracy.
The many laudatory notices of Charlotte and her works which appeared
since her death may well make us indifferent to the detractions of a
few envious or malignant persons, as there ever will be such.
'The remarks respecting Mr. Bronte excited in him only
amusement--indeed, I have not seen him laugh as much for some months
as he did while I was reading the article to him. We are both well
in health, but lonely and desolate.
'Mr. Bronte unites with me in kind regards.--Yours sincerely,
'A. B. NICHOLLS.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _July_ 24_th_, 1855.
'DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--Some other erroneous notices of Charlotte having
appeared, Mr. Bronte has deemed it advisable that some authentic
statement should be put forth. He has therefore adopted your
suggestion and applied to Mrs. Gaskell, who has undertaken to write a
life of Charlotte. Mrs. Gaskell came over yesterday and spent a few
hours with us. The greatest difficulty seems to be in obtaining
materials to show the development of Charlotte's character. For this
reason Mrs. Gaskell is anxious to see her letters, especially those
of any early date. I think I understood you to say that you had
some; if so, we should feel obliged by your letting us have any that
you may think proper, not for publication, but merely to give the
writer an insight into her mode of thought. Of course they will be
returned after a little time.
'I confess that the course most consonant with my own feelings would
be to take no steps in the matter, but I do not think it right to
offer any opposition to Mr. Bronte's wishes.
'We have the same object in view, but should differ in our mode of
proceeding. Mr. Bronte has not been very well. Excitement on Sunday
(our Rush-bearing) and Mrs. Gaskell's visit yesterday have been
rather much for him.--Believe me, sincerely yours,
'A. B. NICHOLLS.'
Mrs. Gaskell, however, wanted to make Miss Nussey's acquaintance, and
asked if she might visit her; and added that she would also like to see
Miss Wooler, Charlotte's schoolmistress, if that lady were still alive.
To this letter Miss Nussey made the following reply:--
TO MRS. GASKELL, MANCHESTER
'ILKLEY, _July_ 26_th_, 1855.
'MY DEAR MADAM,--Owing to my absence from home your letter has only
just reached me. I had not heard of Mr. Bronte's request, but I am
most heartily glad that he has made it. A letter from Mr. Nicholls
was forwarded along with yours, which I opened first, and was thus
prepared for your communication, the subject of which is of the
deepest interest to me. I will do everything in my power to aid the
righteous work you have undertaken, but I feel my powers very
limited, and apprehend that you may experience some disappointment
that I cannot contribute more largely the information which you
desire. I possess a great many letters (for I have destroyed but a
small portion of the correspondence), but I fear the early letters
are not such as to unfold the character of the writer except in a few
points. You perhaps may discover more than is apparent to me. You
will read them with a purpose--I perused them only with interests of
affection. I will immediately look over the correspondence, and I
promise to let you see all that I can confide to your friendly
custody. I regret that my absence from home should have made it
impossible for me to have the pleasure of seeing you at Brookroyd at
the time you propose. I am engaged to stay here till Monday week,
and shall be happy to see you any day you name after that date, or,
if more convenient to you to come Friday or Saturday in next week, I
will gladly return in time to give you the meeting. I am staying
with our schoolmistress, Miss Wooler, in this place. I wish her very
much to give me leave to ask you here, but she does not yield to my
wishes; it would have been pleasanter to me to talk with you among
these hills than sitting in my home and thinking of one who had so
often been present there.--I am, my dear madam, yours sincerely,
'ELLEN NUSSEY.'
Mrs. Gaskell and Miss Nussey met, and the friendship which ensued was
closed only by death; and indeed one of the most beautiful letters in the
collection in my hands is one signed 'Meta Gaskell,' and dated January
22, 1866. It tells in detail, with infinite tenderness and pathos, of
her mother's last moments. {14} That, however, was ten years later than
the period with which we are concerned. In 1856 Mrs. Gaskell was
energetically engaged upon a biography of her friend which should lack
nothing of thoroughness, as she hoped. She claimed to have visited the
scenes of all the incidents in Charlotte's life, 'the two little pieces
of private governess-ship excepted.' She went one day with Mr. Smith to
the Chapter Coffee House, where the sisters first stayed in London.
Another day she is in Yorkshire, where she makes the acquaintance of Miss
Wooler, which permitted, as she said, 'a more friendly manner of writing
towards Charlotte Bronte's old schoolmistress.' Again she is in
Brussels, where Madame Heger refused to see her, although M. Heger was
kind and communicative, 'and very much indeed I both like and respect
him.' Her countless questions were exceedingly interesting. They
covered many pages of note-paper. Did Branwell Bronte know of the
publication of _Jane Eyre_,' she asks, 'and how did he receive the news?'
Mrs. Gaskell was persuaded in her own mind that he had never known of its
publication, and we shall presently see that she was right. Charlotte
had distinctly informed her, she said, that Branwell was not in a fit
condition at the time to be told. 'Where did the girls get the books
which they read so continually? Did Emily accompany Charlotte as a pupil
when the latter went as a teacher to Roe Head? Why did not Branwell go
to the Royal Academy in London to learn painting? Did Emily ever go out
as a governess? What were Emily's religious opinions? Did _she_ ever
make friends?' Such were the questions which came quick and fast to Miss
Nussey, and Miss Nussey fortunately kept her replies.
TO MRS. GASKELL, MANCHESTER
'BROOKROYD, _October_ 22_nd_, 1856.
'MY DEAR MRS. GASKELL,--If you go to London pray try what may be done
with regard to a portrait of dear Charlotte. It would greatly
enhance the value and interest of the memoir, and be such a
satisfaction to people to see something that would settle their ideas
of the personal appearance of the dear departed one. It has been a
surprise to every stranger, I think, that she was so gentle and
lady-like to look upon.
'Emily Bronte went to Roe Head as pupil when Charlotte went as
teacher; she stayed there but two months; she never settled, and was
ill from nothing but home-sickness. Anne took her place and remained
about two years. Emily was a teacher for one six months in a ladies'
school in Halifax or the neighbourhood. I do not know whether it was
conduct or want of finances that prevented Branwell from going to the
Royal Academy. Probably there were impediments of both kinds.
'I am afraid if you give me my name I shall feel a prominence in the
book that I altogether shrink from. My very last wish would be to
appear in the book more than is absolutely necessary. If it were
possible, I would choose not to be known at all. It is my friend
only that I care to see and recognise, though your framing and
setting of the picture will very greatly enhance its value.--I am, my
dear Mrs. Gaskell, yours very sincerely,
'ELLEN NUSSEY.'
The book was published in two volumes, under the title of _The Life of
Charlotte Bronte_, in the spring of 1857. At first all was well. Mr.
Bronte's earliest acknowledgment of the book was one of approbation. Sir
James Shuttleworth expressed the hope that Mr. Nicholls would 'rejoice
that his wife would be known as a Christian heroine who could bear her
cross with the firmness of a martyr saint.' Canon Kingsley wrote a
charming letter to Mrs. Gaskell, published in his _Life_, and more than
once reprinted since.
'Let me renew our long interrupted acquaintance,' he writes from St.
Leonards, under date May 14th, 1857, 'by complimenting you on poor
Miss Bronte's _Life_. You have had a delicate and a great work to
do, and you have done it admirably. Be sure that the book will do
good. It will shame literary people into some stronger belief that a
simple, virtuous, practical home life is consistent with high
imaginative genius; and it will shame, too, the prudery of a not over
cleanly though carefully white-washed age, into believing that purity
is now (as in all ages till now) quite compatible with the knowledge
of evil. I confess that the book has made me ashamed of myself.
_Jane Eyre_ I hardly looked into, very seldom reading a work of
fiction--yours, indeed, and Thackeray's, are the only ones I care to
open. _Shirley_ disgusted me at the opening, and I gave up the
writer and her books with a notion that she was a person who liked
coarseness. How I misjudged her! and how thankful I am that I never
put a word of my misconceptions into print, or recorded my
misjudgments of one who is a whole heaven above me.
'Well have you done your work, and given us the picture of a valiant
woman made perfect by suffering. I shall now read carefully and
lovingly every word she has written, especially those poems, which
ought not to have fallen dead as they did, and which seem to be (from
a review in the current _Fraser_) of remarkable strength and purity.'
It was a short-lived triumph, however, and Mrs. Gaskell soon found
herself, as she expressed it, 'in a veritable hornet's nest.' Mr.
Bronte, to begin with, did not care for the references to himself and the
suggestion that he had treated his wife unkindly. Mrs. Gaskell had
associated him with numerous eccentricities and ebullitions of temper,
which during his later years he always asserted, and undoubtedly with
perfect truth, were, at the best, the fabrications of a dismissed
servant. Mr. Nicholls had also his grievance. There was just a
suspicion implied that he had not been quite the most sympathetic of
husbands. The suspicion was absolutely ill-founded, and arose from Mr.
Nicholls's intense shyness. But neither Mr. Bronte nor Mr. Nicholls gave
Mrs. Gaskell much trouble. They, at any rate, were silent. Trouble,
however, came from many quarters. Yorkshire people resented the air of
patronage with which, as it seemed to them, a good Lancashire lady had
taken their county in hand. They were not quite the backward savages,
they retorted, which some of Mrs. Gaskell's descriptions in the beginning
of her book would seem to suggest. Between Lancashire and Yorkshire
there is always a suspicion of jealousy. It was intensified for the
moment by these sombre pictures of 'this lawless, yet not unkindly
population.' {17} A son-in-law of Mr. Redhead wrote to deny the account
of that clergyman's association with Haworth. 'He gives another as true,
in which I don't see any great difference.' Miss Martineau wrote sheet
after sheet explanatory of her relations with Charlotte Bronte. 'Two
separate householders in London _each_ declares that the first interview
between Miss Bronte and Miss Martineau took place at _her_ house.' In
one passage Mrs. Gaskell had spoken of wasteful young servants, and the
young servants in question came upon Mr. Bronte for the following
testimonial:--
'HAWORTH, _August_ 17_th_, 1857.
'I beg leave to state to all whom it may concern, that Nancy and
Sarah Garrs, during the time they were in my service, were kind to my
children, and honest, and not wasteful, but sufficiently careful in
regard to food, and all other articles committed to their charge.
P. BRONTE, A.B.,
'_Incumbent of Haworth_, _Yorkshire_.'
Three whole pages were devoted to the dramatic recital of a scandal at
Haworth, and this entirely disappears from the third edition. A casual
reference to a girl who had been seduced, and had found a friend in Miss
Bronte, gave further trouble. 'I have altered the word "seduced" to
"betrayed,"' writes Mrs. Gaskell to Martha Brown, 'and I hope that this
will satisfy the unhappy girl's friends.' But all these were small
matters compared with the Cowan Bridge controversy and the threatened
legal proceedings over Branwell Bronte's suggested love affairs. Mrs.
Gaskell defended the description in _Jane Eyre_ of Cowan Bridge with
peculiar vigour. Mr. Carus Wilson, the Brocklehurst of _Jane Eyre_, and
his friends were furious. They threatened an action. There were letters
in the _Times_ and letters in the _Daily News_. Mr. Nicholls broke
silence--the only time in the forty years that he has done so--with two
admirable letters to the _Halifax Guardian_. The Cowan Bridge
controversy was a drawn battle, in spite of numerous and glowing
testimonials to the virtues of Mr. Carus Wilson. Most people who know
anything of the average private schools of half a century ago are
satisfied that Charlotte Bronte's description was substantially correct.
'I want to show you many letters,' writes Mrs. Gaskell, 'most of them
praising the character of our dear friend as she deserves, and from
people whose opinion she would have cared for, such as the Duke of
Argyll, Kingsley, Greig, etc. Many abusing me. I should think seven or
eight of this kind from the Carus Wilson clique.'
The Branwell matter was more serious. Here Mrs. Gaskell had, indeed,
shown a singular recklessness. The lady referred to by Branwell was Mrs.
Robinson, the wife of the Rev. Edmund Robinson of Thorp Green, and
afterwards Lady Scott. Anne Bronte was governess in her family for two
years, and Branwell tutor to the son for a few months. Branwell, under
the influence of opium, made certain statements about his relations with
Mrs. Robinson which have been effectually disproved, although they were
implicitly believed by the Bronte girls, who, womanlike, were naturally
ready to regard a woman as the ruin of a beloved brother. The
recklessness of Mrs. Gaskell in accepting such inadequate testimony can
be explained only on the assumption that she had a novelist's
satisfaction in the romance which the 'bad woman' theory supplied. She
wasted a considerable amount of rhetoric upon it. 'When the fatal attack
came on,' she says, 'his pockets were found filled with old letters from
the woman to whom he was attached. He died! she lives still--in May
Fair. I see her name in county papers, as one of those who patronise the
Christmas balls; and I hear of her in London drawing-rooms'--and so on.
There were no love-letters found in Branwell Bronte's pockets. {19} When
Mrs. Gaskell's husband came post-haste to Haworth to ask for proofs of
Mrs. Robinson's complicity in Branwell's downfall, none were obtainable.
I am assured by Mr. Leslie Stephen that his father, Sir James Stephen,
was employed at the time to make careful inquiry, and that he and other
eminent lawyers came to the conclusion that it was one long tissue of
lies or hallucinations. The subject is sufficiently sordid, and indeed
almost redundant in any biography of the Brontes; but it is of moment,
because Charlotte Bronte and her sisters were so thoroughly persuaded
that a woman was at the bottom of their brother's ruin; and this belief
Charlotte impressed upon all the friends who were nearest and dearest to
her. Her letters at the time of her brother's death are full of censure
of the supposed wickedness of another. It was a cruel infamy that the
word of this wretched boy should have been so powerful for mischief.
Here, at any rate, Mrs. Gaskell did not show the caution which a
masculine biographer, less prone to take literally a man's accounts of
his amours, would undoubtedly have displayed.
Yet, when all is said, Mrs. Gaskell had done her work thoroughly and
well. Lockhart's _Scott_ and Froude's _Carlyle_ are examples of great
biographies which called for abundant censure upon their publication; yet
both these books will live as classics of their kind. To be interesting,
it is perhaps indispensable that the biographer should be indiscreet, and
certainly the Branwell incident--a matter of two or three pages--is the
only part of Mrs. Gaskell's biography in which indiscretion becomes
indefensible. And for this she suffered cruelly. 'I did so try to tell
the truth,' she said to a friend, 'and I believe _now_ I hit as near to
the truth as any one could do.' 'I weighed every line with my whole
power and heart,' she said on another occasion, 'so that every line
should go to its great purpose of making _her_ known and valued, as one
who had gone through such a terrible life with a brave and faithful
heart.' And that clearly Mrs. Gaskell succeeded in doing. It is quite
certain that Charlotte Bronte would not stand on so splendid a pedestal
to-day but for the single-minded devotion of her accomplished biographer.
It has sometimes been implied that the portrait drawn by Mrs. Gaskell was
far too sombre, that there are passages in Charlotte's letters which show
that ofttimes her heart was merry and her life sufficiently cheerful.
That there were long periods of gaiety for all the three sisters, surely
no one ever doubted. To few people, fortunately, is it given to have
lives wholly without happiness. And yet, when this is acknowledged, how
can one say that the picture was too gloomy? Taken as a whole, the life
of Charlotte Bronte was among the saddest in literature. At a miserable
school, where she herself was unhappy, she saw her two elder sisters
stricken down and carried home to die. In her home was the narrowest
poverty. She had, in the years when that was most essential, no mother's
care; and perhaps there was a somewhat too rigid disciplinarian in the
aunt who took the mother's place. Her second school brought her, indeed,
two kind friends; but her shyness made that school-life in itself a
prolonged tragedy. Of the two experiences as a private governess I shall
have more to say. They were periods of torture to her sensitive nature.
The ambition of the three girls to start a school on their own account
failed ignominiously. The suppressed vitality of childhood and early
womanhood made Charlotte unable to enter with sympathy and toleration
into the life of a foreign city, and Brussels was for her a further
disaster. Then within two years, just as literary fame was bringing its
consolation for the trials of the past, she saw her two beloved sisters
taken from her. And, finally, when at last a good man won her love,
there were left to her only nine months of happy married life. 'I am not
going to die. We have been so happy.' These words to her husband on her
death-bed are not the least piteously sad in her tragic story. That her
life was a tragedy, was the opinion of the woman friend with whom on the
intellectual side she had most in common. Miss Mary Taylor wrote to Mrs.
Gaskell the following letter from New Zealand upon receipt of the
_Life_:--
'WELLINGTON, 30_th_ _July_ 1857.
'MY DEAR MRS. GASKELL,--I am unaccountably in receipt by post of two
vols. containing the Life of C. Bronte. I have pleasure in
attributing this compliment to you; I beg, therefore, to thank you
for them. The book is a perfect success, in giving a true picture of
a melancholy life, and you have practically answered my puzzle as to
how you would give an account of her, not being at liberty to give a
true description of those around. Though not so gloomy as the truth,
it is perhaps as much so as people will accept without calling it
exaggerated, and feeling the desire to doubt and contradict it. I
have seen two reviews of it. One of them sums it up as "a life of
poverty and self-suppression," the other has nothing to the purpose
at all. Neither of them seems to think it a strange or wrong state
of things that a woman of first-rate talents, industry, and integrity
should live all her life in a walking nightmare of "poverty and
self-suppression." I doubt whether any of them will.
'It must upset most people's notions of beauty to be told that the
portrait at the beginning is that of an ugly woman. {22} I do not
altogether like the idea of publishing a flattered likeness. I had
rather the mouth and eyes had been nearer together, and shown the
veritable square face and large disproportionate nose.
'I had the impression that Cartwright's mill was burnt in 1820 not in
1812. You give much too favourable an account of the black-coated
and Tory savages that kept the people down, and provoked excesses in
those days. Old Robertson said he "would wade to the knees in blood
rather than the then state of things should be altered,"--a state
including Corn law, Test law, and a host of other oppressions.
'Once more I thank you for the book--the first copy, I believe, that
arrived in New Zealand.--Sincerely yours,
'MARY TAYLOR.'
And in another letter, written a little later (28th January 1858), Miss
Mary Taylor writes to Miss Ellen Nussey in similar strain:--
'Your account of Mrs. Gaskell's book was very interesting,' she says.
'She seems a hasty, impulsive person, and the needful drawing back
after her warmth gives her an inconsistent look. Yet I doubt not her
book will be of great use. You must be aware that many strange
notions as to the kind of person Charlotte really was will be done
away with by a knowledge of the true facts of her life. I have heard
imperfectly of farther printing on the subject. As to the mutilated
edition that is to come, I am sorry for it. Libellous or not, the
first edition was all true, and except the declamation all, in my
opinion, useful to be published. Of course I don't know how far
necessity may make Mrs. Gaskell give them up. You know one dare not
always say the world moves.'
We who do know the whole story in fullest detail will understand that it
was desirable to 'mutilate' the book, and that, indeed, truth did in some
measure require it. But with these letters of Mary Taylor's before us,
let us not hear again that the story of Charlotte Bronte's life was not,
in its main features, accurately and adequately told by her gifted
biographer.
Why then, I am naturally asked, add one further book to the Bronte
biographical literature? The reply is, I hope, sufficient. Forty years
have gone by, and they have been years of growing interest in the
subject. In the year 1895 ten thousand people visited the Bronte Museum
at Haworth. Interesting books have been written, notably Sir Wemyss
Reid's _Monograph_ and Mr. Leyland's _Bronte Family_, but they have gone
out of print. Many new facts have come to light, and many details,
moreover, which were too trivial in 1857 are of sufficient importance
to-day; and many facts which were rightly suppressed then may honestly
and honourably be given to the public at an interval of nearly half a
century. Added to all this, fortune has been kind to me.
Some three or four years ago Miss Ellen Nussey placed in my hands a
printed volume of some 400 pages, which bore no publisher's name, but
contained upon its title-page the statement that it was _The Story of
Charlotte Bronte's Life_, _as told through her Letters_. These are the
Letters--370 in number--which Miss Nussey had lent to Mrs. Gaskell and to
Sir Wemyss Reid. Of these letters Mrs. Gaskell published about 100, and
Sir Wemyss Reid added as many more as he considered circumstances
justified twenty years back.
It was explained to me that the volume had been privately printed under a
misconception, and that only some dozen copies were extant. Miss Nussey
asked me if I would write something around what might remain of the
unpublished letters, and if I saw my way to do anything which would add
to the public appreciation of the friend who from early childhood until
now has been the most absorbing interest of her life. A careful study of
the volume made it perfectly clear that there were still some letters
which might with advantage be added to the Bronte story. At the same
time arose the possibility of a veto being placed upon their publication.
An examination of Charlotte Bronte's will, which was proved at York by
her husband in 1855, suggested an easy way out of the difficulty. I made
up my mind to try and see Mr. Nicholls. I had heard of his
disinclination to be in any way associated with the controversy which had
gathered round his wife for all these years; but I wrote to him
nevertheless, and received a cordial invitation to visit him in his Irish
home.
It was exactly forty years to a day after Charlotte died--March 31st,
1895--when I alighted at the station in a quiet little town in the centre
of Ireland, to receive the cordial handclasp of the man into whose
keeping Charlotte Bronte had given her life. It was one of many visits,
and the beginning of an interesting correspondence. Mr. Nicholls placed
all the papers in his possession in my hands. They were more varied and
more abundant than I could possibly have anticipated. They included MSS.
of childhood, of which so much has been said, and stories of adult life,
one fragment indeed being later than the _Emma_ which appeared in the
_Cornhill Magazine_ for 1856, with a note by Thackeray. Here were the
letters Charlotte Bronte had written to her brother and to her sisters
during her second sojourn in Brussels--to 'Dear Branwell' and 'Dear E.
J.,' as she calls Emily--letters even to handle will give a thrill to the
Bronte enthusiast. Here also were the love-letters of Maria Branwell to
her lover Patrick Bronte, which are referred to in Mrs. Gaskell's
biography, but have never hitherto been printed.
'The four small scraps of Emily and Anne's manuscript,' writes Mr.
Nicholls, 'I found in the small box I send you; the others I found in
the bottom of a cupboard tied up in a newspaper, where they had lain
for nearly thirty years, and where, had it not been for your visit,
they must have remained during my lifetime, and most likely
afterwards have been destroyed.'
Some slight extracts from Bronte letters in _Macmillan's Magazine_,
signed 'E. Balmer Williams,' brought me into communication with a gifted
daughter of Mr. W. S. Williams. Mrs. Williams and her husband generously
placed the whole series of these letters of Charlotte Bronte to their
father at my disposal. It was of some of these letters that Mrs. Gaskell
wrote in enthusiastic terms when she had read them, and she was only
permitted to see a few. Then I have to thank Mr. Joshua Taylor, the
nephew of Miss Mary Taylor, for permission to publish his aunt's letters.
Mr. James Taylor, again, who wanted to marry Charlotte Bronte, and who
died twenty years afterwards in Bombay, left behind him a bundle of
letters which I found in the possession of a relative in the north of
London. {25} I discovered through a letter addressed to Miss Nussey that
the 'Brussels friend' referred to by Mrs. Gaskell was a Miss Laetitia
Wheelwright, and I determined to write to all the Wheelwrights in the
London Directory. My first effort succeeded, and _the_ Miss Wheelwright
kindly lent me all the letters that she had preserved. It is scarcely
possible that time will reveal many more unpublished letters from the
author of _Jane Eyre_. Several of those already in print are forgeries,
and I have actually seen a letter addressed from Paris, a city which Miss
Bronte never visited. I have the assurance of Dr. Heger of Brussels that
Miss Bronte's correspondence with his father no longer exists. In any
case one may safely send forth this little book with the certainty that
it is a fairly complete collection of Charlotte Bronte's correspondence,
and that it is altogether a valuable revelation of a singularly
interesting personality. Steps will be taken henceforth, it may be
added, to vindicate Mr. Nicholls's rights in whatever may still remain of
his wife's unpublished correspondence.
CHAPTER I: PATRICK BRONTE AND MARIA HIS WIFE
It would seem quite clear to any careful investigator that the Reverend
Patrick Bronte, Incumbent of Haworth, and the father of three famous
daughters, was a much maligned man. We talk of the fierce light which
beats upon a throne, but what is that compared to the fierce light which
beats upon any man of some measure of individuality who is destined to
live out his life in the quiet of a country village--in the very centre,
as it were, of 'personal talk' and gossip not always kindly to the
stranger within the gate? The view of Mr. Bronte, presented by Mrs.
Gaskell in the early editions of her biography of Charlotte Bronte, is
that of a severe, ill-tempered, and distinctly disagreeable character.
It is the picture of a man who disliked the vanities of life so
intensely, that the new shoes of his children and the silk dress of his
wife were not spared by him in sudden gusts of passion. A stern old
ruffian, one is inclined to consider him. His pistol-shooting rings
picturesquely, but not agreeably, through Mrs. Gaskell's memoirs. It has
been already explained in more than one quarter that this was not the
real Patrick Bronte, and that much of the unfavourable gossip was due to
the chatter of a dismissed servant, retailed to Mrs. Gaskell on one of
her missions of inquiry in the neighbourhood. The stories of the burnt
shoes and the mutilated dress have been relegated to the realm of myth,
and the pistol-shooting may now be acknowledged as a harmless pastime not
more iniquitous than the golfing or angling of a latter-day clergyman.
It is certain, were the matter of much interest to-day, that Mr. Bronte
was fond of the use of firearms. The present Incumbent of Haworth will
point out to you, on the old tower of Haworth Church, the marks of pistol
bullets, which he is assured were made by Mr. Bronte. I have myself
handled both the gun and the pistol--this latter a very ornamental
weapon, by the way, manufactured at Bradford--which Mr. Bronte possessed
during the later years of his life. From both he had obtained much
innocent amusement; but his son-in-law, Mr. Nicholls, who, at the
distance of forty years still cherishes a reverent and enthusiastic
affection for old Mr. Bronte, informs me that the bullet marks upon
Haworth Church were the irresponsible frolic of a rather juvenile
curate--Mr. Smith. All this is trivial enough in any case, and one turns
very readily to more important factors in the life of the father of the
Brontes. Patrick Bronte was born at Ahaderg, County Down, in Ireland, on
St. Patrick's Day, March 17, 1777. He was one of the ten children of
Hugh Brunty, farmer, and his nine brothers and sisters seem all of them
to have spent their lives in their Irish home, to have married and been
given in marriage, and to have gone to their graves in peace. Patrick
alone had ambition, and, one must add, the opportune friend, without whom
ambition counts for little in the great struggle of life. At sixteen he
was a kind of village schoolmaster, or assistant schoolmaster, and at
twenty-five, stirred thereto by the vicar of his parish, Mr. Tighe, he
was on his way from Ireland to St. John's College, Cambridge. It was in
1802 that Patrick Bronte went to Cambridge, and entered his name in the
college books. There, indeed, we find the name, not of Patrick Bronte,
but of Patrick Branty, {28} and this brings us to an interesting point as
to the origin of the name. In the register of his birth his name is
entered, as are the births of his brothers and sisters, as 'Brunty' and
'Bruntee'; and it can scarcely be doubted that, as Dr. Douglas Hyde has
pointed out, the original name was O'Prunty. {29} The Irish, at the
beginning of the century, were well-nigh as primitive in some matters as
were the English of a century earlier; and one is not surprised to see
variations in the spelling of the Bronte name--it being in the case of
his brothers and sisters occasionally spelt 'Brontee.' To me it is
perfectly clear that for the change of name Lord Nelson was responsible,
and that the dukedom of Bronte, which was conferred upon the great sailor
in 1799, suggested the more ornamental surname. There were no Irish
Brontes in existence before Nelson became Duke of Bronte; but all
Patrick's brothers and sisters, with whom, it must be remembered, he was
on terms of correspondence his whole life long, gradually, with a true
Celtic sense of the picturesqueness of the thing, seized upon the more
attractive surname. For this theory there is, of course, not one scrap
of evidence; we only know that the register of Patrick's native parish
gives us Brunty, and that his signature through his successive curacies
is Bronte.
From Cambridge, after taking orders in 1806, Mr. Bronte moved to a curacy
at Weatherfield in Essex; and Mr. Augustine Birrell has told us, with
that singular literary charm of his, how the good-looking Irish curate
made successful love to a young parishioner--Miss Mary Burder. Mary
Burder would have married him, it seems, but for an obdurate uncle and
guardian. She was spirited away from the neighbourhood, and the lovers
never met again. There are doubtful points in Mr. Birrell's story. Mary
Burder, as the wife of a Nonconformist minister, died in 1866, in her
seventy-seventh year. This lady, from whom doubtless either directly or
indirectly the tradition was obtained, may have amplified and exaggerated
a very innocent flirtation. One would like further evidence for the
statement that when Mr. Bronte lost his wife in 1821 he asked his old
sweetheart, Mary Burder, to become the mother of his six children, and
that she answered 'no'. In any case, Mr. Bronte left Weatherfield in
1809 for a curacy at Dewsbury, and Dewsbury gossip also had much to say
concerning the flirtations of its Irish curate. His next curacy,
however, which was obtained in 1811, by a removal to Hartshead, near
Huddersfield, brought flirtation for Mr. Bronte to a speedy end. In
1812, when thirty-three years of age, he married Miss Maria Branwell, of
Penzance. Miss Branwell had only a few months before left her Cornish
home for a visit to an uncle in Yorkshire. This uncle was a Mr. John
Fennell, a clergyman of the Church of England, who had been a Methodist
minister. To Methodism, indeed, the Cornish Branwells would seem to have
been devoted at one time or another, for I have seen a copy of the
_Imitation_ inscribed 'M. Branwell, July 1807,' with the following
title-page:--
AN EXTRACT OF THE CHRISTIAN'S PATTERN: OR, A TREATISE ON THE
IMITATION OF CHRIST. WRITTEN IN LATIN BY THOMAS A KEMPIS. ABRIDGED
AND PUBLISHED IN ENGLISH BY JOHN WESLEY, M.A., LONDON. PRINTED AT
THE CONFERENCE OFFICE, NORTH GREEN, FINSBURY SQUARE. G. STORY,
AGENT. SOLD BY G. WHITFIELD, CITY ROAD. 1803. PRICE BOUND 1s.
The book was evidently brought by Mrs. Bronte from Penzance, and given by
her to her husband or left among her effects. The poor little woman had
been in her grave for five or six years when it came into the hands of
one of her daughters, as we learn from Charlotte's hand-writing on the
fly-leaf:--
'_C. Bronte's book_. _This book was given to me in July 1826_. _It
is not certainly known who is the author_, _but it is generally
supposed that Thomas a Kempis is_. _I saw a reward of_ 10,000 pounds
_offered in the Leeds Mercury to any one who could find out for a
certainty who is the author_.'
The conjunction of the names of John Wesley, Maria Branwell, and
Charlotte Bronte surely gives this little volume, 'price bound 1s.,' a
singular interest!
But here I must refer to the letters which Maria Branwell wrote to her
lover during the brief courtship. Mrs. Gaskell, it will be remembered,
makes but one extract from this correspondence, which was handed to her
by Mr. Bronte as part of the material for her memoir. Long years before,
the little packet had been taken from Mr. Bronte's desk, for we find
Charlotte writing to a friend on February 16th, 1850:--
'A few days since, a little incident happened which curiously touched
me. Papa put into my hands a little packet of letters and papers,
telling me that they were mamma's, and that I might read them. I did
read them, in a frame of mind I cannot describe. The papers were
yellow with time, all having been written before I was born. It was
strange now to peruse, for the first time, the records of a mind
whence my own sprang; and most strange, and at once sad and sweet, to
find that mind of a truly fine, pure, and elevated order. They were
written to papa before they were married. There is a rectitude, a
refinement, a constancy, a modesty, a sense, a gentleness about them
indescribable. I wish she had lived, and that I had known her.'
Yet another forty years or so and the little packet is in my possession.
Handling, with a full sense of their sacredness, these letters, written
more than eighty years ago by a good woman to her lover, one is tempted
to hope that there is no breach of the privacy which should, even in our
day, guide certain sides of life, in publishing the correspondence in its
completeness. With the letters I find a little MS., which is also of
pathetic interest. It is entitled 'The Advantages of Poverty in
Religious Concerns,' and it is endorsed in the handwriting of Mr. Bronte,
written, doubtless, many years afterwards:--
'_The above was written by my dear wife_, _and is for insertion in
one of the periodical publications_. _Keep it as a memorial of
her_.'
There is no reason to suppose that the MS. was ever published; there is
no reason why any editor should have wished to publish it. It abounds in
the obvious. At the same time, one notes that from both father and
mother alike Charlotte Bronte and her sisters inherited some measure of
the literary faculty. It is nothing to say that not one line of the
father's or mother's would have been preserved had it not been for their
gifted children. It is sufficient that the zest for writing was there,
and that the intense passion for handling a pen, which seems to have been
singularly strong in Charlotte Bronte, must have come to a great extent
from a similar passion alike in father and mother. Mr. Bronte, indeed,
may be counted a prolific author. He published, in all, four books,
three pamphlets, and two sermons. Of his books, two were in verse and
two in prose. _Cottage Poems_ was published in 1811; _The Rural
Minstrel_ in 1812, the year of his marriage; _The Cottage in the Wood_ in
1815; and _The Maid of Killarney_ in 1818. After his wife's death he
published no more books. Reading over these old-fashioned volumes now,
one admits that they possess but little distinction. It has been pointed
out, indeed, that one of the strongest lines in _Jane Eyre_--'To the
finest fibre of my nature, sir.'--is culled from Mr. Bronte's verse. It
is the one line of his that will live. Like his daughter Charlotte, Mr.
Bronte is more interesting in his prose than in his poetry. _The Cottage
in the Wood_; _or_, _the Art of Becoming Rich and Happy_, is a kind of
religious novel--a spiritual _Pamela_, in which the reprobate pursuer of
an innocent girl ultimately becomes converted and marries her. _The Maid
of Killarney_; _or_, _Albion and Flora_ is more interesting. Under the
guise of a story it has something to say on many questions of importance.
We know now why Charlotte never learnt to dance until she went to
Brussels, and why children's games were unknown to her, for here are many
mild diatribes against dancing and card-playing. The British
Constitution and the British and Foreign Bible Society receive a
considerable amount of criticism. But in spite of this didactic weakness
there are one or two pieces of really picturesque writing, notably a
description of an Irish wake, and a forcible account of the defence of a
house against some Whiteboys. It is true enough that the books are
merely of interest to collectors and that they live only by virtue of
Patrick Bronte's remarkable children. But many a prolific writer of the
day passes muster as a genius among his contemporaries upon as small a
talent; and Mr. Bronte does not seem to have given himself any airs as an
author. Thirty years were to elapse before there were to be any more
books from this family of writers; but _Jane Eyre_ owes something, we may
be sure, to _The Maid of Killarney_.
Mr. Bronte, as I have said, married Maria Branwell in 1812. She was in
her twenty-ninth year, and was one of five children--one son and four
daughters--the father of whom, Mr. Thomas Branwell, had died in 1809. By
a curious coincidence, another sister, Charlotte, was married in Penzance
on the same day--the 18th of December 1812. {33} Before me are a bundle
of samplers, worked by three of these Branwell sisters. Maria Branwell
'ended her sampler' April the 15th, 1791, and it is inscribed with the
text, _Flee from sin as from a serpent_, _for if thou comest too near to
it_, _it will bite thee_. _The teeth thereof are as the teeth of a lion
to slay the souls of men_. Another sampler is by Elizabeth Branwell;
another by Margaret, and another by Anne. These, some miniatures, and
the book and papers to which I have referred, are all that remain to us
as a memento of Mrs. Bronte, apart from the children that she bore to her
husband. The miniatures, which are in the possession of Miss Branwell,
of Penzance, are of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Branwell--Charlotte Bronte's
maternal grandfather and grandmother--and of Mrs. Bronte and her sister
Elizabeth Branwell as children.
To return, however, to our bundle of love-letters. Comment is needless,
if indeed comment or elucidation were possible at this distance of time.
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _August_ 26_th_, 1812.
'MY DEAR FRIEND,--This address is sufficient to convince you that I
not only permit, but approve of yours to me--I do indeed consider you
as my _friend_; yet, when I consider how short a time I have had the
pleasure of knowing you, I start at my own rashness, my heart fails,
and did I not think that you would be disappointed and grieved at it,
I believe I should be ready to spare myself the task of writing. Do
not think that I am so wavering as to repent of what I have already
said. No, believe me, this will never be the case, unless you give
me cause for it. You need not fear that you have been mistaken in my
character. If I know anything of myself, I am incapable of making an
ungenerous return to the smallest degree of kindness, much less to
you whose attentions and conduct have been so particularly obliging.
I will frankly confess that your behaviour and what I have seen and
heard of your character has excited my warmest esteem and regard, and
be assured you shall never have cause to repent of any confidence you
may think proper to place in me, and that it will always be my
endeavour to deserve the good opinion which you have formed, although
human weakness may in some instances cause me to fall short. In
giving you these assurances I do not depend upon my own strength, but
I look to Him who has been my unerring guide through life, and in
whose continued protection and assistance I confidently trust.
'I thought on you much on Sunday, and feared you would not escape the
rain. I hope you do not feel any bad effects from it? My cousin
wrote you on Monday and expects this afternoon to be favoured with an
answer. Your letter has caused me some foolish embarrassment, tho'
in pity to my feelings they have been very sparing of their raillery.
'I will now candidly answer your questions. The _politeness of
others_ can never make me forget your kind attentions, neither can I
_walk our accustomed rounds_ without thinking on you, and, why should
I be ashamed to add, wishing for your presence. If you knew what
were my feelings whilst writing this you would pity me. I wish to
write the truth and give you satisfaction, yet fear to go too far,
and exceed the bounds of propriety. But whatever I may say or write
I will _never deceive_ you, or _exceed the truth_. If you think I
have not placed the _utmost confidence_ in you, consider my
situation, and ask yourself if I have not confided in you
sufficiently, perhaps too much. I am very sorry that you will not
have this till after to-morrow, but it was out of my power to write
sooner. I rely on your goodness to pardon everything in this which
may appear either too free or too stiff; and beg that you will
consider me as a warm and faithful friend.
'My uncle, aunt, and cousin unite in kind regards.
'I must now conclude with again declaring myself to be yours
sincerely,
'MARIA BRANWELL.'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B, HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _September_ 5_th_, 1812.
MY DEAREST FRIEND,--I have just received your affectionate and very
welcome letter, and although I shall not be able to send this until
Monday, yet I cannot deny myself the pleasure of writing a few lines
this evening, no longer considering it a task, but a pleasure, next
to that of reading yours. I had the pleasure of hearing from Mr.
Fennell, who was at Bradford on Thursday afternoon, that you had
rested there all night. Had you proceeded, I am sure the walk would
have been too much for you; such excessive fatigue, often repeated,
must injure the strongest constitution. I am rejoiced to find that
our forebodings were without cause. I had yesterday a letter from a
very dear friend of mine, and had the satisfaction to learn by it
that all at home are well. I feel with you the unspeakable
obligations I am under to a merciful Providence--my heart swells with
gratitude, and I feel an earnest desire that I may be enabled to make
some suitable return to the Author of all my blessings. In general,
I think I am enabled to cast my care upon Him, and then I experience
a calm and peaceful serenity of mind which few things can destroy.
In all my addresses to the throne of grace I never ask a blessing for
myself but I beg the same for you, and considering the important
station which you are called to fill, my prayers are proportionately
fervent that you may be favoured with all the gifts and graces
requisite for such calling. O my dear friend, let us pray much that
we may live lives holy and useful to each other and all around us!
'_Monday morn_.--My cousin and I were yesterday at Coverley church,
where we heard Mr. Watman preach a very excellent sermon from "learn
of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart." He displayed the character
of our Saviour in a most affecting and amiable light. I scarcely
ever felt more charmed with his excellencies, more grateful for his
condescension, or more abased at my own unworthiness; but I lament
that my heart is so little retentive of those pleasing and profitable
impressions.
'I pitied you in your solitude, and felt sorry that it was not in my
power to enliven it. Have you not been too hasty in informing your
friends of a certain event? Why did you not leave them to guess a
little longer? I shrink from the idea of its being known to every
body. I do, indeed, _sometimes_ think of you, but I will not say how
often, lest I raise your vanity; and we sometimes talk of you and the
doctor. But I believe I should seldom mention your name myself were
it not now and then introduced by my cousin. I have never mentioned
a word of what is past to any body. Had I thought this necessary I
should have requested you to do it. But I think there is no need, as
by some means or other they seem to have a pretty correct notion how
matters stand betwixt us; and as their hints, etc., meet with no
contradiction from me, my silence passes for confirmation. Mr.
Fennell has not neglected to give me some serious and encouraging
advice, and my aunt takes frequent opportunities of dropping little
sentences which I may turn to some advantage. I have long had reason
to know that the present state of things would give pleasure to all
parties. Your ludicrous account of the scene at the Hermitage was
highly diverting, we laughed heartily at it; but I fear it will not
produce all that compassion in Miss Fennell's breast which you seem
to wish. I will now tell you what I was thinking about and doing at
the time you mention. I was then toiling up the hill with Jane and
Mrs. Clapham to take our tea at Mr. Tatham's, thinking on the evening
when I first took the same walk with you, and on the change which had
taken place in my circumstances and views since then--not wholly
without a wish that I had your arm to assist me, and your
conversation to shorten the walk. Indeed, all our walks have now an
insipidity in them which I never thought they would have possessed.
When I work, if I wish to get _forward_ I may be glad that you are at
a distance. Jane begs me to assure you of her kind regards. Mr.
Morgan is expected to be here this evening. I must assume a bold and
steady countenance to meet his attacks!
'I have now written a pretty long letter without reserve or caution,
and if all the sentiments of my heart are not laid open to you,
believe me it is not because I wish them to be concealed, for I hope
there is nothing there that would give you pain or displeasure. My
most sincere and earnest wishes are for your happiness and welfare,
for this includes my own. Pray much for me that I may be made a
blessing and not a hindrance to you. Let me not interrupt your
studies nor intrude on that time which ought to be dedicated to
better purposes. Forgive my freedom, my dearest friend, and rest
assured that you are and ever will be dear to
MARIA BRANWELL.
'Write very soon.'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _September_ 11_th_, 1812.
'MY DEAREST FRIEND,--Having spent the day yesterday at Miry Shay, a
place near Bradford, I had not got your letter till my return in the
evening, and consequently have only a short time this morning to
write if I send it by this post. You surely do not think you
_trouble_ me by writing? No, I think I may venture to say if such
were your opinion you would _trouble_ me no more. Be assured, your
letters are and I hope always will be received with extreme pleasure
and read with delight. May our Gracious Father mercifully grant the
fulfilment of your prayers! Whilst we depend entirely on Him for
happiness, and receive each other and all our blessings as from His
hands, what can harm us or make us miserable? Nothing temporal or
spiritual.
'Jane had a note from Mr. Morgan last evening, and she desires me to
tell you that the Methodists' service in church hours is to commence
next Sunday week. You may expect frowns and hard words from her when
you make your appearance here again, for, if you recollect, she gave
you a note to carry to the Doctor, and he has never received it.
What have you done with it? If you can give a good account of it you
may come to see us as soon as you please and be sure of a hearty
welcome from all parties. Next Wednesday we have some thoughts, if
the weather be fine, of going to Kirkstall Abbey once more, and I
suppose your presence will not make the walk less agreeable to any of
us.
'The old man is come and waits for my letter. In expectation of
seeing you on Monday or Tuesday next,--I remain, yours faithfully and
affectionately,
'M. B.'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _September_ 18_th_, 1812.
'How readily do I comply with my dear Mr. B's request! You see, you
have only to express your wishes and as far as my power extends I
hesitate not to fulfil them. My heart tells me that it will always
be my pride and pleasure to contribute to your happiness, nor do I
fear that this will ever be inconsistent with my duty as a Christian.
My esteem for you and my confidence in you is so great, that I firmly
believe you will never exact anything from me which I could not
conscientiously perform. I shall in future look to you for
assistance and instruction whenever I may need them, and hope you
will never withhold from me any advice or caution you may see
necessary.
['For some years I have been perfectly my own mistress, subject to no
_control_ whatever--so far from it, that my sisters who are many
years older than myself, and even my dear mother, used to consult me
in every case of importance, and scarcely ever doubted the propriety
of my opinions and actions. Perhaps you will be ready to accuse me
of vanity in mentioning this, but you must consider that I do not
_boast_ of it, I have many times felt it a disadvantage; and
although, I thank God, it never led me into error, yet in
circumstances of perplexity and doubt, I have deeply felt the want of
a guide and instructor.] {39}
'At such times I have seen and felt the necessity of supernatural
aid, and by fervent applications to a throne of grace I have
experienced that my heavenly Father is able and willing to supply the
place of every earthly friend. I shall now no longer feel this want,
this sense of helpless weakness, for I believe a kind Providence has
intended that I shall find in you every earthly friend united; nor do
I fear to trust myself under your protection, or shrink from your
control. It is pleasant to be subject to those we love, especially
when they never exert their authority but for the good of the
subject. How few would write in this way! But I do not fear that
_you_ will make a bad use of it. You tell me to write my thoughts,
and thus as they occur I freely let my pen run away with them.
'_Sat. morn_.--I do not know whether you dare show your face here
again or not after the blunder you have committed. When we got to
the house on Thursday evening, even before we were within the doors,
we found that Mr. and Mrs. Bedford had been there, and that they had
requested you to mention their intention of coming--a single hint of
which you never gave! Poor I too came in for a share in the hard
words which were bestowed upon you, for they all agreed that I was
the cause of it. Mr. Fennell said you were certainly _mazed_, and
talked of sending you to York, etc. And even I begin to think that
_this_, together with the _note_, bears some marks of _insanity_!
However, I shall suspend my judgment until I hear what excuse you can
make for yourself, I suppose you will be quite ready to make one of
some kind or another.
'Yesterday I performed a difficult and yet a pleasing task in writing
to my sisters. I thought I never should accomplish the end for which
the letter was designed; but after a good deal of perambulation I
gave them to understand the nature of my engagement with you, with
the motives and inducements which led me to form such an engagement,
and that in consequence of it I should not see them again so soon as
I had intended. I concluded by expressing a hope that they would not
be less pleased with the information than were my friends here. I
think they will not suspect me to have made a wrong step, their
partiality for me is so great. And their affection for me will lead
them to rejoice in my welfare, even though it should diminish
somewhat of their own. I shall think the time tedious till I hear
from you, and must beg you will write as soon as possible. Pardon
me, my dear friend, if I again caution you against giving way to a
weakness of which I have heard you complain. When you find your
heart oppressed and your thoughts too much engrossed by one subject,
let prayer be your refuge--this you no doubt know by experience to be
a sure remedy, and a relief from every care and error. Oh, that we
had more of the spirit of prayer! I feel that I need it much.
'Breakfast-time is near, I must bid you farewell for the time, but
rest assured you will always share in the prayers and heart of your
own
MARIA.
'Mr. Fennell has crossed my letter to my sisters. With his usual
goodness he has supplied my _deficiencies_, and spoken of me in terms
of commendation of which I wish I were more worthy. Your character
he has likewise displayed in the most favourable light; and I am sure
they will not fail to love and esteem you though unknown.
'All here unite in kind regards. Adieu.'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _September_ 23_rd_, 1812.
'MY DEAREST FRIEND,--Accept of my warmest thanks for your kind
affectionate letter, in which you have rated mine so highly that I
really blush to read my own praises. Pray that God would enable me
to deserve all the kindness you manifest towards me, and to act
consistently with the good opinion you entertain of me--then I shall
indeed be a helpmeet for you, and to be this shall at all times be
the care and study of my future life. We have had to-day a large
party of the Bradford folks--the Rands, Fawcets, Dobsons, etc. My
thoughts often strayed from the company, and I would have gladly left
them to follow my present employment. To write to and receive
letters from my friends were always among my chief enjoyments, but
none ever gave me so much pleasure as those which I receive from and
write to my newly adopted friend. I am by no means sorry you have
given up all thought of the house you mentioned. With my cousin's
help I have made known your plans to my uncle and aunt. Mr. Fennell
immediately coincided with that which respects your present abode,
and observed that it had occurred to him before, but that he had not
had an opportunity of mentioning it to you. My aunt did not fall in
with it so readily, but her objections did not appear to me to be
very weighty. For my own part, I feel all the force of your
arguments in favour of it, and the objections are so trifling that
they can scarcely be called objections. My cousin is of the same
opinion. Indeed, you have such a method of considering and digesting
a plan before you make it known to your friends, that you run very
little risque of incurring their disapprobations, or of having your
schemes frustrated. I greatly admire your talents this way--may they
never be perverted by being used in a bad cause! And whilst they are
exerted for good purposes, may they prove irresistible! If I may
judge from your letter, this middle scheme is what would please you
best, so that if there should arise no new objection to it, perhaps
it will prove the best you can adopt. However, there is yet
sufficient time to consider it further. I trust in this and every
other circumstance you will be guided by the wisdom that cometh from
above--a portion of which I doubt not has guided you hitherto. A
belief of this, added to the complete satisfaction with which I read
your reasonings on the subject, made me a ready convert to your
opinions. I hope nothing will occur to induce you to change your
intention of spending the next week at Bradford. Depend on it you
shall have letter for letter; but may we not hope to see you here
during that time, surely you will not think the way more tedious than
usual? I have not heard any particulars respecting the church since
you were at Bradford. Mr. Rawson is now there, but Mr. Hardy and his
brother are absent, and I understand nothing decisive can be
accomplished without them. Jane expects to hear something more
to-morrow. Perhaps ere this reaches you, you will have received some
intelligence respecting it from Mr. Morgan. If you have no other
apology to make for your blunders than that which you have given me,
you must not expect to be excused, for I have not mentioned it to any
one, so that however it may clear your character in my opinion it is
not likely to influence any other person. Little, very little, will
induce me to cover your faults with a veil of charity. I already
feel a kind of participation in all that concerns you. All praises
and censures bestowed on you must equally affect me. Your joys and
sorrows must be mine. Thus shall the one be increased and the other
diminished. While this is the case we shall, I hope, always find
"life's cares" to be "comforts." And may we feel every trial and
distress, for such must be our lot at times, bind us nearer to God
and to each other! My heart earnestly joins in your comprehensive
prayers. I trust they will unitedly ascend to a throne of grace, and
through the Redeemer's merits procure for us peace and happiness here
and a life of eternal felicity hereafter. Oh, what sacred pleasure
there is in the idea of spending an eternity together in perfect and
uninterrupted bliss! This should encourage us to the utmost exertion
and fortitude. But whilst I write, my own words condemn me--I am
ashamed of my own indolence and backwardness to duty. May I be more
careful, watchful, and active than I have ever yet been!
'My uncle, aunt, and Jane request me to send their kind regards, and
they will be happy to see you any time next week whenever you can
conveniently come down from Bradford. Let me hear from you soon--I
shall expect a letter on Monday. Farewell, my dearest friend. That
you may be happy in yourself and very useful to all around you is the
daily earnest prayer of yours truly,
'MARIA BRANWELL.'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _October_ 3_rd_, 1812.
'How could my dear friend so cruelly disappoint me? Had he known how
much I had set my heart on having a letter this afternoon, and how
greatly I felt the disappointment when the bag arrived and I found
there was nothing for me, I am sure he would not have permitted a
little matter to hinder him. But whatever was the reason of your not
writing, I cannot believe it to have been neglect or unkindness,
therefore I do not in the least blame you, I only beg that in future
you will judge of my feelings by your own, and if possible never let
me expect a letter without receiving one. You know in my last which
I sent you at Bradford I said it would not be in my power to write
the next day, but begged I might be favoured with hearing from you on
Saturday, and you will not wonder that I hoped you would have
complied with this request. It has just occurred to my mind that it
is possible this note was not received; if so, you have felt
disappointed likewise; but I think this is not very probable, as the
old man is particularly careful, and I never heard of his losing
anything committed to his care. The note which I allude to was
written on Thursday morning, and you should have received it before
you left Bradford. I forget what its contents were, but I know it
was written in haste and concluded abruptly. Mr. Fennell talks of
visiting Mr. Morgan to-morrow. I cannot lose the opportunity of
sending this to the office by him as you will then have it a day
sooner, and if you have been daily expecting to hear from me,
twenty-four hours are of some importance. I really am concerned to
find that this, what many would deem trifling incident, has so much
disturbed my mind. I fear I should not have slept in peace to-night
if I had been deprived of this opportunity of relieving my mind by
scribbling to you, and now I lament that you cannot possibly receive
this till Monday. May I hope that there is now some intelligence on
the way to me? or must my patience be tried till I see you on
Wednesday? But what nonsense am I writing? Surely after this you
can have no doubt that you possess all my heart. Two months ago I
could not possibly have believed that you would ever engross so much
of my thoughts and affections, and far less could I have thought that
I should be so forward as to tell you so. I believe I must forbid
you to come here again unless you can assure me that you will not
steal any more of my regard. Enough of this; I must bring my pen to
order, for if I were to suffer myself to revise what I have written I
should be tempted to throw it in the fire, but I have determined that
you shall see my whole heart. I have not yet informed you that I
received your serio-comic note on Thursday afternoon, for which
accept my thanks.
'My cousin desires me to say that she expects a long poem on her
birthday, when she attains the important age of twenty-one. Mr.
Fennell joins with us in requesting that you will not fail to be here
on Wednesday, as it is decided that on Thursday we are to go to the
Abbey if the weather, etc., permits.
'_Sunday morning_.--I am not sure if I do right in adding a few lines
to-day, but knowing that it will give you pleasure I wish to finish
that you may have it to-morrow. I will just say that if my feeble
prayers can aught avail, you will find your labours this day both
pleasant and profitable, as they concern your own soul and the souls
of those to whom you preach. I trust in your hours of retirement you
will not forget to pray for me. I assure you I need every assistance
to help me forward; I feel that my heart is more ready to attach
itself to earth than heaven. I sometimes think there never was a
mind so dull and inactive as mine is with regard to spiritual things.
'I must not forget to thank you for the pamphlets and tracts which
you sent us from Bradford. I hope we shall make good use of them. I
must now take my leave. I believe I need scarcely assure you that I
am yours truly and very affectionately,
'MARIA BRANWELL.'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _October_ 21_st_ 1812.
'With the sincerest pleasure do I retire from company to converse
with him whom I love beyond all others. Could my beloved friend see
my heart he would then be convinced that the affection I bear him is
not at all inferior to that which he feels for me--indeed I sometimes
think that in truth and constancy it excels. But do not think from
this that I entertain any suspicions of your sincerity--no, I firmly
believe you to be sincere and generous, and doubt not in the least
that you feel all you express. In return, I entreat that you will do
me the justice to believe that you have not only a _very large
portion_ of my _affection_ and _esteem_, but _all_ that I am capable
of feeling, and from henceforth measure my feelings by your own.
Unless my love for you were very great how could I so contentedly
give up my home and all my friends--a home I loved so much that I
have often thought nothing could bribe me to renounce it for any
great length of time together, and friends with whom I have been so
long accustomed to share all the vicissitudes of joy and sorrow? Yet
these have lost their weight, and though I cannot always think of
them without a sigh, yet the anticipation of sharing with you all the
pleasures and pains, the cares and anxieties of life, of contributing
to your comfort and becoming the companion of your pilgrimage, is
more delightful to me than any other prospect which this world can
possibly present. I expected to have heard from you on Saturday
last, and can scarcely refrain from thinking you unkind to keep me in
suspense two whole days longer than was necessary, but it is well
that my patience should be sometimes tried, or I might entirely lose
it, and this would be a loss indeed! Lately I have experienced a
considerable increase of hopes and fears, which tend to destroy the
calm uniformity of my life. These are not unwelcome, as they enable
me to discover more of the evils and errors of my heart, and
discovering them I hope through grace to be enabled to correct and
amend them. I am sorry to say that my cousin has had a very serious
cold, but to-day I think she is better; her cough seems less, and I
hope we shall be able to come to Bradford on Saturday afternoon,
where we intend to stop till Tuesday. You may be sure we shall not
soon think of taking such another journey as the last. I look
forward with pleasure to Monday, when I hope to meet with you, for as
we are no _longer twain_ separation is painful, and to meet must ever
be attended with joy.
'_Thursday morning_.--I intended to have finished this before
breakfast, but unfortunately slept an hour too long. I am every
moment in expectation of the old man's arrival. I hope my cousin is
still better to-day; she requests me to say that she is much obliged
to you for your kind inquiries and the concern you express for her
recovery. I take all possible care of her, but yesterday she was
naughty enough to venture into the yard without her bonnet! As you
do not say anything of going to Leeds I conclude you have not been.
We shall most probably hear from the Dr. this afternoon. I am much
pleased to hear of his success at Bierly! O that you may both be
zealous and successful in your efforts for the salvation of souls,
and may your own lives be holy, and your hearts greatly blessed while
you are engaged in administering to the good of others! I should
have been very glad to have had it in my power to lessen your fatigue
and cheer your spirits by my exertions on Monday last. I will hope
that this pleasure is still reserved for me. In general, I feel a
calm confidence in the providential care and continued mercy of God,
and when I consider his past deliverances and past favours I am led
to wonder and adore. A sense of my small returns of love and
gratitude to him often abases me and makes me think I am little
better than those who profess no religion. Pray for me, my dear
friend, and rest assured that you possess a very very large portion
of the prayers, thoughts, and heart of yours truly,
'M. BRANWELL.
'Mr. Fennell requests Mr. Bedford to call on the man who has had
orders to make blankets for the Grove and desire him to send them as
soon as possible. Mr. Fennell will be greatly obliged to Mr. Bedford
if he will take this trouble.'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _November_ 18_th_, 1812.
'MY DEAR SAUCY PAT,--Now don't you think you deserve this epithet far
more than I do that which you have given me? I really know not what
to make of the beginning of your last; the winds, waves, and rocks
almost stunned me. I thought you were giving me the account of some
terrible dream, or that you had had a presentiment of the fate of my
poor box, having no idea that your lively imagination could make so
much of the slight reproof conveyed in my last. What will you say
when you get a _real_, _downright scolding_? Since you show such a
readiness to atone for your offences after receiving a mild rebuke, I
am inclined to hope you will seldom deserve a severe one. I accept
with pleasure your atonement, and send you a free and full
forgiveness. But I cannot allow that your affection is more deeply
rooted than mine. However, we will dispute no more about this, but
rather embrace every opportunity to prove its sincerity and strength
by acting in every respect as friends and fellow-pilgrims travelling
the same road, actuated by the same motives, and having in view the
same end. I think if our lives are spared twenty years hence I shall
then pray for you with the same, if not greater, fervour and delight
that I do now. I am pleased that you are so fully convinced of my
candour, for to know that you suspected me of a deficiency in this
virtue would grieve and mortify me beyond expression. I do not
derive any merit from the possession of it, for in me it is
constitutional. Yet I think where it is possessed it will rarely
exist alone, and where it is wanted there is reason to doubt the
existence of almost every other virtue. As to the other qualities
which your partiality attributes to me, although I rejoice to know
that I stand so high in your good opinion, yet I blush to think in
how small a degree I possess them. But it shall be the pleasing
study of my future life to gain such an increase of grace and wisdom
as shall enable me to act up to your highest expectations and prove
to you a helpmeet. I firmly believe the Almighty has set us apart
for each other; may we, by earnest, frequent prayer, and every
possible exertion, endeavour to fulfil His will in all things! I do
not, cannot, doubt your love, and here I freely declare I love you
above all the world besides. I feel very, very grateful to the great
Author of all our mercies for His unspeakable love and condescension
towards us, and desire "to show forth my gratitude not only with my
lips, but by my life and conversation." I indulge a hope that our
mutual prayers will be answered, and that our intimacy will tend much
to promote our temporal and eternal interest.
['I suppose you never expected to be much the richer for me, but I am
sorry to inform you that I am still poorer than I thought myself. I
mentioned having sent for my books, clothes, etc. On Saturday
evening about the time you were writing the description of your
imaginary shipwreck, I was reading and feeling the effects of a real
one, having then received a letter from my sister giving me an
account of the vessel in which she had sent my box being stranded on
the coast of Devonshire, in consequence of which the box was dashed
to pieces with the violence of the sea, and all my little property,
with the exception of a very few articles, swallowed up in the mighty
deep. If this should not prove the prelude to something worse, I
shall think little of it, as it is the first disastrous circumstance
which has occurred since I left my home], {49} and having been so
highly favoured it would be highly ungrateful in me were I to suffer
this to dwell much on my mind.
'Mr. Morgan was here yesterday, indeed he only left this morning. He
mentioned having written to invite you to Bierly on Sunday next, and
if you complied with his request it is likely that we shall see you
both here on Sunday evening. As we intend going to Leeds next week,
we should be happy if you would accompany us on Monday or Tuesday. I
mention this by desire of Miss Fennell, who begs to be remembered
affectionately to you. Notwithstanding Mr. Fennell's complaints and
threats, I doubt not but he will give you a cordial reception
whenever you think fit to make your appearance at the Grove. Which
you may likewise be assured of receiving from your ever truly
affectionate,
MARIA.
'Both the doctor and his lady very much wish to know what kind of
address we make use of in our letters to each other. I think they
would scarcely hit on _this_!!'
TO REV. PATRICK BRONTE, A.B., HARTSHEAD
'WOOD HOUSE GROVE, _December_ 5_th_, 1812.
'MY DEAREST FRIEND,--So you _thought_ that _perhaps_ I _might_ expect
to hear from you. As the case was so doubtful, and you were in such
great haste, you might as well have deferred writing a few days
longer, for you seem to suppose it is a matter of perfect
indifference to me whether I hear from you or not. I believe I once
requested you to judge of my feelings by your own--am I to think that
_you_ are thus indifferent? I feel very unwilling to entertain such
an opinion, and am grieved that you should suspect me of such a cold,
heartless, attachment. But I am too serious on the subject; I only
meant to rally you a little on the beginning of your last, and to
tell you that I fancied there was a coolness in it which none of your
former letters had contained. If this fancy was groundless, forgive
me for having indulged it, and let it serve to convince you of the
sincerity and warmth of my affection. Real love is ever apt to
suspect that it meets not with an equal return; you must not wonder
then that my fears are sometimes excited. My pride cannot bear the
idea of a diminution of your attachment, or to think that it is
stronger on my side than on yours. But I must not permit my pen so
fully to disclose the feelings of my heart, nor will I tell you
whether I am pleased or not at the thought of seeing you on the
appointed day.
'Miss Fennell desires her kind regards, and, with her father, is
extremely obliged to you for the trouble you have taken about the
carpet, and has no doubt but it will give full satisfaction. They
think there will be no occasion for the green cloth.
'We intend to set about making the cakes here next week, but as the
fifteen or twenty persons whom you mention live probably somewhere in
your neighbourhood, I think it will be most convenient for Mrs. B. to
make a small one for the purpose of distributing there, which will
save us the difficulty of sending so far.
'You may depend on my learning my lessons as rapidly as they are
given me. I am already tolerably perfect in the A B C, etc. I am
much obliged to you for the pretty little hymn which I have already
got by heart, but cannot promise to sing it scientifically, though I
will endeavour to gain a little more assurance.
'Since I began this Jane put into my hands Lord Lyttelton's _Advice
to a Lady_. When I read those lines, "Be never cool reserve with
passion joined, with caution choose, but then be fondly kind, etc."
my heart smote me for having in some cases used too much reserve
towards you. Do you think you have any cause to complain of me? If
you do, let me know it. For were it in my power to prevent it, I
would in no instance occasion you the least pain or uneasiness. I am
certain no one ever loved you with an affection more pure, constant,
tender, and ardent than that which I feel. Surely this is not saying
too much; it is the truth, and I trust you are worthy to know it. I
long to improve in every religious and moral quality, that I may be a
help, and if possible an ornament to you. Oh let us pray much for
wisdom and grace to fill our appointed stations with propriety, that
we may enjoy satisfaction in our own souls, edify others, and bring
glory to the name of Him who has so wonderfully preserved, blessed,
and brought us together.
'If there is anything in the commencement of this which looks like
pettishness, forgive it; my mind is now completely divested of every
feeling of the kind, although I own I am sometimes too apt to be
overcome by this disposition.
'Let me have the pleasure of hearing from you again as soon as
convenient. This writing is uncommonly bad, but I too am in haste.
'Adieu, my dearest.--I am your affectionate and sincere
'MARIA.'
Mr. Bronte was at Hartshead, where he married, for five years, and there
his two eldest children, Maria and Elizabeth, were born. He then moved
to Thornton, near Bradford, where Charlotte was born on the 21st of April
1816, Branwell in 1817, Emily in 1818, and Anne in 1819. In 1820 the
family removed to the parsonage of Haworth, and in 1821 the poor mother
was dead. A year or two later Miss Elizabeth Branwell came from Penzance
to act as a mother to her orphaned nephew and nieces. There is no reason
to accept the theory that Miss Branwell was quite as formidable or
offensive a personage as the Mrs. Read in _Jane Eyre_. That she was a
somewhat rigid and not over demonstrative woman, we may take for granted.
The one letter to her of any importance that I have seen--it is printed
in Mrs. Gaskell's life--was the attempt of Charlotte to obtain her
co-operation in the projected visit to a Brussels school. Miss Branwell
provided the money readily enough it would seem, and one cannot doubt
that in her later years she was on the best of terms with her nieces.
There may have been too much discipline in childhood, but discipline
which would now be considered too severe was common enough at the
beginning of the century. The children, we may be sure, were left
abundantly alone. The writing they accomplished in their early years
would sufficiently demonstrate that. Miss Branwell died in 1842; and
from her will, which I give elsewhere, it will be seen that she behaved
very justly to her three nieces.
The reception by Mr. Bronte of his children's literary successes has been
very pleasantly recorded by Charlotte. He was proud of his daughters,
and delighted with their fame. He seems to have had no small share of
their affection. Charlotte loved and esteemed him. There are hundreds
of her letters, in many of which are severe and indeed unprintable things
about this or that individual; but of her father these letters contain
not one single harsh word. She wrote to him regularly when absent. Not
only did he secure the affection of his daughter, but the people most
intimately associated with him next to his own children gave him a
lifelong affection and regard. Martha Brown, the servant who lived with
him until his death, always insisted that her old master had been
grievously wronged, and that a kinder, more generous, and in every way
more worthy man had never lived. Nancy Garrs, another servant, always
spoke of Mr. Bronte as 'the kindest man who ever drew breath,' and as a
good and affectionate father. Forty years have gone by since Charlotte
Bronte died; and thirty-six years have flown since Mr. Nicholls left the
deathbed of his wife's father; but through all that period he has
retained the most kindly memories of one with whom his life was
intimately associated for sixteen years, with whom at one crisis of his
life, as we shall see, he had a serious difference, but whom he ever
believed to have been an entirely honourable and upright man.
A lady visitor to Haworth in December 1860 did not, it is true, carry
away quite so friendly an impression. 'I have been to see old Mr.
Bronte,' she writes, 'and have spent about an hour with him. He is
completely confined to his bed, but talks hopefully of leaving it again
when the summer comes round. I am afraid that it will not be leaving it
as he plans, poor old man! He is touchingly softened by illness; but
still talks in his pompous way, and mingles moral remarks and somewhat
stale sentiments with his conversation on ordinary subjects.' This is
severe, but after all it was a literary woman who wrote it. On the whole
we may safely assume, with the evidence before us, that Mr. Bronte was a
thoroughly upright and honourable man who came manfully through a
somewhat severe life battle. That is how his daughters thought of him,
and we cannot do better than think with them. {53}
Mr. Bronte died on June 7, 1861, and his funeral in Haworth Church is
described in the _Bradford Review_ of the following week:--
'Great numbers of people had collected in the churchyard, and a few
minutes before noon the corpse was brought out through the eastern
gate of the garden leading into the churchyard. The Rev. Dr. Burnet,
Vicar of Bradford, read the funeral service, and led the way into the
church, and the following clergymen were the bearers of the coffin:
The Rev. Dr. Cartman of Skipton; Rev. Mr. Sowden of Hebden Bridge;
the Incumbents of Cullingworth, Oakworth, Morton, Oxenhope, and St.
John's Ingrow. The chief mourners were the Rev. Arthur Bell
Nicholls, son-in-law of the deceased; Martha Brown, the housekeeper;
and her sister; Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Wainwright. There were several
gentlemen followed the corpse whom we did not know. All the shops in
Haworth were closed, and the people filled every pew, and the aisles
in the church, and many shed tears during the impressive reading of
the service for the burial of the dead, by the vicar. The body of
Mr. Bronte was laid within the altar rails, by the side of his
daughter Charlotte. He is the last that can be interred inside of
Haworth Church. On the coffin was this inscription: "Patrick Bronte,
died June 7th, 1861, aged 84 years."'
His will, which was proved at Wakefield, left the bulk of his property,
as was natural, to the son-in-law who had faithfully served and tended
him for the six years which succeeded Charlotte Bronte's death.
Extracted from the Principal Registry of the Probate Divorce and
Admiralty Division of the High Court of Justice.
_Being of sound mind and judgment_, _in the name of God the Father_,
_Son_, _and Holy Ghost_, _I_, PATRICK BRONTE, B.A., _Incumbent of
Haworth_, _in the Parish of Bradford and county of York_, _make this
my last Will and Testament_: _I leave forty pounds to be equally
divided amongst all my brothers and sisters to whom I gave
considerable sums in times past_; _And I direct the same sum of forty
pounds to be sent for distribution to Mr. Hugh Bronte_,
_Ballinasceaugh_, _near Loughbrickland_, _Ireland_; _I leave thirty
pounds to my servant_, _Martha Brown_, _as a token of regard for long
and faithful services to me and my children_; _To my beloved and
esteemed son-in-law_, _the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls_, B.A., _I leave
and bequeath the residue of my personal estate of every description
which I shall be possessed of at my death for his own absolute
benefit_; _And I make him my sole executor_; _And I revoke all former
and other Wills_, _in witness whereof I_, _the said_ PATRICK BRONTE,
_have to this my last Will_, _contained in this sheet of paper_, _set
my hand this twentieth day of June_, _one thousand eight hundred and
fifty-five_.
PATRICK BRONTE.--_Signed and acknowledged by the said_ PATRICK BRONTE
_as his Will in the presence of us present at the same time_, _and
who in his presence and in the presence of each other have hereunto
subscribed our names as witnesses_: JOSEPH REDMAN, ELIZA BROWN.
The Irish relatives are not forgotten, and indeed this will gives the
most direct evidence of the fact that for the sixty years that he had
been absent from his native land he had always kept his own country, or
at least his relatives in County Down, sufficiently in mind.
CHAPTER II: CHILDHOOD
Eighty years have passed over Thornton since that village had the honour
of becoming the birthplace of Charlotte Bronte. The visitor of to-day
will find the Bell Chapel, in which Mr. Bronte officiated, a mere ruin,
and the font in which his children were baptized ruthlessly exposed to
the winds of heaven. {56a} The house in which Patrick Bronte resided is
now a butcher's shop, and indeed little, one imagines, remains the same.
But within the new church one may still overhaul the registers, and find,
with but little trouble, a record of the baptism of the Bronte children.
There, amid the names of the rough and rude peasantry of the
neighbourhood, we find the accompanying entries, {56b} differing from
their neighbours only by the fact that Mr. Morgan or Mr. Fennell came to
the help of their relatives and officiated in place of Mr. Bronte. Mr.
Bronte, it will be observed, had already received his appointment to
Haworth when Anne was baptized.
There were, it is well known, two elder children, Maria and Elizabeth,
born at Hartshead, and doomed to die speedily at Haworth. A vague memory
of Maria lives in the Helen Burns of _Jane Eyre_, but the only tangible
records of the pair, as far as I am able to ascertain, are a couple of
samplers, of the kind which Mrs. Bronte and her sisters had worked at
Penzance a generation earlier.
_Maria Bronte finished this Sampler on the 16th of May at the age of
eight years_
one of them tells us, and the other:
_Elizabeth Bronte finished this Sampler the 27th of July at the age
of seven years_.
Maria died at the age of twelve in May 1825, and Elizabeth in June of the
same year, at the age of eleven. It is, however, with their three
sisters that we have most concern, although all the six children
accompanied their parents to Haworth in 1820.
Haworth, we are told, has been over-described; and yet it may not be
amiss to discover from the easily available directories what manner of
place it was during the Bronte residence there. Pigot's Yorkshire
Directory of 1828 gives the census during the first year of Mr. Bronte's
incumbency thus:--
HAWORTH, _a populous manufacturing village_, _in the honour of
Pontefract_, _Morley wapentake_, _and in the parish of Bradford_, _is
four miles south of Keighley_, _containing_, _by the census of_ 1821,
4668 _inhabitants_.
_Gentry and Clergy_: _Bronte_, _Rev. Patrick_, _Haworth_; _Heaton_,
_Robert_, _gent._, _Ponden Hall_; _Miles_, _Rev. Oddy_, _Haworth_;
_Saunders_, _Rev. Moses_, _Haworth_.
From the same source twenty years later we obtain more explicit detail,
which is not without interest to-day.
HAWORTH _is a chapelry_, _comprising the hamlets of Haworth_,
_Stanbury_, _and Near and Far Oxenhope_, _in the parish of Bradford_,
_and wapentake of Morley_, _West Riding_--_Haworth being ten miles
from Bradford_, _about the same distance from Halifax_, _Colne_, _and
Skipton_, _three and a half miles S. from Keighley_, _and eight from
Hebden Bridge_, _at which latter place is a station on the Leeds and
Manchester railway_. _Haworth is situated on the side of a hill_,
_and consists of one irregularly built street_--_the habitations in
that part called Oxenhope being yet more scattered_, _and Stanbury
still farther distant_; _the entire chapelry occupying a wide space_.
_The spinning of worsted_, _and the manufacture of stuffs_, _are
branches which here prevail extensively_.
_The Church or rather chapel_ (_subject to Bradford_), _dedicated to
St. Michael_, _was rebuilt in_ 1757: _the living is a perpetual
curacy_, _in the presentation of the vicar of Bradford and certain
trustees_; _the present curate is the Rev. Patrick_ _Bronte_. _The
other places of worship are two chapels for baptists_, _one each for
primitive and Wesleyan methodists_, _and another at Oxenhope for the
latter denomination_. _There are two excellent free schools_--_one
at Stanbury_, _the other_, _called the Free Grammar School_, _near
Oxenhope_; _besides which there are several neat edifices erected for
Sunday teaching_. _There are three annual fairs_: _they are held on
Easter-Monday_, _the second Monday after St. Peter's day_ (_old
style_), _and the first Monday after Old Michaelmas day_. _The
chapelry of Haworth_, _and its dependent hamlets_, _contained by the
returns for_ 1831, 5835 _inhabitants_; _and by the census taken in
June_, 1841, _the population amounted to_ 6301.
Haworth needs even to-day no further description, but the house in which
Mr. Bronte resided, from 1820 till his death in 1861, has not been
over-described, perhaps because Mr. Bronte's successor has not been too
well disposed to receive the casual visitor to Haworth under his roof.
Many changes have been made since Mr. Bronte died, but the house still
retains its essentially interesting features. In the time of the
Brontes, it is true, the front outlook was as desolate as to-day it is
attractive. Then there was a little piece of barren ground running down
to the walls of the churchyard, with here and there a currant-bush as the
sole adornment. Now we see an abundance of trees and a well-kept lawn.
Miss Ellen Nussey well remembers seeing Emily and Anne, on a fine summer
afternoon, sitting on stools in this bit of garden plucking currants from
the poor insignificant bushes. There was no premonition of the time, not
so far distant, when the rough doorway separating the churchyard from the
garden, which was opened for their mother when they were little children,
should be opened again time after time in rapid succession for their own
biers to be carried through. This gateway is now effectively bricked up.
In the days of the Brontes it was reserved for the passage of the dead--a
grim arrangement, which, strange to say, finds no place in any one of the
sisters' stories. We enter the house, and the door on the right leads
into Mr. Bronte's study, always called the parlour; that on the left into
the dining-room, where the children spent a great portion of their lives.
From childhood to womanhood, indeed, the three girls regularly
breakfasted with their father in his study. In the dining-room--a square
and simple room of a kind common enough in the houses of the poorer
middle-classes--they ate their mid-day dinner, their tea and supper. Mr.
Bronte joined them at tea, although he always dined alone in his study.
The children's dinner-table has been described to me by a visitor to the
house. At one end sat Miss Branwell, at the other, Charlotte, with Emily
and Anne on either side. Branwell was then absent. The living was of
the simplest. A single joint, followed invariably by one kind or another
of milk-pudding. Pastry was unknown in the Bronte household.
Milk-puddings, or food composed of milk and rice, would seem to have made
the principal diet of Emily and Anne Bronte, and to this they added a
breakfast of Scotch porridge, which they shared with their dogs. It is
more interesting, perhaps, to think of all the daydreams in that room, of
the mass of writing which was achieved there, of the conversations and
speculation as to the future. Miss Nussey has given a pleasant picture
of twilight when Charlotte and she walked with arms encircling one
another round and round the table, and Emily and Anne followed in similar
fashion. There was no lack of cheerfulness and of hope at that period.
Behind Mr. Bronte's studio was the kitchen; and there we may easily
picture the Bronte children telling stories to Tabby or Martha, or to
whatever servant reigned at the time, and learning, as all of them did,
to become thoroughly domesticated--Emily most of all. Behind the
dining-room was a peat-room, which, when Charlotte was married in 1854,
was cleared out and converted into a little study for Mr. Nicholls. The
staircase with its solid banister remains as it did half a century ago;
and at its foot one is still shown the corner which tradition assigns as
the scene of Emily's conflict with her dog Keeper. On the right, at the
back, as you mount the staircase, was a small room allotted to Branwell
as a studio. On the other side of this staircase, also at the back, was
the servants' room. In the front of the house, immediately over the
dining-room, was Miss Branwell's room, afterwards the spare bedroom until
Charlotte Bronte married. In that room she died. On the left, over Mr.
Bronte's study, was Mr. Bronte's bedroom. It was the room which, for
many years, he shared with Branwell, and it was in that room that
Branwell and his father died at an interval of twenty years. On the
staircase, half-way up, was a grandfather's clock, which Mr. Bronte used
to wind up every night on his way to bed. He always went to bed at nine
o'clock, and Miss Nussey well remembers his stentorian tones as he called
out as he left his study and passed the dining-room door--'Don't be up
late, children'--which they usually were. Between these two front rooms
upstairs, and immediately over the passage, with a door facing the
staircase, was a box room; but this was the children's nursery, where for
many years the children slept, where the bulk of their little books were
compiled, and where, it is more than probable, _The Professor_ and _Jane
Eyre_ were composed.
Of the work of the Bronte children in these early years, a great deal
might be written. Mrs. Gaskell gives a list of some eighteen booklets,
but at least eighteen more from the pen of Charlotte are in existence.
Branwell was equally prolific; and of him, also, there remains an immense
mass of childish effort. That Emily and Anne were industrious in a like
measure there is abundant reason to believe; but scarcely one of their
juvenile efforts remains to us, nor even the unpublished fragments of
later years, to which reference will be made a little later. Whether
Emily and Anne on the eve of their death deliberately destroyed all their
treasures, or whether they were destroyed by Charlotte in the days of her
mourning, will never be known. Meanwhile one turns with interest to the
efforts of Charlotte and Branwell. Charlotte's little stories commence
in her thirteenth year, and go on until she is twenty-three. From
thirteen to eighteen she would seem to have had one absorbing hero. It
was the Duke of Wellington; and her hero-worship extended to the children
of the Duke, who, indeed, would seem even more than their father to have
absorbed her childish affections. Whether the stories are fairy tales or
dramas of modern life, they all alike introduce the Marquis of Douro, who
afterwards became the second Duke of Wellington, and Lord Charles
Wellesley, whose son is now the third Duke of Wellington. The length of
some of these fragments is indeed incredible. They fill but a few sheets
of notepaper in that tiny handwriting; but when copied by zealous
admirers, it is seen that more than one of them is twenty thousand words
in length.
_The Foundling_, by Captain Tree, written in 1833, is a story of
thirty-five thousand words, though the manuscript has only eighteen
pages. _The Green Dwarf_, written in the same year, is even longer, and
indeed after her return from Roe Head in 1833, Charlotte must have
devoted herself to continuous writing. _The Adventures of Ernest
Alembert_ is a booklet of this date, and _Arthuriana_, _or Odds and
Ends_: _being a Miscellaneous Collection of Pieces in Prose and Verse_,
by Lord Charles Wellesley, is yet another.
The son of the Iron Duke is made to talk, in these little books, in a way
which would have gladdened the heart of a modern interviewer:
'Lord Charles,' said Mr. Rundle to me one afternoon lately, 'I have
an engagement to drink tea with an old college chum this evening, so
I shall give you sixty lines of the _AEneid_ to get ready during my
absence. If it is not ready by the time I come back you know the
consequences.' 'Very well, Sir,' said I, bringing out the books with
a prodigious bustle, and making a show as if I intended to learn a
whole book instead of sixty lines of the _AEneid_. This appearance
of industry, however, lasted no longer than until the old gentleman's
back was turned. No sooner had he fairly quitted the room than I
flung aside the musty tomes, took my cap, and speeding through
chamber, hall, and gallery, was soon outside the gates of Waterloo
Palace.'
_The Secret_, another story, of which Mrs. Gaskell gave a facsimile of
the first page, was also written in 1833, and indeed in this, her
seventeenth year, Charlotte Bronte must have written as much as in any
year of her life. When at Roe Head, 1832-3, she would seem to have
worked at her studies, and particularly her drawing; but in the interval
between Cowan Bridge and Roe Head she wrote a great deal. The earliest
manuscripts in my possession bear date 1829--that is to say, in
Charlotte's thirteenth year. They are her _Tales of the Islanders_,
which extend to four little volumes in brown paper covers neatly
inscribed 'First Volume,' 'Second Volume,' and so on. The Duke is of
absorbing importance in these 'Tales.' 'One evening the Duke of
Wellington was writing in his room in Downing Street. He was reposing at
his ease in a simple easy chair, smoking a homely tobacco-pipe, for he
disdained all the modern frippery of cigars . . . ' and so on in an
abundance of childish imaginings. _The Search after Happiness_ and
_Characters of Great Men of the Present Time_ were also written in 1829.
Perhaps the only juvenile fragment which is worth anything is also the
only one in which she escapes from the Wellington enthusiasm. It has an
interest also in indicating that Charlotte in her girlhood heard
something of her father's native land. It is called--
AN ADVENTURE IN IRELAND
During my travels in the south of Ireland the following adventure
happened to me. One evening in the month of August, after a long
walk, I was ascending the mountain which overlooks the village of
Cahill, when I suddenly came in sight of a fine old castle. It was
built upon a rock, and behind it was a large wood and before it was a
river. Over the river there was a bridge, which formed the approach
to the castle. When I arrived at the bridge I stood still awhile to
enjoy the prospect around me: far below was the wide sheet of still
water in which the reflection of the pale moon was not disturbed by
the smallest wave; in the valley was the cluster of cabins which is
known by the appellation of Cahin, and beyond these were the
mountains of Killala. Over all, the grey robe of twilight was now
stealing with silent and scarcely perceptible advances. No sound
except the hum of the distant village and the sweet song of the
nightingale in the wood behind me broke upon the stillness of the
scene. While I was contemplating this beautiful prospect, a
gentleman, whom I had not before observed, accosted me with 'Good
evening, sir; are you a stranger in these parts?' I replied that I
was. He then asked me where I was going to stop for the night; I
answered that I intended to sleep somewhere in the village. 'I am
afraid you will find very bad accommodation there,' said the
gentleman; 'but if you will take up your quarters with me at the
castle, you are welcome.' I thanked him for his kind offer, and
accepted it.
When we arrived at the castle I was shown into a large parlour, in
which was an old lady sitting in an arm-chair by the fireside,
knitting. On the rug lay a very pretty tortoise-shell cat. As soon
as mentioned, the old lady rose; and when Mr. O'Callaghan (for that,
I learned, was his name) told her who I was, she said in the most
cordial tone that I was welcome, and asked me to sit down. In the
course of conversation I learned that she was Mr. O'Callaghan's
mother, and that his father had been dead about a year. We had sat
about an hour, when supper was announced, and after supper Mr.
O'Callaghan asked me if I should like to retire for the night. I
answered in the affirmative, and a little boy was commissioned to
show me to my apartment. It was a snug, clean, and comfortable
little old-fashioned room at the top of the castle. As soon as we
had entered, the boy, who appeared to be a shrewd, good-tempered
little fellow, said with a shrug of the shoulder, 'If it was going to
bed I was, it shouldn't be here that you'd catch me.' 'Why?' said I.
'Because,' replied the boy, 'they say that the ould masther's ghost
has been seen sitting on that there chair.' 'And have you seen him?'
'No; but I've heard him washing his hands in that basin often and
often.' 'What is your name, my little fellow?' 'Dennis Mulready,
please your honour.' 'Well, good-night to you.' 'Good-night,
masther; and may the saints keep you from all fairies and brownies,'
said Dennis as he left the room.
As soon as I had laid down I began to think of what the boy had been
telling me, and I confess I felt a strange kind of fear, and once or
twice I even thought I could discern something white through the
darkness which surrounded me. At length, by the help of reason, I
succeeded in mastering these, what some would call idle fancies, and
fell asleep. I had slept about an hour when a strange sound awoke
me, and I saw looking through my curtains a skeleton wrapped in a
white sheet. I was overcome with terror and tried to scream, but my
tongue was paralysed and my whole frame shook with fear. In a deep
hollow voice it said to me, 'Arise, that I may show thee this world's
wonders,' and in an instant I found myself encompassed with clouds
and darkness. But soon the roar of mighty waters fell upon my ear,
and I saw some clouds of spray arising from high falls that rolled in
awful majesty down tremendous precipices, and then foamed and
thundered in the gulf beneath as if they had taken up their unquiet
abode in some giant's cauldron. But soon the scene changed, and I
found myself in the mines of Cracone. There were high pillars and
stately arches, whose glittering splendour was never excelled by the
brightest fairy palaces. There were not many lamps, only those of a
few poor miners, whose rough visages formed a striking contrast to
the dazzling figures and grandeur which surrounded them. But in the
midst of all this magnificence I felt an indescribable sense of fear
and terror, for the sea raged above us, and by the awful and
tumultuous noises of roaring winds and dashing waves, it seemed as if
the storm was violent. And now the mossy pillars groaned beneath the
pressure of the ocean, and the glittering arches seemed about to be
overwhelmed. When I heard the rushing waters and saw a mighty flood
rolling towards me I gave a loud shriek of terror. The scene
vanished, and I found myself in a wide desert full of barren rocks
and high mountains. As I was approaching one of the rocks, in which
there was a large cave, my foot stumbled and I fell. Just then I
heard a deep growl, and saw by the unearthly light of his own fiery
eyes a royal lion rousing himself from his kingly slumbers. His
terrible eye was fixed upon me, and the desert rang and the rocks
echoed with the tremendous roar of fierce delight which he uttered as
he sprang towards me. 'Well, masther, it's been a windy night,
though it's fine now,' said Dennis, as he drew the window-curtain and
let the bright rays of the morning sun into the little old-fashioned
room at the top of O'Callaghan Castle.
C. BRONTE.
_April the_ 28_th_, 1829.
Six numbers of _The Young Men's Magazine_ were written in 1829; a very
juvenile poem, _The Evening Walk_, by the Marquis of Douro, in 1830; and
another, of greater literary value, _The Violet_, in the same year. In
1831 we have an unfinished poem, _The Trumpet Hath Sounded_; and in 1832
a very long poem called _The Bridal_. Some of them, as for example a
poem called _Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel_, are written in penny and
twopenny notebooks of the kind used by laundresses. Occasionally her
father has purchased a sixpenny book and has written within the cover--
_All that is written in this book must be in a good_, _plain_, _and
legible hand_.--P. B.
While upon this topic, I may as well carry the record up to the date of
publication of Currer Bell's poems. _A Leaf from an Unopened Volume_ was
written in 1834, as were also _The Death of Darius_, and _Corner Dishes_.
_Saul_: _a Poem_, was written in 1835, and a number of other still
unpublished verses. There is a story called _Lord Douro_, bearing date
1837, and a manuscript book of verses of 1838, but that pretty well
exhausts the manuscripts before me previous to the days of serious
literary activity. During the years as private governess (1839-1841) and
the Brussels experiences (1842-1844), Charlotte would seem to have put
all literary effort on one side.
There is only one letter of Charlotte Bronte's childhood. It is indorsed
by Mr. Bronte on the cover _Charlotte's First Letter_, possibly for the
guidance of Mrs. Gaskell, who may perhaps have thought it of insufficient
importance. That can scarcely be the opinion of any one to-day.
Charlotte, aged thirteen, is staying with the Fennells, her mother's
friends of those early love-letters.
TO THE REV. P. BRONTE
'PARSONAGE HOUSE, CROSSTONE,
_September_ 23_rd_, 1829.
'MY DEAR PAPA,--At Aunt's request I write these lines to inform you
that "if all be well" we shall be at home on Friday by dinner-time,
when we hope to find you in good health. On account of the bad
weather we have not been out much, but notwithstanding we have spent
our time very pleasantly, between reading, working, and learning our
lessons, which Uncle Fennell has been so kind as to teach us every
day. Branwell has taken two sketches from nature, and Emily, Anne,
and myself have likewise each of us drawn a piece from some views of
the lakes which Mr. Fennell brought with him from Westmoreland. The
whole of these he intends keeping. Mr. Fennell is sorry he cannot
accompany us to Haworth on Friday, for want of room, but hopes to
have the pleasure of seeing you soon. All unite in sending their
kind love with your affectionate daughter,
'CHARLOTTE BRONTE.'
The following list includes the whole of the early Bronte Manuscripts
known to me, or of which I can find any record:--
UNPUBLISHED BRONTE LITERATURE.
BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE
_The Young Men's Magazines_. In Six Numbers 1829
[Only four out of these six numbers appear to have been preserved.]
_The Search after Happiness_: _A Tale_. _By Charlotte Bronte_ 1829
_Two Romantic Tales_; _viz. The Twelve Adventures_, _and An 1829
Adventure in Ireland_
_Characters of Great Men of the Present Age_, _Dec._ 17_th_ 1829
_Tales of the Islanders_. _By Charlotte Bronte_:--
Vol. i. dated _June_ 31, 1829
Vol. ii. dated _December_ 2, 1829
Vol. iii. dated _May_ 8, 1830
Vol. iv. dated _July_ 30, 1830
[Accompanying these volumes is a one-page document detailing 'The
Origin of the _Islanders_.' Dated _March_ 12, 1829.]
_The Evening Walk_: _A Poem_. _By the Marquis Douro_ 1830
_A Translation into English Verse of the First Book of Voltaire's 1830
Henriade_. _By Charlotte Bronte_
_Albion and Marina_: _A Tale_. _By Lord Wellesley_ 1830
_The Adventures of Ernest Alembert_: _A Fairy Tale_. _By 1830
Charlotte Bronte_
_The Violet: A Poem_. _With several smaller Pieces_. _By the 1830
Marquess of Douro_. _Published by Seargeant Tree_. _Glasstown_,
1830
_The Bridal_. _By C. Bronte_ 1832
_Arthuriana_; _or_, _Odds and Ends_: _Being a Miscellaneous 1833
Collection of Pieces in Prose and Verse_. _By Lord Charles A. F.
Wellesley_
_Something about Arthur_. _Written by Charles Albert Florian 1833
Wellesley_
_The Vision_. _By Charlotte Bronte_ 1833
_The Secret and Lily Hart_: _Two Tales_. _By Lord Charles 1833
Wellesley_
[The first page of this book is given in facsimile in vol. i. of
Mrs. Gaskell's _Life of Charlotte Bronte_.]
_Visits in Verdopolis_. _By the Honourable Charles Albert Florian 1833
Wellesley_. _Two vols._
_The Green Dwarf_: _A Tale of the Perfect Tense_. _By Lord Charles 1833
Albert Florian Wellesley_. _Charlotte Bronte_.
_The Foundling_: _A Tale of our own Times_. _By Captain Tree_ 1833
_Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel_. _By Charlotte Bronte_, 1833
8vo, pp. 20. Signed in full _Charlotte Bronte_, and dated
_Haworth_, _near Bradford_, Dec. 27_th_, 1833
_My Angria and the Angrians_. _By Lord Charles Albert Florian 1834
Wellesley_
_A Leaf from an Unopened Volume_; _or_, _The Manuscript of an 1834
Unfortunate Author_. _Edited by Lord Charles Albert Florian
Wellesley_
_Corner Dishes_: _Being a small Collection of_ . . . _Trifles in 1834
Prose and Verse_. _By Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley_
_The Spell_: _An Extravaganza_. _By Lord Charles Albert Florian
Wellesley_. Signed _Charlotte Bronte_, _June_ 21_st_, 1834.
The contents include: 1. Preface, half page; 2. _The Spell_, 26
pages; 3. _High Life in Verdopolis_: _or The Difficulties
of Annexing a Suitable Title to a Work Practically Illustrated in
Six Chapters_. _By Lord C. A. F. Wellesley_, _March_ 20, 1834, 22
pages; 4. _The Scrap-Book_: _A Mingling of Many Things_.
_Compiled by Lord C. A. F. Wellesley_. _C. Bronte_, _March_
17_th_, 1835, 31 pages.
[This volume is in the British Museum.]
_Death of Darius Cadomanus_: _A Poem_. _By Charlotte Bronte_. 1835
Pp. 24. Signed in full, and dated
_Saul and Memory_: _Two Poems_. _By C. Bronte_. Pp. 12 1835
_Passing Events_ 1836
'_We Wove a Web in Childhood_': A poem (pp. vi.), signed _C. 1835
Bronte_, _Haworth_, _Dec'br_. 19_th_, 1835
_The Wounded Stag_, _and other Poems_. _Signed C. Bronte_. 1836
_Jan'y._ 19, 1836. Pp. 20
_Lord Douro_: _A Story_. _Signed C. Bronte_. _July_ 21_st_, 1837 1837
_Poems_. _By C. Bronte_. Pp. 16 1838
_Lettre d'Invitation a un Ecclesiastique_. Signed 1842
_Charlotte Bronte_. _Le_ 21 _Juillet_, 1842. Large 8vo, pp. 4.
A French exercise written at Brussels
_John Henry_. _By Charlotte Bronte_, Crown 8vo, pp. 36, _circa_ 1852
written in pencil
_Willie Ellin_. _By Charlotte Bronte_. _May and June_ 1853
Crown 8vo, pp. 18
The following, included in Charlotte's 'Catalogue of my Books'
printed by Mrs. Gaskell, are not now forthcoming:
_Leisure Hours_: _A Tale_, _and two Fragments_ _July_ 6_th_, 1829
_The Adventures of Edward de Crak_: _A Tale_ _Feb._ 2_nd_, 1830
_An Interesting Incident in the Lives of some _June_ 10_th_, 1830
of the most eminent Persons of the Age_: _A Tale_
_The Poetaster_: _A Drama_. _In two volumes_, _July_ 12_th_, 1830
_A Book of Rhymes_, _finished_ _December_ 17_th_, 1829
_Miscellaneous Poems_, _finished_ _May_ 3_rd_, 1830
[These _Miscellaneous Poems_ are probably poems written upon
separate sheets, and not forming a complete book--indeed, some
half dozen such separate poems are still extant. The last item
given in Charlotte's list of these _Miscellaneous Poems_ is
_The Evening Walk_, 1820; this is a separate book, and is included
in the list above.]
BY EMILY BRONTE
A volume of_ Poems_, 8vo, pp. 29; signed (at the top of the first 1844
page) _E. J. B_. _Transcribed February_ 1814. Each poem is
headed with the date of its composition. Of the poems
included in this book four are still unprinted, the remainder
were published in the _Poems_ of 1846. The whole are written in
microscopic characters
A volume of _Poems_, square 8vo, pp. 24. Each poem is dated, 1837-1839
and the first is signed _E. J. Bronte_, _August_ 19_th_, 1837.
Written in an ordinary, and not a minute, handwriting. All
unpublished
A series of poems written in a minute hand upon both sides of 1833-1839
fourteen or fifteen small slips of paper of various sizes. All
unpublished
_Lettre and Reponse_. An exercise in French. Large 8vo, 1842
pp. 4. Signed _E. J. Bronte_, and dated 16 _Juillet_
_L'Amour Filial_. An exercise in French. Small quarto, pp. 4. 1842
Signed in full _Emily J. Bronte_, and dated 5 _Aout_
BY ANNE BRONTE.
_Verses by Lady Geralda_, and other poems. A crown 8vo volume 1836-1837
of 28 pages. Each poem is signed (or initialled) and dated, the
dates extending from 1836 to 1837. The poems are all
unpublished
_The North Wind_, and other poems. A crown 8vo volume of 26 1838-1840
pages. Each poem is signed (or initialled) and dated, some
having in addition to her own name the nom-de-guerre
_Alexandrina Zenobia_ or _Olivia Vernon_. The dates extend
from 1838 to 1840. The poems are all unpublished
_To Cowper_, and other poems. 8vo, pp. 22. Of the nine 1842-1845
poems contained in this volume three are signed _Anne Bronte_,
four are signed _A. Bronte_, and two are initialled '_A. B._'
All are dated. Part of these Poems are unpublished, the
remainder appeared in the _Poems_ of 1846
A thin 8vo volume of poems (mostly dated 1845), pp. 14, _circa_ 1845
each being signed _A. Bronte_, or simply '_A. B._'--some
having in addition to, or instead of, her own name the
nom-de-guerre _Zerona_. A few of these poems are unprinted;
the remainder are a portion of Anne's contribution to the
_Poems_ of 1846
_Song_: '_Should Life's first feelings be forgot_' (one octavo 1845
leaf)
[A fair copy (2 pp. 8vo) of a poem by Branwell Bronte, in the
hand-writing of Anne Bronte.]
_The Power of Love_, and other poems. Post octavo, pp. 26. 1845-1846
Each poem is signed (or initialled) and dated
_Self Communion_, a Poem. 8vo, pp. 19. Signed '_A. B_.' and 1848
dated _April_ 17_th_, 1848
BY BRANWELL BRONTE.
_The Battle of Washington_. By _P. B. Bronte_. With full-page 1827
coloured illustrations
[An exceedingly childish production, and the earliest of all the
Bronte manuscripts.]
_History of the Rebellion in my Army_ 1828
_The Travels of Rolando Segur_: _Comprising his Adventures 1829
throughout the Voyage_, _and in America_, _Europe_, _the South
Pole_, _etc._ _By Patrick Branwell Bronte_. _In two
volumes_
_A Collection of Poems_. _By Young Soult the Rhymer_. 1829
_Illustrated with Notes and Commentaries by Monsieur
Chateaubriand_. _In two volumes_
_The Liar Detected_. _By Captain Bud_ 1830
_Caractacus_: _A Dramatic Poem_. _By Young Soult_ 1830
_The Revenge_: _A Tragedy_, _in three Acts_. _By Young Soult_. 1830
_P. B. Bronte_. _In two volumes_. _Glasstown_
[Although the title page reads 'in two volumes,' the book is
complete in one volume only.]
_The History of the Young Men_. _By John Bud_ 1831
_Letters from an Englishman_. _By Captain John Flower_. _In 1830-1832
six volumes_
_The Monthly Intelligencer_. _No._ 1 _March_ 27, 1833
[The only number produced of a projected manuscript newspaper,
by Branwell Bronte. The MS. consists of 4 pp. 4to, arranged
in columns, precisely after the manner of an ordinary journal.]
_Real Life in Verdopolis_: _A Tale_. _By Captain John Flower_, 1833
_M.P._ _In two volumes_. _P. B. Bronte_
_The Politics of Verdopolis_: _A Tale_. _By Captain John Flower_. 1833
_P. B. Bronte_
_The Pirate_: _A Tale_. _By Captain John Flower_ 1833
[The most pretentious of Branwell's prose stories.]
_Thermopylae_: _A Poem_. _By P. B. Bronte_. 8vo, pp. 14 1834
_And the Weary are at Rest_: _A Tale_. _By P. B. Bronte_ 1834
_The Wool is Rising_: _An Angrian Adventure_. _By the Right 1834
Honourable John Baron Flower_
_Ode to the Polar Star, and other Poems_. _By P. B. Bronte_. 1834
Quarto, pp. 24
_The Life of Field Marshal the Right Honourable Alexander 1835
Percy_, _Earl of Northangerland_. _In two volumes_. _By John
Bud_. _P. B. Bronte_
_The Rising of the Angrians_: _A Tale_. _By P. B. Bronte_ 1836
_A Narrative of the First War_. _By P. B. Bronte_ 1836
_The Angrian Welcome_: _A Tale_. _By P. B. Bronte_ 1836
_Percy_: _A Story_. _By P. B. Bronte_ 1837
A packet containing four small groups of _Poems_, of about six
or eight pages each, mostly without titles, but all either
signed or initialled, and dated from 1836 to 1838
_Love and Warfare_: _A Story_. _By P. B. Bronte_ 1839
_Lord Nelson_, _and other Poems_. _By P. B. Bronte_. Written in 1844
pencil. Small 8vo, pp. 26
[This book contains a full-page pencil portrait of Branwell
Bronte, drawn by himself, as well as four carefully finished heads.
These give an excellent idea of the extent of Branwell's artistic
skill.]
CHAPTER III: SCHOOL AND GOVERNESS LIFE
In seeking for fresh light upon the development of Charlotte Bronte, it
is not necessary to discuss further her childhood's years at Cowan
Bridge. She left the school at nine years of age, and what memories of
it were carried into womanhood were, with more or less of picturesque
colouring, embodied in Jane Eyre. {74} From 1825 to 1831 Charlotte was
at home with her sisters, reading and writing as we have seen, but
learning nothing very systematically. In 1831-32 she was a boarder at
Miss Wooler's school at Roe Head, some twenty miles from Haworth. Miss
Wooler lived to a green old age, dying in the year 1885. She would seem
to have been very proud of her famous pupil, and could not have been
blind to her capacity in the earlier years. Charlotte was with her as
governess at Roe Head, and later at Dewsbury Moor. It is quite clear
that Miss Bronte was head of the school in all intellectual pursuits, and
she made two firm friends--Ellen Nussey and Mary Taylor. A very fair
measure of French and some skill in drawing appear to have been the most
striking accomplishments which Charlotte carried back from Roe Head to
Haworth. There are some twenty drawings of about this date, and a
translation into English verse of the first book of Voltaire's
_Henriade_. With Ellen Nussey commenced a friendship which terminated
only with the pencilled notes written from Charlotte Bronte's deathbed.
The first suggestion of a regular correspondence is contained in the
following letter.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _July_ 21_st_, 1832.
'MY DEAREST ELLEN,--Your kind and interesting letter gave me the
sincerest pleasure. I have been expecting to hear from you almost
every day since my arrival at home, and I at length began to despair
of receiving the wished-for letter. You ask me to give you a
description of the manner in which I have passed every day since I
left school. This is soon done, as an account of one day is an
account of all. In the mornings, from nine o'clock to half-past
twelve, I instruct my sisters and draw, then we walk till dinner;
after dinner I sew till tea-time, and after tea I either read, write,
do a little fancy-work, or draw, as I please. Thus in one
delightful, though somewhat monotonous course, my life is passed. I
have only been out to tea twice since I came home. We are expecting
company this afternoon, and on Tuesday next we shall have all the
female teachers of the Sunday school to tea. I do hope, my dearest
Ellen, that you will return to school again for your own sake, though
for mine I would rather that you would remain at home, as we shall
then have more frequent opportunities of correspondence with each
other. Should your friends decide against your returning to school,
I know you have too much good-sense and right feeling not to strive
earnestly for your own improvement. Your natural abilities are
excellent, and under the direction of a judicious and able friend
(and I know you have many such), you might acquire a decided taste
for elegant literature, and even poetry, which, indeed, is included
under that general term. I was very much disappointed by your not
sending the hair; you may be sure, my dearest Ellen, that I would not
grudge double postage to obtain it, but I must offer the same excuse
for not sending you any. My aunt and sisters desire their love to
you. Remember me kindly to your mother and sisters, and accept all
the fondest expressions of genuine attachment, from your real friend
'CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
'_P.S._--Remember the mutual promise we made of a regular
correspondence with each other. Excuse all faults in this wretched
scrawl. Give my love to the Miss Taylors when you see them.
Farewell, my _dear_, _dear_, _dear_ Ellen.'
Reading, writing, and as thorough a domestic training as the little
parsonage could afford, made up the next few years. Then came the
determination to be a governess--a not unnatural resolution when the size
of the family and the modest stipend of its head are considered. Far
more prosperous parents are content in our day that their daughters
should earn their living in this manner. In 1835 Charlotte went back to
Roe Head as governess, and she continued in that position when Miss
Wooler removed her school to Dewsbury Moor in 1836.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'DEWSBURY MOOR, _August_ 24_th_, 1837.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I have determined to write lest you should begin to
think I have forgotten you, and in revenge resolve to forget me. As
you will perceive by the date of this letter, I am again engaged in
the old business--teach, teach, teach. Miss and Mrs. Wooler are
coming here next Christmas. Miss Wooler will then relinquish the
school in favour of her sister Eliza, but I am happy to say worthy
Miss Wooler will continue to reside in the house. I should be sorry
indeed to part with her. When will you come _home_? Make haste, you
have been at Bath long enough for all purposes. By this time you
have acquired polish enough, I am sure. If the varnish is laid on
much thicker, I am afraid the good wood underneath will be quite
concealed, and your old Yorkshire friends won't stand that. Come,
come, I am getting really tired of your absence. Saturday after
Saturday comes round, and I can have no hope of hearing your knock at
the door and then being told that "Miss E. N. is come." Oh dear! in
this monotonous life of mine that was a pleasant event. I wish it
would recur again, but it will take two or three interviews before
the stiffness, the estrangement of this long separation will quite
wear away. I have nothing at all to tell you now but that Mary
Taylor is better, and that she and Martha are gone to take a tour in
Wales. Patty came on her pony about a fortnight since to inform me
that this important event was in contemplation. She actually began
to fret about your long absence, and to express the most eager wishes
for your return. My own dear Ellen, good-bye. If we are all spared
I hope soon to see you again. God bless you.
'C. BRONTE.'
Things were not always going on quite so smoothly, as the following
letter indicates.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'DEWSBURY MOOR, _January_ 4_th_, 1838.
'Your letter, Ellen, was a welcome surprise, though it contained
something like a reprimand. I had not, however, forgotten our
agreement. You were right in your conjectures respecting the cause
of my sudden departure. Anne continued wretchedly ill, neither the
pain nor the difficulty of breathing left her, and how could I feel
otherwise than very miserable. I looked on her case in a different
light to what I could wish or expect any uninterested person to view
it in. Miss Wooler thought me a fool, and by way of proving her
opinion treated me with marked coldness. We came to a little
eclaircissement one evening. I told her one or two rather plain
truths, which set her a-crying; and the next day, unknown to me, she
wrote papa, telling him that I had reproached her bitterly, taken her
severely to task, etc. Papa sent for us the day after he had
received her letter. Meantime I had formed a firm resolution to quit
Miss Wooler and her concerns for ever; but just before I went away,
she took me to her room, and giving way to her feelings, which in
general she restrains far too rigidly, gave me to understand that in
spite of her cold, repulsive manners, she had a considerable regard
for me, and would be very sorry to part with me. If any body likes
me, I cannot help liking them; and remembering that she had in
general been very kind to me, I gave in and said I would come back if
she wished me. So we are settled again for the present, but I am not
satisfied. I should have respected her far more if she had turned me
out of doors, instead of crying for two days and two nights together.
I was in a regular passion; my "_warm_ temper" quite got the better
of me, of which I don't boast, for it was a weakness; nor am I
ashamed of it, for I had reason to be angry.
'Anne is now much better, though she still requires a great deal of
care. However, I am relieved from my worst fears respecting her. I
approve highly of the plan you mention, except as it regards
committing a verse of the Psalms to memory. I do not see the direct
advantage to be derived from that. We have entered on a new year.
Will it be stained as darkly as the last with all our sins, follies,
secret vanities, and uncontrolled passions and propensities? I trust
not; but I feel in nothing better, neither humbler nor purer. It
will want three weeks next Monday to the termination of the holidays.
Come to see me, my dear Ellen, as soon as you can; however bitterly I
sometimes feel towards other people, the recollection of your mild,
steady friendship consoles and softens me. I am glad you are not
such a passionate fool as myself. Give my best love to your mother
and sisters. Excuse the most hideous scrawl that ever was penned,
and--Believe me always tenderly yours,
'C. BRONTE.'
Dewsbury Moor, however, did not agree with Charlotte. That was probably
the core of the matter. She returned to Haworth, but only to look around
for another 'situation.' This time she accepted the position of private
governess in the family of a Mr. Sidgwick, at Stonegappe, in the same
county. Her letters from his house require no comment. A sentence from
the first was quoted by Mrs. Gaskell.
TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTE
'STONEGAPPE, _June_ 8_th_, 1839.
'DEAREST LAVINIA,--I am most exceedingly obliged to you for the
trouble you have taken in seeking up my things and sending them all
right. The box and its contents were most acceptable. I only wish I
had asked you to send me some letter-paper. This is my last sheet
but two. When you can send the other articles of raiment now
manufacturing, I shall be right down glad of them.
'I have striven hard to be pleased with my new situation. The
country, the house, and the grounds are, as I have said, divine.
But, alack-a-day! there is such a thing as seeing all beautiful
around you--pleasant woods, winding white paths, green lawns, and
blue sunshiny sky--and not having a free moment or a free thought
left to enjoy them in. The children are constantly with me, and more
riotous, perverse, unmanageable cubs never grew. As for correcting
them, I soon quickly found that was entirely out of the question:
they are to do as they like. A complaint to Mrs. Sidgwick brings
only black looks upon oneself, and unjust, partial excuses to screen
the children. I have tried that plan once. It succeeded so notably
that I shall try it no more. I said in my last letter that Mrs.
Sidgwick did not know me. I now begin to find that she does not
intend to know me, that she cares nothing in the world about me
except to contrive how the greatest possible quantity of labour may
be squeezed out of me, and to that end she overwhelms me with oceans
of needlework, yards of cambric to hem, muslin night-caps to make,
and, above all things, dolls to dress. I do not think she likes me
at all, because I can't help being shy in such an entirely novel
scene, surrounded as I have hitherto been by strange and constantly
changing faces. I see now more clearly than I have ever done before
that a private governess has no existence, is not considered as a
living and rational being except as connected with the wearisome
duties she has to fulfil. While she is teaching the children,
working for them, amusing them, it is all right. If she steals a
moment for herself she is a nuisance. Nevertheless, Mrs. Sidgwick is
universally considered an amiable woman. Her manners are fussily
affable. She talks a great deal, but as it seems to me not much to
the purpose. Perhaps I may like her better after a while. At
present I have no call to her. Mr. Sidgwick is in my opinion a
hundred times better--less profession, less bustling condescension,
but a far kinder heart. It is very seldom that he speaks to me, but
when he does I always feel happier and more settled for some minutes
after. He never asks me to wipe the children's smutty noses or tie
their shoes or fetch their pinafores or set them a chair. One of the
pleasantest afternoons I have spent here--indeed, the only one at all
pleasant--was when Mr. Sidgwick walked out with his children, and I
had orders to follow a little behind. As he strolled on through his
fields with his magnificent Newfoundland dog at his side, he looked
very like what a frank, wealthy, Conservative gentleman ought to be.
He spoke freely and unaffectedly to the people he met, and though he
indulged his children and allowed them to tease himself far too much,
he would not suffer them grossly to insult others.
'I am getting quite to have a regard for the Carter family. At home
I should not care for them, but here they are friends. Mr. Carter
was at Mirfield yesterday and saw Anne. He says she was looking
uncommonly well. Poor girl, _she_ must indeed wish to be at home.
As to Mrs. Collins' report that Mrs. Sidgwick intended to keep me
permanently, I do not think that such was ever her design. Moreover,
I would not stay without some alterations. For instance, this burden
of sewing would have to be removed. It is too bad for anything. I
never in my whole life had my time so fully taken up. Next week we
are going to Swarcliffe, Mr. Greenwood's place near Harrogate, to
stay three weeks or a month. After that time I hope Miss Hoby will
return. Don't show this letter to papa or aunt, only to Branwell.
They will think I am never satisfied wherever I am. I complain to
you because it is a relief, and really I have had some unexpected
mortifications to put up with. However, things may mend, but Mrs.
Sidgwick expects me to do things that I cannot do--to love her
children and be entirely devoted to them. I am really very well. I
am so sleepy that I can write no more. I must leave off. Love to
all.--Good-bye.
'Direct your next dispatch--J. Greenwood, Esq., Swarcliffe, near
Harrogate.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'SWARCLIFFE, _June_ 15_th_, 1839.
'MY DEAREST ELLEN,--I am writing a letter to you with pencil because
I cannot just now procure ink without going into the drawing-room,
where I do not wish to go. I only received your letter yesterday,
for we are not now residing at Stonegappe but at Swarcliffe, a summer
residence of Mr. Greenwood's, Mrs. Sidgwick's father; it is near
Harrogate and Ripon. I should have written to you long since, and
told you every detail of the utterly new scene into which I have
lately been cast, had I not been daily expecting a letter from
yourself, and wondering and lamenting that you did not write, for you
will remember it was your turn. I must not bother you too much with
my sorrows, of which, I fear, you have heard an exaggerated account.
If you were near me, perhaps I might be tempted to tell you all, to
grow egotistical, and pour out the long history of a private
governess's trials and crosses in her first situation. As it is, I
will only ask you to imagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like
me thrown at once into the midst of a large family, proud as peacocks
and wealthy as Jews, at a time when they were particularly gay, when
the house was filled with company--all strangers: people whose faces
I had never seen before. In this state I had a charge given of a set
of horrid children, whom I was expected constantly to amuse, as well
as instruct. I soon found that the constant demand on my stock of
animal spirits reduced them to the lowest state of exhaustion; at
times I felt--and, I suppose seemed--depressed. To my astonishment,
I was taken to task on the subject by Mrs. Sidgwick, with a sternness
of manner and a harshness of language scarcely credible. Like a
fool, I cried most bitterly. I could not help it; my spirits quite
failed me at first. I thought I had done my best, strained every
nerve to please her; and to be treated in that way, merely because I
was shy and sometimes melancholy, was too bad. At first I was for
giving all up and going home. But after a little reflection, I
determined to summon what energy I had, and to weather the storm. I
said to myself, "I had never yet quitted a place without gaining a
friend; adversity is a good school; the poor are born to labour, and
the dependent to endure." I resolved to be patient, to command my
feelings, and to take what came; the ordeal, I reflected, would not
last many weeks, and I trusted it would do me good. I recollected
the fable of the willow and the oak; I bent quietly, and now I trust
the storm is blowing over. Mrs. Sidgwick is generally considered an
agreeable woman; so she is, I doubt not, in general society. Her
health is sound, her animal spirits good, consequently she is
cheerful in company. But oh! does this compensate for the absence of
every fine feeling, of every gentle and delicate sentiment? She
behaves somewhat more civilly to me now than she did at first, and
the children are a little more manageable; but she does not know my
character, and she does not wish to know it. I have never had five
minutes conversation with her since I came, except when she was
scolding me. I have no wish to be pitied, except by yourself. If I
were talking to you I could tell you much more. Good-bye, dear, dear
Ellen. Write to me again very soon, and tell me how you are.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _July_ 26_th_, 1839.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I left Swarcliffe a week since. I never was so glad to
get out of a house in my life; but I'll trouble you with no
complaints at present. Write to me directly; explain your plans more
fully. Say when you go, and I shall be able in my answer to say
decidedly whether I can accompany you or not. I must, I will, I'm
set upon it--I'll be obstinate and bear down all
opposition.--Good-bye, yours faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
That experience with the Sidgwicks rankled for many a day, and we find
Charlotte Bronte referring to it in her letters from Brussels. At the
same time it is not necessary to assume any very serious inhumanity on
the part of the Sidgwicks or their successors the Whites, to whom
Charlotte was indebted for her second term as private governess. Hers
was hardly a temperament adapted for that docile part, and one thinks of
the author of _Villette_, and the possessor of one of the most vigorous
prose styles in our language, condemned to a perpetual manufacture of
night-caps, with something like a shudder. And at the same time it may
be urged that Charlotte Bronte did not suffer in vain, and that through
her the calling of a nursery governess may have received some added
measure of dignity and consideration on the part of sister-women.
A month or two later we find Charlotte dealing with the subject in a
letter to Ellen Nussey.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 24_th_, 1840.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--You could never live in an unruly, violent family of
modern children, such for instance as those at Blake Hall. Anne is
not to return. Mrs. Ingham is a placid, mild woman; but as for the
children, it was one struggle of life-wearing exertion to keep them
in anything like decent order. I am miserable when I allow myself to
dwell on the necessity of spending my life as a governess. The chief
requisite for that station seems to me to be the power of taking
things easily as they come, and of making oneself comfortable and at
home wherever we may chance to be--qualities in which all our family
are singularly deficient. I know I cannot live with a person like
Mrs. Sidgwick, but I hope all women are not like her, and my motto is
"try again." Mary Taylor, I am sorry to hear, is ill--have you seen
her or heard anything of her lately? Sickness seems very general,
and death too, at least in this neighbourhood.--Ever yours,
'C. B.'
She 'tried again' but with just as little success. In March 1841 she
entered the family of a Mr. White of Upperwood House, Rawdon.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'UPPERWOOD HOUSE, _April_ 1_st_, 1841.
'MY DEAR NELL,--It is twelve o'clock at night, but I must just write
to you a word before I go to bed. If you think I am going to refuse
your invitation, or if you sent it me with that idea, you're
mistaken. As soon as I read your shabby little note, I gathered up
my spirits directly, walked on the impulse of the moment into Mrs.
White's presence, popped the question, and for two minutes received
no answer. Will she refuse me when I work so hard for her? thought
I. "Ye-e-es" was said in a reluctant, cold tone. "Thank you, m'am,"
said I, with extreme cordiality, and was marching from the room when
she recalled me with: "You'd better go on Saturday afternoon then,
when the children have holiday, and if you return in time for them to
have all their lessons on Monday morning, I don't see that much will
be lost." You _are_ a genuine Turk, thought I, but again I assented.
Saturday after next, then, is the day appointed--_not next Saturday_,
_mind_. I do not quite know whether the offer about the gig is not
entirely out of your own head or if George has given his consent to
it--whether that consent has not been wrung from him by the most
persevering and irresistible teasing on the part of a certain young
person of my acquaintance. I make no manner of doubt that if he does
send the conveyance (as Miss Wooler used to denominate all wheeled
vehicles) it will be to his own extreme detriment and inconvenience,
but for once in my life I'll not mind this, or bother my head about
it. I'll come--God knows with a thankful and joyful heart--glad of a
day's reprieve from labour. If you don't send the gig I'll walk.
Now mind, I am not coming to Brookroyd with the idea of dissuading
Mary Taylor from going to New Zealand. I've said everything I mean
to say on that subject, and she has a perfect right to decide for
herself. I am coming to taste the pleasure of liberty, a bit of
pleasant congenial talk, and a sight of two or three faces I like.
God bless you. I want to see you again. Huzza for Saturday
afternoon after next! Good-night, my lass.
'C. BRONTE.
'Have you lit your pipe with Mr. Weightman's valentine?'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'UPPERWOOD HOUSE, _May_ 4_th_, 1841.
'DEAR NELL,--I have been a long time without writing to you; but I
think, knowing as you do how I am situated in the matter of time, you
will not be angry with me. Your brother George will have told you
that he did not go into the house when we arrived at Rawdon, for
which omission of his Mrs. White was very near blowing me up. She
went quite red in the face with vexation when she heard that the
gentleman had just driven within the gates and then back again, for
she is very touchy in the matter of opinion. Mr. White also seemed
to regret the circumstance from more hospitable and kindly motives.
I assure you, if you were to come and see me you would have quite a
fuss made over you. During the last three weeks that hideous
operation called "a thorough clean" has been going on in the house.
It is now nearly completed, for which I thank my stars, as during its
progress I have fulfilled the twofold character of nurse and
governess, while the nurse has been transmuted into cook and
housemaid. That nurse, by-the-bye, is the prettiest lass you ever
saw, and when dressed has much more the air of a lady than her
mistress. Well can I believe that Mrs. White has been an exciseman's
daughter, and I am convinced also that Mr. White's extraction is very
low. Yet Mrs. White talks in an amusing strain of pomposity about
his and her family and connections, and affects to look down with
wondrous hauteur on the whole race of tradesfolk, as she terms men of
business. I was beginning to think Mrs. White a good sort of body in
spite of all her bouncing and boasting, her bad grammar and worse
orthography, but I have had experience of one little trait in her
character which condemns her a long way with me. After treating a
person in the most familiar terms of equality for a long time, if any
little thing goes wrong she does not scruple to give way to anger in
a very coarse, unladylike manner. I think passion is the true test
of vulgarity or refinement.
'This place looks exquisitely beautiful just now. The grounds are
certainly lovely, and all is as green as an emerald. I wish you
would just come and look at it. Mrs. White would be as proud as
Punch to show it you. Mr. White has been writing an urgent
invitation to papa, entreating him to come and spend a week here. I
don't at all wish papa to come, it would be like incurring an
obligation. Somehow, I have managed to get a good deal more control
over the children lately--this makes my life a good deal easier;
also, by dint of nursing the fat baby, it has got to know me and be
fond of me. I suspect myself of growing rather fond of it. Exertion
of any kind is always beneficial. Come and see me if you can in any
way get, I _want_ to see you. It seems Martha Taylor is fairly gone.
Good-bye, my lassie.--Yours insufferably,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO REV. HENRY NUSSEY, EARNLEY RECTORY
'UPPERWOOD HOUSE, RAWDON,
'_May_ 9_th_, 1841.
'DEAR SIR,--I am about to employ part of a Sunday evening in
answering your last letter. You will perhaps think this hardly
right, and yet I do not feel that I am doing wrong. Sunday evening
is almost my only time of leisure. No one would blame me if I were
to spend this spare hour in a pleasant chat with a friend--is it
worse to spend it in a friendly letter?
'I have just seen my little noisy charges deposited snugly in their
cribs, and I am sitting alone in the school-room with the quiet of a
Sunday evening pervading the grounds and gardens outside my window.
I owe you a letter--can I choose a better time than the present for
paying my debt? Now, Mr. Nussey, you need not expect any gossip or
news, I have none to tell you--even if I had I am not at present in
the mood to communicate them. You will excuse an unconnected letter.
If I had thought you critical or captious I would have declined the
task of corresponding with you. When I reflect, indeed, it seems
strange that I should sit down to write without a feeling of
formality and restraint to an individual with whom I am personally so
little acquainted as I am with yourself; but the fact is, I cannot be
formal in a letter--if I write at all I must write as I think. It
seems Ellen has told you that I am become a governess again. As you
say, it is indeed a hard thing for flesh and blood to leave home,
especially a _good_ home--not a wealthy or splendid one. My home is
humble and unattractive to strangers, but to me it contains what I
shall find nowhere else in the world--the profound, the intense
affection which brothers and sisters feel for each other when their
minds are cast in the same mould, their ideas drawn from the same
source--when they have clung to each other from childhood, and when
disputes have never sprung up to divide them.
'We are all separated now, and winning our bread amongst strangers as
we can--my sister Anne is near York, my brother in a situation near
Halifax, I am here. Emily is the only one left at home, where her
usefulness and willingness make her indispensable. Under these
circumstances should we repine? I think not--our mutual affection
ought to comfort us under all difficulties. If the God on whom we
must all depend will but vouchsafe us health and the power to
continue in the strict line of duty, so as never under any temptation
to swerve from it an inch, we shall have ample reason to be grateful
and contented.
'I do not pretend to say that I am always contented. A governess
must often submit to have the heartache. My employers, Mr. and Mrs.
White, are kind worthy people in their way, but the children are
indulged. I have great difficulties to contend with sometimes.
Perseverance will perhaps conquer them. And it has gratified me much
to find that the parents are well satisfied with their children's
improvement in learning since I came. But I am dwelling too much
upon my own concerns and feelings. It is true they are interesting
to me, but it is wholly impossible they should be so to you, and,
therefore, I hope you will skip the last page, for I repent having
written it.
'A fortnight since I had a letter from Ellen urging me to go to
Brookroyd for a single day. I felt such a longing to have a respite
from labour, and to get once more amongst "old familiar faces," that
I conquered diffidence and asked Mrs. White to let me go. She
complied, and I went accordingly, and had a most delightful holiday.
I saw your mother, your sisters Mercy, Ellen, and poor Sarah, and
your brothers Richard and George--all were well. Ellen talked of
endeavouring to get a situation somewhere. I did not encourage the
idea much. I advised her rather to go to Earnley for a while. I
think she wants a change, and I dare say you would be glad to have
her as a companion for a few months.--I remain, yours respectfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
The above letter was written to Miss Nussey's brother, whose attachment
to Charlotte Bronte has already more than once been mentioned in the
current biographies. The following letter to Miss Nussey is peculiarly
interesting because of the reference to Ireland. It would have been
strange if Charlotte Bronte had returned as a governess to her father's
native land. Speculation thereon is sufficiently foolish, and yet one is
tempted to ask if Ireland might not have gained some of that local
literary colour--one of its greatest needs--which always makes Scotland
dear to the readers of _Waverley_, and Yorkshire classic ground to the
admirers of _Shirley_.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'UPPERWOOD HOUSE, _June_ 10_th_, 1841.
'DEAR NELL,--If I don't scrawl you a line of some sort I know you
will begin to fancy that I neglect you, in spite of all I said last
time we met. You can hardly fancy it possible, I dare say, that I
cannot find a quarter of an hour to scribble a note in; but when a
note is written it is to be carried a mile to the post, and consumes
nearly an hour, which is a large portion of the day. Mr. and Mrs.
White have been gone a week. I heard from them this morning; they
are now at Hexham. No time is fixed for their return, but I hope it
will not be delayed long, or I shall miss the chance of seeing Anne
this vacation. She came home, I understand, last Wednesday, and is
only to be allowed three weeks' holidays, because the family she is
with are going to Scarborough. I should like to see her to judge for
myself of the state of her health. I cannot trust any other person's
report, no one seems minute enough in their observations. I should
also very much have liked you to see her.
'I have got on very well with the servants and children so far, yet
it is dreary, solitary work. You can tell as well as me the lonely
feeling of being without a companion. I offered the Irish concern to
Mary Taylor, but she is so circumstanced that she cannot accept it.
Her brothers have a feeling of pride that revolts at the thought of
their sister "going out." I hardly knew that it was such a
degradation till lately.
'Your visit did me much good. I wish Mary Taylor would come, and yet
I hardly know how to find time to be with her. Good-bye. God bless
you.
'C. BRONTE.
'I am very well, and I continue to get to bed before twelve o'clock
P.M. I don't tell people that I am dissatisfied with my situation.
I can drive on; there is no use in complaining. I have lost my
chance of going to Ireland.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _July_ 1_st_, 1841.
'DEAR NELL,--I was not at home when I got your letter, but I am at
home now, and it feels like paradise. I came last night. When I
asked for a vacation, Mrs. White offered me a week or ten days, but I
demanded three weeks, and stood to my tackle with a tenacity worthy
of yourself, lassie. I gained the point, but I don't like such
victories. I have gained another point. You are unanimously
requested to come here next Tuesday and stay as long as you can.
Aunt is in high good-humour. I need not write a long
letter.--Good-bye, dear Nell.
'C. B.
'_P.S._--I have lost the chance of seeing Anne. She is gone back to
"The land of Egypt and the house of bondage." Also, little black Tom
is dead. Every cup, however sweet, has its drop of bitterness in it.
Probably you will be at a loss to ascertain the identity of black
Tom, but don't fret about it, I'll tell you when you come. Keeper is
as well, big, and grim as ever. I'm too happy to write. Come, come,
lassie.'
It must have been during this holiday that the resolution concerning a
school of their own assumed definite shape. Miss Wooler talked of giving
up Dewsbury Moor--should Charlotte and Emily take it? Charlotte's
recollections of her illness there settled the question in the negative,
and Brussels was coming to the front.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'UPPERWOOD HOUSE, _October_ 17_th_, 1841.
'DEAR NELL,--It is a cruel thing of you to be always upbraiding me
when I am a trifle remiss or so in writing a letter. I see I can't
make you comprehend that I have not quite as much time on my hands as
Miss Harris or Mrs. Mills. I never neglect you on purpose. I could
not _do_ it, you little teazing, faithless wretch.
'The humour I am in is worse than words can describe. I have had a
hideous dinner of some abominable spiced-up indescribable mess and it
has exasperated me against the world at large. So you are coming
home, are you? Then don't expect me to write a long letter. I am
not going to Dewsbury Moor, as far as I can see at present. It was a
decent friendly proposal on Miss Wooler's part, and cancels all or
most of her little foibles, in my estimation; but Dewsbury Moor is a
poisoned place to me; besides, I burn to go somewhere else. I think,
Nell, I see a chance of getting to Brussels. Mary Taylor advises me
to this step. My own mind and feelings urge me. I can't write a
word more.
'C. B.'
TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTE
'UPPERWOOD HOUSE, RAWDON,
'_Nov_. 7_th_, 1841.
'DEAR E. J.,--You are not to suppose that this note is written with a
view of communicating any information on the subject we both have
considerably at heart: I have written letters but I have received no
letters in reply yet. Belgium is a long way off, and people are
everywhere hard to spur up to the proper speed. Mary Taylor says we
can scarcely expect to get off before January. I have wished and
intended to write to both Anne and Branwell, but really I have not
had time.
'Mr. Jenkins I find was mistakenly termed the British Consul at
Brussels; he is in fact the English Episcopal clergyman.
'I think perhaps we shall find that the best plan will be for papa to
write a letter to him by and bye, but not yet. I will give an
intimation when this should be done, and also some idea of what had
best be said. Grieve not over Dewsbury Moor. You were cut out there
to all intents and purposes, so in fact was Anne, Miss Wooler would
hear of neither for the first half year.
'Anne seems omitted in the present plan, but if all goes right I
trust she will derive her full share of benefit from it in the end.
I exhort all to hope. I believe in my heart this is acting for the
best, my only fear is lest others should doubt and be dismayed.
Before our half year in Brussels is completed, you and I will have to
seek employment abroad. It is not my intention to retrace my steps
home till twelve months, if all continues well and we and those at
home retain good health.
'I shall probably take my leave of Upperwood about the 15th or 17th
of December. When does Anne talk of returning? How is she? What
does W. W. {92} say to these matters? How are papa and aunt, do they
flag? How will Anne get on with Martha? Has W. W. been seen or
heard of lately? Love to all. Write quickly.--Good-bye.
'C. BRONTE.
'I am well.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'RAWDON, _December_ 10_th_, 1841.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I hear from Mary Taylor that you are come home, and
also that you have been ill. If you are able to write comfortably,
let me know the feelings that preceded your illness, and also its
effects. I wish to see you. Mary Taylor reports that your looks are
much as usual. I expect to get back to Haworth in the course of a
fortnight or three weeks. I hope I shall then see you. I would
rather you came to Haworth than I went to Brookroyd. My plans
advance slowly and I am not yet certain where I shall go, or what I
shall do when I leave Upperwood House. Brussels is still my promised
land, but there is still the wilderness of time and space to cross
before I reach it. I am not likely, I think, to go to the Chateau de
Kockleberg. I have heard of a less expensive establishment. So far
I had written when I received your letter. I was glad to get it.
Why don't you mention your illness. I had intended to have got this
note off two or three days past, but I am more straitened for time
than ever just now. We have gone to bed at twelve or one o'clock
during the last three nights. I must get this scrawl off to-day or
you will think me negligent. The new governess, that is to be, has
been to see my plans, etc. My dear Ellen, Good-bye.--Believe me, in
heart and soul, your sincere friend,
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_December_ 17_th_, 1841.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I am yet uncertain when I shall leave Upperwood, but
of one thing I am very certain, when I do leave I must go straight
home. It is absolutely necessary that some definite arrangement
should be commenced for our future plans before I go visiting
anywhere. That I wish to see you I know, that I intend and _hope_ to
see you before long I also know, that you will at the first impulse
accuse me of neglect, I fear, that upon consideration you will acquit
me, I devoutly trust. Dear Ellen, come to Haworth if you can, if you
cannot I will endeavour to come for a day at least to Brookroyd, but
do not depend on this--come to Haworth. I thank you for Mr. Jenkins'
address. You always think of other people's convenience, however ill
and affected you are yourself. How very much I wish to see you, you
do not know; but if I were to go to Brookroyd now, it would deeply
disappoint those at home. I have some hopes of seeing Branwell at
Xmas, and when I shall be able to see him afterwards I cannot tell.
He has never been at home for the last five months.--Good-night, dear
Ellen,
'C. B.'
TO MISS MERCY NUSSEY
'RAWDON, _December_ 17_th_.
'MY DEAR MISS MERCY,--Though I am very much engaged I must find time
to thank you for the kind and polite contents of your note. I should
act in the manner most consonant with my own feelings if I at once,
and without qualification, accepted your invitation. I do not
however consider it advisable to indulge myself so far at present.
When I leave Upperwood I must go straight home. Whether I shall
afterwards have time to pay a short visit to Brookroyd I do not yet
know--circumstances must determine that. I would fain see Ellen at
Haworth instead; our visitations are not shared with any show of
justice. It shocked me very much to hear of her illness--may it be
the first and last time she ever experiences such an attack! Ellen,
I fear, has thought I neglected her, in not writing sufficiently long
or frequent letters. It is a painful idea to me that she has had
this feeling--it could not be more groundless. I know her value, and
I would not lose her affection for any probable compensation I can
imagine. Remember me to your mother. I trust she will soon regain
her health.--Believe me, my dear Miss Mercy, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 10_th_, 1842.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--Will you write as soon as you get this and fix your
own day for coming to Haworth? I got home on Christmas Eve. The
parting scene between me and my late employers was such as to efface
the memory of much that annoyed me while I was there, but indeed,
during the whole of the last six months they only made too much of
me. Anne has rendered herself so valuable in her difficult situation
that they have entreated her to return to them, if it be but for a
short time. I almost think she will go back, if we can get a good
servant who will do all our work. We want one about forty or fifty
years old, good-tempered, clean, and honest. You shall hear all
about Brussels, etc., when you come. Mr. Weightman is still here,
just the same as ever. I have a curiosity to see a meeting between
you and him. He will be again desperately in love, I am convinced.
_Come_.
'C. B.' {95}
CHAPTER IV: THE PENSIONNAT HEGER, BRUSSELS
Had not the impulse come to Charlotte Bronte to add somewhat to her
scholastic accomplishments by a sojourn in Brussels, our literature would
have lost that powerful novel _Villette_, and the singularly charming
_Professor_. The impulse came from the persuasion that without
'languages' the school project was an entirely hopeless one. Mary and
Martha Taylor were at Brussels, staying with friends, and thence they had
sent kindly presents to Charlotte, at this time raging under the yoke of
governess at Upperwood House. Charlotte wrote the diplomatic letter to
her aunt which ended so satisfactorily. {96} The good lady--Miss
Branwell was then about sixty years of age--behaved handsomely by her
nieces, and it was agreed that Charlotte and Emily were to go to the
Continent, Anne retaining her post of governess with Mrs. Robinson at
Thorp Green. But Brussels schools did not seem at the first blush to be
very satisfactory. Something better promised at Lille.
Here is a letter written at this period of hesitation and doubt. A
portion of it only was printed by Mrs. Gaskell.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_January_ 20_th_, 1842.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I cannot quite enter into your friends' reasons for not
permitting you to come to Haworth; but as it is at present, and in
all human probability will be for an indefinite time to come,
impossible for me to get to Brookroyd, the balance of accounts is not
so unequal as it might otherwise be. We expect to leave England in
less than three weeks, but we are not yet certain of the day, as it
will depend upon the convenience of a French lady now in London,
Madame Marzials, under whose escort we are to sail. Our place of
destination is changed. Papa received an unfavourable account from
Mr. or rather Mrs. Jenkins of the French schools in Brussels, and on
further inquiry, an Institution in Lille, in the North of France, was
recommended by Baptist Noel and other clergymen, and to that place it
is decided that we are to go. The terms are fifty pounds for each
pupil for board and French alone.
'I considered it kind in aunt to consent to an extra sum for a
separate room. We shall find it a great privilege in many ways. I
regret the change from Brussels to Lille on many accounts, chiefly
that I shall not see Martha Taylor. Mary has been indefatigably kind
in providing me with information. She has grudged no labour, and
scarcely any expense, to that end. Mary's price is above rubies. I
have, in fact, two friends--you and her--staunch and true, in whose
faith and sincerity I have as strong a belief as I have in the Bible.
I have bothered you both, you especially; but you always get the
tongs and heap coals of fire upon my head. I have had letters to
write lately to Brussels, to Lille, and to London. I have lots of
chemises, night-gowns, pocket-handkerchiefs, and pockets to make,
besides clothes to repair. I have been, every week since I came
home, expecting to see Branwell, and he has never been able to get
over yet. We fully expect him, however, next Saturday. Under these
circumstances how can I go visiting? You tantalise me to death with
talking of conversations by the fireside. Depend upon it, we are not
to have any such for many a long month to come. I get an interesting
impression of old age upon my face, and when you see me next I shall
certainly wear caps and spectacles.--Yours affectionately,
'C. B.'
This Mr. Jenkins was chaplain to the British Embassy at Brussels, and not
Consul, as Charlotte at first supposed. The brother of his wife was a
clergyman living in the neighbourhood of Haworth. Mr. Jenkins, whose
English Episcopal chapel Charlotte attended during her stay in Brussels,
finally recommended the Pensionnat Heger in the Rue d'Isabelle. Madame
Heger wrote, accepting the two girls as pupils, and to Brussels their
father escorted them in February 1842, staying one night at the house of
Mr. Jenkins and then returning to Haworth.
The life of Charlotte Bronte at Brussels has been mirrored for us with
absolute accuracy in _Villette_ and _The Professor_. That, indeed, from
the point of view of local colour, is made sufficiently plain to the
casual visitor of to-day who calls in the Rue d'Isabelle. The house, it
is true, is dismantled with a view to its incorporation into some city
buildings in the background, but one may still eat pears from the 'old
and huge fruit-trees' which flourished when Charlotte and Emily walked
under them half a century ago; one may still wander through the
school-rooms, the long dormitories, and into the 'vine-draped
_berceau_'--little enough is changed within and without. Here is the
dormitory with its twenty beds, the two end ones being occupied by Emily
and Charlotte, they alone securing the privilege of age or English
eccentricity to curtain off their beds from the gaze of the eighteen
girls who shared the room with them. The crucifix, indeed, has been
removed from the niche in the _Oratoire_ where the children offered up
prayer every morning; but with a copy of _Villette_ in hand it is
possible to restore every feature of the place, not excluding the
adjoining Athenee with its small window overlooking the garden of the
Pensionnat and the _allee defendu_. It was from this window that Mr.
Crimsworth of _The Professor_ looked down upon the girls at play. It was
here, indeed, at the Royal Athenee, that M. Heger was Professor of Latin.
Externally, then, the Pensionnat Heger remains practically the same as it
appeared to Charlotte and Emily Bronte in February 1842, when they made
their first appearance in Brussels. The Rue Fossette of _Villette_, the
Rue d'Isabelle of _The Professor_, is the veritable Rue d'Isabelle of
Currer Bell's experience.
What, however, shall we say of the people who wandered through these
rooms and gardens--the hundred or more children, the three or four
governesses, the professor and his wife? Here there has been much
speculation and not a little misreading of the actual facts. Charlotte
and Emily went to Brussels to learn. They did learn with energy. It was
their first experience of foreign travel, and it came too late in life
for them to enter into it with that breadth of mind and tolerance of the
customs of other lands, lacking which the Englishman abroad is always an
offence. Charlotte and Emily hated the land and people. They had been
brought up ultra-Protestants. Their father was an Ulster man, and his
one venture into the polemics of his age was to attack the proposals for
Catholic emancipation. With this inheritance of intolerance, how could
Charlotte and Emily face with kindliness the Romanism which they saw
around them? How heartily they disapproved of it many a picture in
_Villette_ has made plain to us.
Charlotte had been in Brussels three months when she made the friendship
to which I am indebted for anything that there may be to add to this
episode in her life. Miss Laetitia Wheelwright was one of five sisters,
the daughters of a doctor in Lower Phillimore Place, Kensington. Dr.
Wheelwright went to Brussels for his health and for his children's
education. The girls were day boarders at the Pensionnat, but they lived
in the house for a full month or more at a time when their father and
mother were on a trip up the Rhine. Otherwise their abode was a flat in
the Hotel Clusyenaar in the Rue Royale, and there during her later stay
in Brussels Charlotte frequently paid them visits. In this earlier
period Charlotte and Emily were too busy with their books to think of
'calls' and the like frivolities, and it must be confessed also that at
this stage Laetitia Wheelwright would have thought it too high a price
for a visit from Charlotte to receive as a fellow-guest the apparently
unamiable Emily. Miss Wheelwright, who was herself fourteen years of age
when she entered the Pensionnat Heger, recalls the two sisters, thin and
sallow-looking, pacing up and down the garden, friendless and alone. It
was the sight of Laetitia standing up in the class-room and glancing
round with a semi-contemptuous air at all these Belgian girls which
attracted Charlotte Bronte to her. 'It was so very English,' Miss Bronte
laughingly remarked at a later period to her friend. There was one other
English girl at this time of sufficient age to be companionable; but with
Miss Maria Miller, whom Charlotte Bronte has depicted under the guise of
Ginevra Fanshawe, she had less in common. In later years Miss Miller
became Mrs. Robertson, the wife of an author in one form or another.
To Miss Wheelwright, and those of her sisters who are still living, the
descriptions of the Pensionnat Heger which are given in _Villette_ and
_The Professor_ are perfectly accurate. M. Heger, with his heavy black
moustache and his black hair, entering the class-room of an evening to
read to his pupils was a sufficiently familiar object, and his keen
intelligence amounting almost to genius had affected the Wheelwright
girls as forcibly as it had done the Brontes. Mme. Heger, again, for
ever peeping from behind doors and through the plate-glass partitions
which separate the passages from the school-rooms, was a constant source
of irritation to all the English pupils. This prying and spying is, it
is possible, more of a fine art with the school-mistresses of the
Continent than with those of our own land. In any case, Mme. Heger was
an accomplished spy, and in the midst of the most innocent work or
recreation the pupils would suddenly see a pair of eyes pierce the dusk
and disappear. This, and a hundred similar trifles, went to build up an
antipathy on both sides, which had, however, scarcely begun when
Charlotte and Emily were suddenly called home by their aunt's death in
October. A letter to Miss Nussey on her return sufficiently explains the
situation.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _November_ 10_th_, 1842.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I was not yet returned to England when your letter
arrived. We received the first news of aunt's illness, Wednesday,
Nov. 2nd. We decided to come home directly. Next morning a second
letter informed us of her death. We sailed from Antwerp on Sunday;
we travelled day and night and got home on Tuesday morning--and of
course the funeral and all was over. We shall see her no more. Papa
is pretty well. We found Anne at home; she is pretty well also. You
say you have had no letter from me for a long time. I wrote to you
three weeks ago. When you answer this note, I will write to you more
in detail. Aunt, Martha Taylor, and Mr. Weightman are now all gone;
how dreary and void everything seems. Mr. Weightman's illness was
exactly what Martha's was--he was ill the same length of time and
died in the same manner. Aunt's disease was internal obstruction;
she also was ill a fortnight.
'Good-bye, my dear Ellen.
'C. BRONTE.'
The aunt whose sudden death brought Charlotte and Emily Bronte thus
hastily from Brussels to Haworth must have been a very sensible woman in
the main. She left her money to those of her nieces who most needed it.
A perusal of her will is not without interest, and indeed it will be seen
that it clears up one or two errors into which Mrs. Gaskell and
subsequent biographers have rashly fallen through failing to expend the
necessary half-guinea upon a copy. This is it:--
Extracted from the District Probate Registry at York attached to Her
Majesty's High Court of Justice.
_Depending on the Father_, _Son_, _and Holy Ghost for peace here_,
_and glory and bliss forever hereafter_, _I leave this my last Will
and Testament_: _Should I die at Haworth_, _I request that my remains
may be deposited in the church in that place as near as convenient to
the remains of my dear sister_; _I moreover will that all my just
debts and funeral expenses be paid out of my property_, _and that my
funeral shall be conducted in a moderate and decent manner_. _My
Indian workbox I leave to my niece_, _Charlotte Bronte_; _my workbox
with a china top I leave to my niece_, _Emily Jane Bronte_, _together
with my ivory fan_; _my Japan dressing-box I leave to my nephew_,
_Patrick Branwell Bronte_; _to my niece Anne Bronte_, _I leave my
watch with all that belongs to it_; _as also my eye-glass and its
chain_, _my rings_, _silver-spoons_, _books_, _clothes_, _etc._,
_etc._, _I leave to be divided between my above-named three nieces_,
_Charlotte Bronte_, _Emily Jane Bronte_, _and Anne Bronte_,
_according as their father shall think proper_. _And I will that all
the money that shall remain_, _including twenty-five pounds
sterling_, _being the part of the proceeds of the sale of my goods
which belong to me in consequence of my having advanced to my sister
Kingston the sum of twenty-five pounds in lieu of her share of the
proceeds of my goods aforesaid_, _and deposited in the bank of
Bolitho Sons and Co._, _Esqrs._, _of Chiandower_, _near Penzance_,
_after the aforesaid sums and articles shall have been paid and
deducted_, _shall be put into some safe bank or lent on good landed
security_, _and there left to accumulate for the sole benefit of my
four nieces_, _Charlotte Bronte_, _Emily Jane Bronte_, _Anne Bronte_,
_and Elizabeth Jane Kingston_; _and this sum or sums_, _and whatever
other property I may have_, _shall be equally divided between them
when the youngest of them then living shall have arrived at the age
of twenty-one years_. _And should any one or more of these my four
nieces die_, _her or their part or parts shall be equally divided
amongst the survivors_; _and if but one is left_, _all shall go to
that one_: _And should they all die before the age of twenty-one
years_, _all their parts shall be given to my sister_, _Anne
Kingston_; _and should she die before that time specified_, _I will
that all that was to have been hers shall be equally divided between
all the surviving children of my dear brother and sisters_. _I
appoint my brother-in-law_, _the Rev. P. Bronte_, A.B., _now
Incumbent of Haworth_, _Yorkshire_; _the Rev. John Fennell_, _now
Incumbent of Cross Stone_, _near Halifax_; _the Rev. Theodore Dury_,
_Rector of Keighley_, _Yorkshire_; _and Mr. George Taylor of
Stanbury_, _in the chapelry of Haworth aforesaid_, _my executors_.
_Written by me_, ELIZABETH BRANWELL, _and signed_, _sealed_, _and
delivered on the_ 30_th_ _of April_, _in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and thirty-three_, ELIZABETH BRANWELL.
_Witnesses present_, _William Brown_, _John Tootill_, _William
Brown_, _Junr_.
_The twenty-eighth day of December_, 1842, _the Will of_ ELIZABETH
BRANWELL, _late of Haworth_, _in the parish of Bradford_, _in the
county of York_, _spinster (having bona notabilia within the province
of York_). _Deceased was proved in the prerogative court of York by
the oaths of the Reverend Patrick Bronte_, _clerk_, _brother-in-law_;
_and George Taylor_, _two of the executors to whom administration was
granted_ (_the Reverend Theodore Dury_, _another of the executors_,
_having renounced_), _they having been first sworn duly to
administer_.
Effects sworn under 1500 pounds.
Testatrix died 29th October 1842.
Now hear Mrs. Gaskell:--
_The small property_, _which she had accumulated by dint of personal
frugality and self-denial_, _was bequeathed to her nieces_.
_Branwell_, _her darling_, _was to have had his share_, _but his
reckless expenditure had distressed the good old lady_, _and his name
was omitted in her will_.
A perusal of the will in question indicates that it was made in 1833,
before Branwell had paid his first visit to London, and when, as all his
family supposed, he was on the high road to fame and fortune as an
artist. The old lady doubtless thought that the boy would be able to
take good care of himself. She had, indeed, other nieces down in
Cornwall, but with the general sympathy of her friends and relatives in
Penzance, Elizabeth Jane Kingston, who it was thought would want it most,
was to have a share. Had the Kingston girl, her mother, and the Bronte
girls all died before him, the boy Branwell, it will be seen, would have
shared the property with his Branwell cousins in Penzance, of whom two
are still alive. In any case, Branwell's name was mentioned, and he
received 'my Japan dressing-box,' whatever that may have been worth.
Three or four letters, above and beyond these already published, were
written by Charlotte to her friend in the interval between Miss
Branwell's death and her return to Brussels; and she paid a visit to Miss
Nussey at Brookroyd, and it was returned.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _November_ 20_th_, 1842.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I hope your brother is sufficiently recovered now to
dispense with your constant attendance. Papa desires his compliments
to you, and says he should be very glad if you could give us your
company at Haworth a little while. Can you come on Friday next? I
mention so early a day because Anne leaves us to return to York on
Monday, and she wishes very much to see you before her departure. I
think your brother is too good-natured to object to your coming.
There is little enough pleasure in this world, and it would be truly
unkind to deny to you and me that of meeting again after so long a
separation. Do not fear to find us melancholy or depressed. We are
all much as usual. You will see no difference from our former
demeanour. Send an immediate answer.
'My love and best wishes to your sister and mother.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _November_ 25_th_, 1842.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I hope that invitation of yours was given in real
earnest, for I intend to accept it. I wish to see you, and as in a
few weeks I shall probably again leave England, I will not be too
delicate and ceremonious and so let the present opportunity pass.
Something says to me that it will not be too convenient to have a
guest at Brookroyd while there is an invalid there--however, I listen
to no such suggestions. Anne leaves Haworth on Tuesday at 6 o'clock
in the morning, and we should reach Bradford at half-past eight.
There are many reasons why I should have preferred your coming to
Haworth, but as it appears there are always obstacles which prevent
that, I'll break through ceremony, or pride, or whatever it is, and,
like Mahomet, go to the mountain which won't or can't come to me.
The coach stops at the Bowling Green Inn, in Bradford. Give my love
to your sister and mother.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 10_th_, 1843.
'DEAR NELL,--It is a singular state of things to be obliged to write
and have nothing worth reading to say. I am glad you got home safe.
You are an excellent good girl for writing to me two letters,
especially as they were such long ones. Branwell wants to know why
you carefully exclude all mention of him when you particularly send
your regards to every other member of the family. He desires to know
whether and in what he has offended you, or whether it is considered
improper for a young lady to mention the gentlemen of a house. We
have been one walk on the moors since you left. We have been to
Keighley, where we met a person of our acquaintance, who uttered an
interjection of astonishment on meeting us, and when he could get his
breath, informed us that he had heard I was dead and buried.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 15_th_, 1843.
'DEAR NELL,--I am much obliged to you for transferring the roll of
muslin. Last Saturday I found the other gift, for which you deserve
smothering. I will deliver Branwell your message. You have left
your Bible--how can I send it? I cannot tell precisely what day I
leave home, but it will be the last week in this month. Are you
going with me? I admire exceedingly the costume you have chosen to
appear in at the Birstall rout. I think you say pink petticoat,
black jacket, and a wreath of roses--beautiful! For a change I would
advise a black coat, velvet stock and waistcoat, white pantaloons,
and smart boots. Address Rue d'Isabelle. Write to me again, that's
a good girl, very soon. Respectful remembrances to your mother and
sister.
'C. BRONTE.'
Then she is in Brussels again, as the following letter indicates.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'BRUSSELS, _January_ 30_th_, 1843.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I left Leeds for London last Friday at nine o'clock;
owing to delay we did not reach London till ten at night--two hours
after time. I took a cab the moment I arrived at Euston Square, and
went forthwith to London Bridge Wharf. The packet lay off that
wharf, and I went on board the same night. Next morning we sailed.
We had a prosperous and speedy voyage, and landed at Ostend at seven
o'clock next morning. I took the train at twelve and reached Rue
d'Isabelle at seven in the evening. Madame Heger received me with
great kindness. I am still tired with the continued excitement of
three days' travelling. I had no accident, but of course some
anxiety. Miss Dixon called this afternoon. {107} Mary Taylor had
told her I should be in Brussels the last week in January. I am
going there on Sunday, D.V. Address--Miss Bronte, Chez Mme. Heger,
32 Rue d'Isabelle, Bruxelles.--Good-bye, dear.
'C. B.'
This second visit of Charlotte Bronte to Brussels has given rise to much
speculation, some of it of not the pleasantest kind. It is well to face
the point bluntly, for it has been more than once implied that Charlotte
Bronte was in love with M. Heger, as her prototype Lucy Snowe was in love
with Paul Emanuel. The assumption, which is absolutely groundless, has
had certain plausible points in its favour, not the least obvious, of
course, being the inclination to read autobiography into every line of
Charlotte Bronte's writings. Then there is a passage in a printed letter
to Miss Nussey which has been quoted as if to bear out this suggestion:
'I returned to Brussels after aunt's death,' she writes, 'against my
conscience, prompted by what then seemed an irresistible impulse. I was
punished for my selfish folly by a total withdrawal for more than two
years of happiness and peace of mind.'
It is perfectly excusable for a man of the world, unacquainted with
qualifying facts, to assume that for these two years Charlotte Bronte's
heart was consumed with an unquenchable love for her professor--held in
restraint, no doubt, as the most censorious admit, but sufficiently
marked to secure the jealousy and ill-will of Madame Heger. Madame Heger
and her family, it must be admitted, have kept this impression afloat.
Madame Heger refused to see Mrs. Gaskell when she called upon her in the
Rue d'Isabelle; and her daughters will tell you that their father broke
off his correspondence with Miss Bronte because his favourite English
pupil showed an undue extravagance of devotion. 'Her attachment after
her return to Yorkshire,' to quote a recent essay on the subject, 'was
expressed in her frequent letters in a tone that her Brussels friends
considered it not only prudent but kind to check. She was warned by them
that the exaltation these letters betrayed needed to be toned down and
replaced by what was reasonable. She was further advised to write only
once in six months, and then to limit the subject of her letters to her
own health and that of her family, and to a plain account of her
circumstances and occupations.' {109a} Now to all this I do not hesitate
to give an emphatic contradiction, a contradiction based upon the only
independent authority available. Miss Laetitia Wheelwright and her
sisters saw much of Charlotte Bronte during this second sojourn in
Brussels, and they have a quite different tale to tell. That misgiving
of Charlotte, by the way, which weighed so heavily upon her mind
afterwards, was due to the fact that she had left her father practically
unprotected from the enticing company of a too festive curate. He gave
himself up at this time to a very copious whisky drinking, from which
Charlotte's home-coming speedily rescued him. {109b}
Madame Heger did indeed hate Charlotte Bronte in her later years. This
is not unnatural when we remember how that unfortunate woman has been
gibbeted for all time in the characters of Mlle. Zoraide Reuter and
Madame Beck. But in justice to the creator of these scathing portraits,
it may be mentioned that Charlotte Bronte took every precaution to
prevent _Villette_ from obtaining currency in the city which inspired it.
She told Miss Wheelwright, with whom naturally, on her visits to London,
she often discussed the Brussels life, that she had received a promise
that there should be no translation, and that the book would never appear
in the French language. One cannot therefore fix upon Charlotte Bronte
any responsibility for the circumstance that immediately after her death
the novel appeared in the only tongue understood by Madame Heger.
Miss Wheelwright informs me that Charlotte Bronte did certainly admire M.
Heger, as did all his pupils, very heartily. Charlotte's first
impression, indeed, was not flattering: 'He is professor of rhetoric, a
man of power as to mind, but very choleric and irritable in temperament;
a little black being, with a face that varies in expression. Sometimes
he borrows the lineaments of an insane tom-cat, sometimes those of a
delirious hyena; occasionally, but very seldom, he discards these
perilous attractions and assumes an air not above 100 degrees removed
from mild and gentleman-like.' But he was particularly attentive to
Charlotte; and as he was the first really intelligent man she had met,
the first man, that is to say, with intellectual interests--for we know
how much she despised the curates of her neighbourhood--she rejoiced at
every opportunity of doing verbal battle with him, for Charlotte
inherited, it may be said, the Irish love of debate. Some time after
Charlotte had returned to England, and when in the height of her fame,
she met her Brussels school-fellow in London. Miss Wheelwright asked her
whether she still corresponded with M. Heger. Charlotte replied that she
had discontinued to do so. M. Heger had mentioned in one letter that his
wife did not like the correspondence, and he asked her therefore to
address her letters to the Royal Athenee, where, as I have mentioned, he
gave lessons to the boys. 'I stopped writing at once,' Charlotte told
her friend. 'I would not have dreamt of writing to him when I found it
was disagreeable to his wife; certainly I would not write unknown to
her.' 'She said this,' Miss Wheelwright adds, 'with the sincerity of
manner which characterised her every utterance, and I would sooner have
doubted myself than her.' Let, then, this silly and offensive imputation
be now and for ever dismissed from the minds of Charlotte Bronte's
admirers, if indeed it had ever lodged there. {110}
Charlotte had not visited the Wheelwrights in the Rue Royale during her
first visit to Brussels. She had found the companionship of Emily
all-sufficing, and Emily was not sufficiently popular with the
Wheelwrights to have made her a welcome guest. They admitted her
cleverness, but they considered her hard, unsympathetic, and abrupt in
manner. We know that she was self-contained and homesick, pining for her
native moors. This was not evident to a girl of ten, the youngest of the
Wheelwright children, who was compelled to receive daily a music lesson
from Emily in her play-hours. When, however, Charlotte came back to
Brussels alone she was heartily welcomed into two or three English
families, including those of Mr. Dixon, of the Rev. Mr. Jenkins, and of
Dr. Wheelwright. With the Wheelwright children she sometimes spent the
Sunday, and with them she occasionally visited the English Episcopal
church which the Wheelwrights attended, and of which the clergyman was a
Mr. Drury. When Dr. Wheelwright took his wife for a Rhine trip in May he
left his four children--one little girl had died at Brussels, aged seven,
in the preceding November--in the care of Madame Heger at the Pensionnat,
and under the immediate supervision of Charlotte.
At this period there was plenty of cheerfulness in her life. She was
learning German. She was giving English lessons to M. Heger and to his
brother-in-law, M. Chappelle. She went to the Carnival, and described it
'animating to see the immense crowds and the general gaiety.' 'Whenever
I turn back,' she writes, 'to compare what I am with what I was, my place
here with my place at Mrs. Sidgwick's or Mrs. White's, I am thankful.'
In a letter to her brother, however, we find the darker side of the
picture. It reveals many things apart from what is actually written
down. In this, the only letter to Branwell that I have been able to
discover, apart from one written in childhood, it appears that the
brother and sister are upon very confidential terms. Up to this time, at
any rate, Branwell's conduct had not excited any apprehension as to his
future, and the absence of any substantial place in his aunt's will was
clearly not due to misconduct. Branwell was now under the same roof as
his sister Anne, having obtained an appointment as tutor to young Edmund
Robinson at Thorp Green, near York, where Anne was governess. The letter
is unsigned, concluding playfully with 'yourn; and the initials follow a
closing message to Anne on the same sheet of paper.
TO BRANWELL BRONTE
'BRUSSELS, _May_ 1_st_, 1843.
'DEAR BRANWELL,--I hear you have written a letter to me. This
letter, however, as usual, I have never received, which I am
exceedingly sorry for, as I have wished very much to hear from you.
Are you sure that you put the right address and that you paid the
English postage, 1s. 6d.? Without that, letters are never forwarded.
I heard from papa a day or two since. All appears to be going on
reasonably well at home. I grieve only that Emily is so solitary;
but, however, you and Anne will soon be returning for the holidays,
which will cheer the house for a time. Are you in better health and
spirits, and does Anne continue to be pretty well? I understand papa
has been to see you. Did he seem cheerful and well? Mind when you
write to me you answer these questions, as I wish to know. Also give
me a detailed account as to how you get on with your pupil and the
rest of the family. I have received a general assurance that you do
well and are in good odour, but I want to know particulars.
'As for me, I am very well and wag on as usual. I perceive, however,
that I grow exceedingly misanthropic and sour. You will say that
this is no news, and that you never knew me possessed of the contrary
qualities--philanthropy and sugariness. _Das ist wahr_ (which being
translated means, that is true); but the fact is, the people here are
no go whatsoever. Amongst 120 persons which compose the daily
population of this house, I can discern only one or two who deserve
anything like regard. This is not owing to foolish fastidiousness on
my part, but to the absence of decent qualities on theirs. They have
not intellect or politeness or good-nature or good-feeling. They are
nothing. I don't hate them--hatred would be too warm a feeling.
They have no sensations themselves and they excite none. But one
wearies from day to day of caring nothing, fearing nothing, liking
nothing, hating nothing, being nothing, doing nothing--yes, I teach
and sometimes get red in the face with impatience at their stupidity.
But don't think I ever scold or fly into a passion. If I spoke
warmly, as warmly as I sometimes used to do at Roe-Head, they would
think me mad. Nobody ever gets into a passion here. Such a thing is
not known. The phlegm that thickens their blood is too gluey to
boil. They are very false in their relations with each other, but
they rarely quarrel, and friendship is a folly they are unacquainted
with. The black Swan, M. Heger, is the only sole veritable exception
to this rule (for Madame, always cool and always reasoning, is not
quite an exception). But I rarely speak to Monsieur now, for not
being a pupil I have little or nothing to do with him. From time to
time he shows his kind-heartedness by loading me with books, so that
I am still indebted to him for all the pleasure or amusement I have.
Except for the total want of companionship I have nothing to complain
of. I have not too much to do, sufficient liberty, and I am rarely
interfered with. I lead an easeful, stagnant, silent life, for
which, when I think of Mrs. Sidgwick, I ought to be very thankful.
Be sure you write to me soon, and beg of Anne to inclose a small
billet in the same letter; it will be a real charity to do me this
kindness. Tell me everything you can think of.
'It is a curious metaphysical fact that always in the evening when I
am in the great dormitory alone, having no other company than a
number of beds with white curtains, I always recur as fanatically as
ever to the old ideas, the old faces, and the old scenes in the world
below.
'Give my love to Anne.--And believe me, yourn
'DEAR ANNE,--Write to me.--Your affectionate Schwester,
'C. B.
'Mr. Heger has just been in and given me a little German Testament as
a present. I was surprised, for since a good many days he has hardly
spoken to me.'
A little later she writes to Emily in similar strain.
TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTE
'BRUSSELS, _May_ 29_th_, 1843.
'DEAR E. J.,--The reason of the unconscionable demand for money is
explained in my letter to papa. Would you believe it, Mdlle. Muhl
demands as much for one pupil as for two, namely, 10 francs per
month. This, with the 5 francs per month to the Blanchisseuse, makes
havoc in 16 pounds per annum. You will perceive I have begun again
to take German lessons. Things wag on much as usual here. Only
Mdlle. Blanche and Mdlle. Hausse are at present on a system of war
without quarter. They hate each other like two cats. Mdlle. Blanche
frightens Mdlle. Hausse by her white passions (for they quarrel
venomously). Mdlle. Hausse complains that when Mdlle. Blanche is in
fury, "_elle n'a pas de levres_." I find also that Mdlle. Sophie
dislikes Mdlle. Blanche extremely. She says she is heartless,
insincere, and vindictive, which epithets, I assure you, are richly
deserved. Also I find she is the regular spy of Mme. Heger, to whom
she reports everything. Also she invents--which I should not have
thought. I have now the entire charge of the English lessons. I
have given two lessons to the first class. Hortense Jannoy was a
picture on these occasions, her face was black as a "blue-piled
thunder-loft," and her two ears were red as raw beef. To all
questions asked her reply was, "_je ne sais pas_." It is a pity but
her friends could meet with a person qualified to cast out a devil.
I am richly off for companionship in these parts. Of late days, M.
and Mde. Heger rarely speak to me, and I really don't pretend to care
a fig for any body else in the establishment. You are not to suppose
by that expression that I am under the influence of _warm_ affection
for Mde. Heger. I am convinced she does not like me--why, I can't
tell, nor do I think she herself has any definite reason for the
aversion; but for one thing, she cannot comprehend why I do not make
intimate friends of Mesdames Blanche, Sophie, and Hausse. M. Heger
is wonderously influenced by Madame, and I should not wonder if he
disapproves very much of my unamiable want of sociability. He has
already given me a brief lecture on universal _bienveillance_, and,
perceiving that I don't improve in consequence, I fancy he has taken
to considering me as a person to be let alone--left to the error of
her ways; and consequently he has in a great measure withdrawn the
light of his countenance, and I get on from day to day in a
Robinson-Crusoe-like condition--very lonely. That does not signify.
In other respects I have nothing substantial to complain of, nor is
even this a cause for complaint. Except the loss of M. Heger's
goodwill (if I have lost it) I care for none of 'em. I hope you are
well and hearty. Walk out often on the moors. Sorry am I to hear
that Hannah is gone, and that she has left you burdened with the
charge of the little girl, her sister. I hope Tabby will continue to
stay with you--give my love to her. Regards to the fighting gentry,
and to old asthma.--Your
'C. B.
'I have written to Branwell, though I never got a letter from him.'
In August she is still more dissatisfied, but 'I will continue to stay
some months longer, till I have acquired German, and then I hope to see
all your faces again.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'BRUSSELS, _August_ 6_th_, 1843.
'DEAR ELLEN,--You never answered my last letter; but, however,
forgiveness is a part of the Christian Creed, and so having an
opportunity to send a letter to England, I forgive you and write to
you again. Last Sunday afternoon, being at the Chapel Royal, in
Brussels, I was surprised to hear a voice proceed from the pulpit
which instantly brought all Birstall and Batley before my mind's eye.
I could see nothing, but certainly thought that that unclerical
little Welsh pony, Jenkins, was there. I buoyed up my mind with the
expectation of receiving a letter from you, but as, however, I have
got none, I suppose I must have been mistaken.
'C. B.
'Mr. Jenkins has called. He brought no letter from you, but said you
were at Harrogate, and that they could not find the letter you had
intended to send. He informed me of the death of your sister. Poor
Sarah, when I last bid her good-bye I little thought I should never
see her more. Certainly, however, she is happy where she is
gone--far happier than she was here. When the first days of mourning
are past, you will see that you have reason rather to rejoice at her
removal than to grieve for it. Your mother will have felt her death
much--and you also. I fear from the circumstance of your being at
Harrogate that you are yourself ill. Write to me soon.'
It was in September that the incident occurred which has found so
dramatic a setting in _Villette_--the confession to a priest of the Roman
Catholic Church of a daughter of the most militant type of Protestantism;
and not the least valuable of my newly-discovered Bronte treasures is the
letter which Charlotte wrote to Emily giving an unembellished account of
the incident.
TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTE
'BRUSSELS, _September_ 2_nd_, 1843.
'DEAR E. J.,--Another opportunity of writing to you coming to pass, I
shall improve it by scribbling a few lines. More than half the
holidays are now past, and rather better than I expected. The
weather has been exceedingly fine during the last fortnight, and yet
not so Asiatically hot as it was last year at this time.
Consequently I have tramped about a great deal and tried to get a
clearer acquaintance with the streets of Bruxelles. This week, as no
teacher is here except Mdlle. Blanche, who is returned from Paris, I
am always alone except at meal-times, for Mdlle. Blanche's character
is so false and so contemptible I can't force myself to associate
with her. She perceives my utter dislike and never now speaks to
me--a great relief.
'However, I should inevitably fall into the gulf of low spirits if I
stayed always by myself here without a human being to speak to, so I
go out and traverse the Boulevards and streets of Bruxelles sometimes
for hours together. Yesterday I went on a pilgrimage to the
cemetery, and far beyond it on to a hill where there was nothing but
fields as far as the horizon. When I came back it was evening; but I
had such a repugnance to return to the house, which contained nothing
that I cared for, I still kept threading the streets in the
neighbourhood of the Rue d'Isabelle and avoiding it. I found myself
opposite to Ste. Gudule, and the bell, whose voice you know, began to
toll for evening salut. I went in, quite alone (which procedure you
will say is not much like me), wandered about the aisles where a few
old women were saying their prayers, till vespers begun. I stayed
till they were over. Still I could not leave the church or force
myself to go home--to school I mean. An odd whim came into my head.
In a solitary part of the Cathedral six or seven people still
remained kneeling by the confessionals. In two confessionals I saw a
priest. I felt as if I did not care what I did, provided it was not
absolutely wrong, and that it served to vary my life and yield a
moment's interest. I took a fancy to change myself into a Catholic
and go and make a real confession to see what it was like. Knowing
me as you do, you will think this odd, but when people are by
themselves they have singular fancies. A penitent was occupied in
confessing. They do not go into the sort of pew or cloister which
the priest occupies, but kneel down on the steps and confess through
a grating. Both the confessor and the penitent whisper very low, you
can hardly hear their voices. After I had watched two or three
penitents go and return I approached at last and knelt down in a
niche which was just vacated. I had to kneel there ten minutes
waiting, for on the other side was another penitent invisible to me.
At last that went away and a little wooden door inside the grating
opened, and I saw the priest leaning his ear towards me. I was
obliged to begin, and yet I did not know a word of the formula with
which they always commence their confessions. It was a funny
position. I felt precisely as I did when alone on the Thames at
midnight. I commenced with saying I was a foreigner and had been
brought up a Protestant. The priest asked if I was a Protestant
then. I somehow could not tell a lie and said "yes." He replied
that in that case I could not "_jouir du bonheur de la confesse_";
but I was determined to confess, and at last he said he would allow
me because it might be the first step towards returning to the true
church. I actually did confess--a real confession. When I had done
he told me his address, and said that every morning I was to go to
the rue du Parc--to his house--and he would reason with me and try to
convince me of the error and enormity of being a Protestant!!! I
promised faithfully to go. Of course, however, the adventure stops
there, and I hope I shall never see the priest again. I think you
had better not tell papa of this. He will not understand that it was
only a freak, and will perhaps think I am going to turn Catholic.
Trusting that you and papa are well, and also Tabby and the Holyes,
and hoping you will write to me immediately,--I am, yours,
'C. B.'
'The Holyes,' it is perhaps hardly necessary to add, is Charlotte's
irreverent appellation for the curates--Mr. Smith and Mr. Grant.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'BRUSSELS, _October_ 13_th_, 1843.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I was glad to receive your last letter; but when I read
it, its contents gave me some pain. It was melancholy indeed that so
soon after the death of a sister you should be called from a distant
county by the news of the severe illness of a brother, and, after
your return home, your sister Ann should fall ill too. Mary Dixon
informs me your brother is scarcely expected to recover--is this
true? I hope not, for his sake and yours. His loss would indeed be
a blow--a blow which I hope Providence may avert. Do not, my dear
Ellen, fail to write to me soon of affairs at Brookroyd. I cannot
fail to be anxious on the subject, your family being amongst the
oldest and kindest friends I have. I trust this season of affliction
will soon pass. It has been a long one.
'C. B.'
TO MISS EMILY J. BRONTE
'BRUSSELS, _December_ 19_th_, 1843.
'DEAR E. J.,--I have taken my determination. I hope to be at home
the day after New Year's Day. I have told Mme. Heger. But in order
to come home I shall be obliged to draw on my cash for another 5
pounds. I have only 3 pounds at present, and as there are several
little things I should like to buy before I leave Brussels--which you
know cannot be got as well in England--3 pounds would not suffice.
Low spirits have afflicted me much lately, but I hope all will be
well when I get home--above all, if I find papa and you and B. and A.
well. I am not ill in body. It is only the mind which is a trifle
shaken--for want of comfort.
'I shall try to cheer up now.--Good-bye.
'C. B.'
CHAPTER V: PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTE
The younger Patrick Bronte was always known by his mother's family name
of Branwell. The name derived from the patron Saint of Ireland, with
which the enthusiastic Celt, Romanist and Protestant alike, delights to
disfigure his male child, was speedily banished from the Yorkshire
Parsonage. Branwell was a year younger than Charlotte, and it is clear
that she and her brother were 'chums,' in the same way as Emily and Anne
were 'chums,' in the earlier years, before Charlotte made other friends.
Even until two or three years from Branwell's death, we find Charlotte
writing to him with genuine sisterly affection, and, indeed, the only two
family letters addressed to Branwell which are extant are from her. One
of them, written from Brussels, I have printed elsewhere. The other,
written from Roe Head, when Charlotte, aged sixteen, was at school there,
was partly published by Mrs. Gaskell, but may as well be given here,
copied direct from the original.
[Picture: Patrick Branwell Bronte]
TO BRANWELL BRONTE
'ROE HEAD, _May_ 17_th_, 1832.
'DEAR BRANWELL,--As usual I address my weekly letter to you, because
to you I find the most to say. I feel exceedingly anxious to know
how and in what state you arrived at home after your long and (I
should think) very fatiguing journey. I could perceive when you
arrived at Roe Head that you were very much tired, though you refused
to acknowledge it. After you were gone, many questions and subjects
of conversation recurred to me which I had intended to mention to
you, but quite forgot them in the agitation which I felt at the
totally unexpected pleasure of seeing you. Lately I had begun to
think that I had lost all the interest which I used formerly to take
in politics, but the extreme pleasure I felt at the news of the
Reform Bill's being thrown out by the House of Lords, and of the
expulsion or resignation of Earl Grey, etc., etc., convinced me that
I have not as yet lost _all_ my penchant for politics. I am
extremely glad that aunt has consented to take in _Fraser's
Magazine_, for though I know from your description of its general
contents it will be rather uninteresting when compared with
_Blackwood_, still it will be better than remaining the whole year
without being able to obtain a sight of any periodical publication
whatever; and such would assuredly be our case, as in the little
wild, moorland village where we reside, there would be no possibility
of borrowing or obtaining a work of that description from a
circulating library. I hope with you that the present delightful
weather may contribute to the perfect restoration of our dear papa's
health, and that it may give aunt pleasant reminiscences of the
salubrious climate of her native place.
'With love to all,--Believe me, dear Branwell, to remain your
affectionate sister,
CHARLOTTE.'
'As to you I find the most to say' is significant. And to Branwell,
Charlotte refers again and again in most affectionate terms in many a
later letter. It is to her enthusiasm, indeed that we largely owe
the extravagant estimate of Branwell's ability which has found so
abundant expression in books on the Brontes.
Branwell has himself been made the hero of at least three biographies.
{121} Mr. Francis Grundy has no importance for our day other than that
he prints certain letters from Branwell in his autobiography. Miss Mary
F. Robinson, whatever distinction may pertain to her verse, should never
have attempted a biography of Emily Bronte. Her book is mainly of
significance because, appearing in a series of _Eminent Women_, it served
to emphasise the growing opinion that Emily, as well as Charlotte, had a
place among the great writers of her day. Miss Robinson added nothing to
our knowledge of Emily Bronte, and her book devoted inordinate space to
the shortcomings of Branwell, concerning which she had no new
information.
Mr. Leyland's book is professedly a biography of Branwell, and is,
indeed, a valuable storehouse of facts. It might have had more success
had it been written with greater brightness and verve. As it stands, it
is a dull book, readable only by the Bronte enthusiast. Mr. Leyland has
no literary perception, and in his eagerness to show that Branwell was a
genius, prints numerous letters and poems which sufficiently demonstrate
that he was not.
Charlotte never hesitated in the earlier years to praise her brother as
the genius of the family. We all know how eagerly the girls in any home
circle are ready to acknowledge and accept as signs of original power the
most impudent witticisms of a fairly clever brother. The Bronte
household was not exceptionally constituted in this respect. It is
evident that the boy grew up with talent of a kind. He could certainly
draw with more idea of perspective than his sisters, and one or two
portraits by him are not wanting in merit. But there is no evidence of
any special writing faculty, and the words 'genius' and 'brilliant' which
have been freely applied to him are entirely misplaced. Branwell was
thirty-one years of age when he died, and it was only during the last
year or two of his life that opium and alcohol had made him
intellectually hopeless. Yet, unless we accept the preposterous
statement that he wrote _Wuthering Heights_, he would seem to have
composed nothing which gives him the slightest claim to the most
inconsiderable niche in the temple of literature.
Branwell appears to have worked side by side with his sisters in the
early years, and innumerable volumes of the 'little writing' bearing his
signature have come into my hands. Verdopolis, the imaginary city of his
sisters' early stories, plays a considerable part in Branwell's. _Real
Life in Verdopolis_ bears date 1833. _The Battle of Washington_ is
evidently a still more childish effusion. _Caractacus_ is dated 1830,
and the poems and tiny romances continue steadily on through the years
until they finally stop short in 1837--when Branwell is twenty years
old--with a story entitled _Percy_. By the light of subsequent events it
is interesting to note that a manuscript of 1830 bears the title of _The
Liar Detected_.
It would be unfair to take these crude productions of Branwell Bronte's
boyhood as implying that he had no possibilities in him of anything
better, but judging from the fact that his letters, as a man of eight and
twenty, are as undistinguished as his sister's are noteworthy at a like
age, we might well dismiss Branwell Bronte once and for all, were not
some epitome of his life indispensable in an account of the Bronte
circle.
Branwell was born at Thornton in 1817. When the family removed to
Haworth he studied at the Grammar School, although, doubtless, he owed
most of his earlier tuition to his father. When school days were over it
was decided that he should be an artist. To a certain William Robinson,
of Leeds, he was indebted for his first lessons. Mrs. Gaskell describes
a life-size drawing of Charlotte, Emily, and Anne which Branwell painted
about this period. The huge canvas stood for many years at the top of
the staircase at the parsonage. {123} In 1835 Branwell went up to London
with a view to becoming a pupil at the Royal Academy Art Schools. The
reason for his almost immediate reappearance at Haworth has never been
explained. Probably he wasted his money and his father refused supplies.
He had certainly been sufficiently in earnest at the start, judging from
this letter, of which I find a draft among his papers.
TO THE SECRETARY, ROYAL ACADEMY OF ARTS
'SIR,--Having an earnest desire to enter as probationary student in
the Royal Academy, but not being possessed of information as to the
means of obtaining my desire, I presume to request from you, as
Secretary to the Institution, an answer to the questions--
'Where am I to present my drawings?
'At what time?
and especially,
'Can I do it in August or September?
--Your obedient servant,
BRANWELL BRONTE.'
In 1836 we find him as 'brother' of the 'Lodge of the Three Graces' at
Haworth. In the following year he is practising as an artist in
Bradford, and painting a number of portraits of the townsfolk. At this
same period he wrote to Wordsworth, sending verses, which he was at the
time producing with due regularity. In January 1840 Branwell became
tutor in the family of Mr. Postlethwaite at Broughton-in-Furness. It was
from that place that he wrote the incoherent and silly letter which has
been more than once printed, and which merely serves to show that then,
as always, he had an ill-regulated mind. It was from
Broughton-in-Furness also that he addresses Hartley Coleridge, and the
letters are worth printing if only on account of the similar destiny of
the two men.
TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE
'BROUGHTON-IN-FURNESS,
'LANCASHIRE, _April_ 20_th_, 1840.
'SIR,--It is with much reluctance that I venture to request, for the
perusal of the following lines, a portion of the time of one upon
whom I can have no claim, and should not dare to intrude, but I do
not, personally, know a man on whom to rely for an answer to the
questions I shall put, and I could not resist my longing to ask a man
from whose judgment there would be little hope of appeal.
'Since my childhood I have been wont to devote the hours I could
spare from other and very different employments to efforts at
literary composition, always keeping the results to myself, nor have
they in more than two or three instances been seen by any other. But
I am about to enter active life, and prudence tells me not to waste
the time which must make my independence; yet, sir, I like writing
too well to fling aside the practice of it without an effort to
ascertain whether I could turn it to account, not in _wholly_
maintaining myself, but in aiding my maintenance, for I do not sigh
after fame, and am not ignorant of the folly or the fate of those
who, without ability, would depend for their lives upon their pens;
but I seek to know, and venture, though with shame, to ask from one
whose word I must respect: whether, by periodical or other writing, I
could please myself with writing, and make it subservient to living.
'I would not, with this view, have troubled you with a composition in
verse, but any piece I have in prose would too greatly trespass upon
your patience, which, I fear, if you look over the verse, will be
more than sufficiently tried.
'I feel the egotism of my language, but I have none, sir, in my
heart, for I feel beyond all encouragement from myself, and I hope
for none from you.
'Should you give any opinion upon what I send, it will, however
condemnatory, be most gratefully received by,--Sir, your most humble
servant,
'P. B. BRONTE.
'_P.S._--The first piece is only the sequel of one striving to depict
the fall from unguided passion into neglect, despair, and death. It
ought to show an hour too near those of pleasure for repentance, and
too near death for hope. The translations are two out of many made
from Horace, and given to assist an answer to the question--would it
be possible to obtain remuneration for translations for such as those
from that or any other classic author?'
Branwell would appear to have gone over to Ambleside to see Hartley
Coleridge, if we may judge by that next letter, written from Haworth upon
his return.
TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE
'HAWORTH, _June_ 27_th_, 1840.
'SIR,--You will, perhaps, have forgotten me, but it will be long
before I forget my first conversation with a man of real intellect,
in my first visit to the classic lakes of Westmoreland.
'During the delightful day which I had the honour of spending with
you at Ambleside, I received permission to transmit to you, as soon
as finished, the first book of a translation of Horace, in order
that, after a glance over it, you might tell me whether it was worth
further notice or better fit for the fire.
'I have--I fear most negligently, and amid other very different
employments--striven to translate two books, the first of which I
have presumed to send to you. And will you, sir, stretch your past
kindness by telling me whether I should amend and pursue the work or
let it rest in peace?
'Great corrections I feel it wants, but till I feel that the work
might benefit me, I have no heart to make them; yet if your judgment
prove in any way favourable, I will re-write the whole, without
sparing labour to reach perfection.
'I dared not have attempted Horace but that I saw the utter
worthlessness of all former translations, and thought that a better
one, by whomsoever executed, might meet with some little
encouragement. I long to clear up my doubts by the judgment of one
whose opinion I should revere, and--but I suppose I am dreaming--one
to whom I should be proud indeed to inscribe anything of mine which
any publisher would look at, unless, as is likely enough, the work
would disgrace the name as much as the name would honour the work.
'Amount of remuneration I should not look to--as anything would be
everything--and whatever it might be, let me say that my bones would
have no rest unless by written agreement a division should be made of
the profits (little or much) between myself and him through whom
alone I could hope to obtain a hearing with that formidable
personage, a London bookseller.
'Excuse my unintelligibility, haste, and appearance of presumption,
and--Believe me to be, sir, your most humble and grateful servant,
'P. B. BRONTE.
'If anything in this note should displease you, lay it, sir, to the
account of inexperience and _not_ impudence.'
In October 1840, we find Branwell clerk-in-charge at the Station of
Sowerby Bridge on the Leeds and Manchester Railway, and the following
year at Luddenden Foot, where Mr. Grundy, the railway engineer, became
acquainted with him, and commenced the correspondence contained in
_Pictures of the Past_.
I have in my possession a small memorandum book, evidently used by
Branwell when engaged as a railway clerk. There are notes in it upon the
then existing railways, demonstrating that he was trying to prime himself
with the requisite facts and statistics for a career of that kind. But
side by side with these are verses upon 'Lord Nelson,' 'Robert Burns,'
and kindred themes, with such estimable sentiments as this:--
'Then England's love and England's tongue
And England's heart shall reverence long
The wisdom deep, the courage strong,
Of English Johnson's name.'
Altogether a literary atmosphere had been kindled for the boy had he had
the slightest strength of character to go with it. The railway company,
however, were soon tired of his vagaries, and in the beginning of 1842 he
returns to the Haworth parsonage. The following letter to his friend Mr.
Grundy is of biographical interest.
TO FRANCIS H. GRUNDY
'_October_ 25_th_, 1842.
'MY DEAR SIR,--There is no misunderstanding. I have had a long
attendance at the death-bed of the Rev. Mr. Weightman, one of my
dearest friends, and now I am attending at the deathbed of my aunt,
who has been for twenty years as my mother. I expect her to die in a
few hours.
'As my sisters are far from home, I have had much on my mind, and
these things must serve as an apology for what was never intended as
neglect of your friendship to us.
'I had meant not only to have written to you, but to the Rev. James
Martineau, gratefully and sincerely acknowledging the receipt of his
most kindly and truthful criticism--at least in advice, though too
generous far in praise; but one sad ceremony must, I fear, be gone
through first. Give my most sincere respects to Mr. Stephenson, and
excuse this scrawl--my eyes are too dim with sorrow to see
well.--Believe me, your not very happy but obliged friend and
servant,
'P. B. BRONTE.'
A week later he writes to the same friend:--
'I am incoherent, I fear, but I have been waking two nights
witnessing such agonising suffering as I would not wish my worst
enemy to endure; and I have now lost the guide and director of all
the happy days connected with my childhood. I have suffered much
sorrow since I last saw you at Haworth.'
Charlotte and Anne, it will be remembered, were at this time on their way
home from Brussels, and Anne had to seek relief from her governess bonds
at Mrs. Robinson's. Branwell would seem to have returned with Anne to
Thorp Green, as tutor to Mr. Robinson's son. He commenced his duties in
December 1842.
It would not be rash to assume--although it is only an assumption--that
Branwell took to opium soon after he entered upon his duties at Thorp
Green. I have already said something of the trouble which befel Mrs.
Gaskell in accepting the statements of Charlotte Bronte, and--after
Charlotte's death--of her friends, to the effect that Branwell became the
prey of a designing woman, who promised to marry him when her husband--a
venerable clergyman--should be dead. The story has been told too often.
Branwell was dismissed, and returned to the parsonage to rave about his
wrongs. If Mr. Robinson should die, the widow had promised to marry him,
he assured his friends. Mr. Robinson did die (May 26, 1846), and then
Branwell insisted that by his will he had prohibited his wife from
marrying, under penalties of forfeiting the estate. A copy of the
document is in my possession:
_The eleventh day of September_ 1846 _the Will of the Reverend Edmund
Robinson_, _late of Thorp Green_, _in the Parish of Little Ouseburn_,
_in the County of York_, _Clerk_, _deceased_, _was proved in the
Prerogative Court of York by the oaths of Lydia Robinson_, _Widow_,
_his Relict_; _the Venerable Charles Thorp and Henry Newton_, _the
Executors_, _to whom administration was granted_.
Needless to say, the will, a lengthy document, put no restraint whatever
upon the actions of Mrs. Robinson. Upon the publication of Mrs.
Gaskell's Life she was eager to clear her character in the law-courts,
but was dissuaded therefrom by friends, who pointed out that a withdrawal
of the obnoxious paragraphs in succeeding editions of the Memoir, and the
publication of a letter in the _Times_, would sufficiently meet the case.
Here is the letter from the advertisement pages of the Times.
'8 BEDFORD ROW,
'LONDON, _May_ 26_th_, 1857.
'DEAR SIRS,--As solicitor for and on behalf of the Rev. W. Gaskell
and of Mrs. Gaskell, his wife, the latter of whom is authoress of the
_Life of Charlotte Bronte_, I am 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, or of her social duties, and more especially of the
statement contained in chapter 13 of the first volume, and in chapter
2 of the second volume, which imputes to the lady in question a
guilty intercourse with the late Branwell Bronte. All those
statements were made upon information which at the time Mrs. Gaskell
believed to be well founded, but which, upon investigation, with the
additional evidence furnished to me by you, I have ascertained not to
be trustworthy. I am therefore authorised not only to retract the
statements in question, but to express the deep regret of Mrs.
Gaskell that she should have been led to make them.--I am, dear sirs,
yours truly,
'WILLIAM SHAEN.
'Messrs. Newton & Robinson, Solicitors, York.'
A certain 'Note' in the _Athenaeum_ a few days later is not without
interest now.
'We are sorry to be called upon to return to Mrs. Gaskell's _Life of
Charlotte Bronte_, but we must do so, since the book has gone forth
with our recommendation. Praise, it is needless to point out,
implied trust in the biographer as an accurate collector of facts.
This, we regret to state, Mrs. Gaskell proves not to have been. To
the gossip which for weeks past has been seething and circulating in
the London _coteries_, we gave small heed; but the _Times_ advertises
a legal apology, made on behalf of Mrs. Gaskell, withdrawing the
statements put forth in her book respecting the cause of Mr. Branwell
Bronte's wreck and ruin. These Mrs. Gaskell's lawyer is now fain to
confess his client advanced on insufficient testimony. The telling
of an episodical and gratuitous tale so dismal as concerns the dead,
so damaging to the living, could only be excused by the story of sin
being severely, strictly true; and every one will have cause to
regret that due caution was not used to test representations not, it
seems, to be justified. It is in the interest of Letters that
biographers should be deterred from rushing into print with mere
impressions in place of proofs, however eager and sincere those
impressions may be. They _may be_ slanders, and as such they may
sting cruelly. Meanwhile the _Life of Charlotte Bronte_ must undergo
modification ere it can be further circulated.'
Meanwhile let us return to Branwell Bronte's life as it is contained in
his sister's correspondence.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_January_ 3_rd_, 1846.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I must write to you to-day whether I have anything to
say or not, or else you will begin to think that I have forgotten
you; whereas, never a day passes, seldom an hour, that I do not think
of you, _and the scene of trial_ in which you live, move, and have
your being. Mary Taylor's letter was deeply interesting and strongly
characteristic. I have no news whatever to communicate. No changes
take place here. Branwell offers no prospect of hope; he professes
to be too ill to think of seeking for employment; he makes comfort
scant at home. I hold to my intention of going to Brookroyd as soon
as I can--that is, provided you will have me.
'Give my best love to your mother and sisters.--Yours, dear Nell,
always faithful,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_January_ 13_th_, 1845.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I have often said and thought that you have had many
and heavy trials to bear in your still short life. You have always
borne them with great firmness and calm so far--I hope fervently you
will still be enabled to do so. Yet there is something in your
letter that makes me fear the present is the greatest trial of all,
and the most severely felt by you. I hope it will soon pass over and
leave no shadow behind it. I do earnestly desire to be with you, to
talk to you, to give you what comfort I can. Branwell and Anne leave
us on Saturday. Branwell has been quieter and less irritable on the
whole this time than he was in summer. Anne is as usual--always
good, mild, and patient. I think she too is a little stronger than
she was.--Good-bye, dear Ellen,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_December_ 31_st_, 1845.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I don't know whether most to thank you for the very
pretty slippers you have sent me or to scold you for occasioning
yourself, in the slightest degree, trouble or expense on my account.
I will have them made up and bring them with me, if all be well, when
I come to Brookroyd.
'Never doubt that I shall come to Brookroyd as soon as I can, Nell.
I dare say my wish to see you is equal to your wish to see me.
'I had a note on Saturday from Ellen Taylor, informing me that
letters have been received from Mary in New Zealand, and that she was
well and in good spirits. I suppose you have not yet seen them, as
you do not mention them; but you will probably have them in your
possession before you get this note.
'You say well in speaking of Branwell that no sufferings are so awful
as those brought on by dissipation. Alas! I see the truth of this
observation daily proved.
'Your friends must have a weary and burdensome life of it in waiting
upon _their_ unhappy brother. It seems grievous, indeed, that those
who have not sinned should suffer so largely.
'Write to me a little oftener, Ellen--I am very glad to get your
notes. Remember me kindly to your mother and sisters.--Yours
faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS WOOLER
'_January_ 30_th_, 1846.
'MY DEAR MISS WOOLER,--I have not yet paid my usual visit to
Brookroyd, but I frequently hear from Ellen, and she did not fail to
tell me that you were gone into Worcestershire. She was unable,
however, to give me your address; had I known it I should have
written to you long since.
'I thought you would wonder how we were getting on when you heard of
the Railway Panic, and you may be sure I am very glad to be able to
answer your kind inquiries by an assurance that our small capital is
as yet undiminished. The "York and Midland" is, as you say, a very
good line, yet I confess to you I should wish, for my part, to be
wise in time. I cannot think that even the very best lines will
continue for many years at their present premiums, and I have been
most anxious for us to sell our shares ere it be too late, and to
secure the proceeds in some safer, if, for the present, less
profitable investment. I cannot, however, persuade my sisters to
regard the affair precisely from my point of view, and I feel as if I
would rather run the risk of loss than hurt Emily's feelings by
acting in direct opposition to her opinion. She managed in a most
handsome and able manner for me when I was at Brussels, and prevented
by distance from looking after my own interests; therefore, I will
let her manage still, and take the consequences. Disinterested and
energetic she certainly is, and if she be not quite so tractable or
open to conviction as I could wish, I must remember perfection is not
the lot of humanity. And as long as we can regard those we love, and
to whom we are closely allied, with profound and very unshaken
esteem, it is a small thing that they should vex us occasionally by,
what appear to us, unreasonable and headstrong notions. You, my dear
Miss Wooler, know full as well as I do the value of sisters'
affection to each other; there is nothing like it in this world, I
believe, when they are nearly equal in age, and similar in education,
tastes, and sentiments.
'You ask about Branwell. He never thinks of seeking employment, and
I begin to fear he has rendered himself incapable of filling any
respectable station in life; besides, if money were at his disposal
he would use it only to his own injury; the faculty of
self-government is, I fear, almost destroyed in him. You ask me if I
do not think men are strange beings. I do, indeed--I have often
thought so; and I think too that the mode of bringing them up is
strange, they are not half sufficiently guarded from temptations.
Girls are protected as if they were something very frail and silly
indeed, while boys are turned loose on the world as if they, of all
beings in existence, were the wisest and the least liable to be led
astray.
'I am glad you like Bromsgrove. I always feel a peculiar
satisfaction when I hear of your enjoying yourself, because it proves
to me that there is really such a thing as retributive justice even
in this life; now you are free, and that while you have still, I
hope, many years of vigour and health in which you can enjoy freedom.
Besides, I have another and very egotistical motive for being
pleased: it seems that even "a lone woman" can be happy, as well as
cherished wives and proud mothers. I am glad of that--I speculate
much on the existence of unmarried and never-to-be married woman
now-a-days, and I have already got to the point of considering that
there is no more respectable character on this earth than an
unmarried woman who makes her own way through life quietly,
perseveringly, without support of husband or mother, and who, having
attained the age of forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession
a well-regulated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures,
fortitude to support inevitable pains, sympathy with the sufferings
of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as her means
extend. I wish to send this letter off by to-day's post, I must
therefore conclude in haste.--Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours,
most affectionately,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_November_ 4_th_, 1845.
'DEAR ELLEN,--You do not reproach me in your last, but I fear you
must have thought me unkind in being so long without answering you.
The fact is, I had hoped to be able to ask you to come to Haworth.
Branwell seemed to have a prospect of getting employment, and I
waited to know the result of his efforts in order to say, "Dear
Ellen, come and see us"; but the place (a secretaryship to a Railroad
Committee) is given to another person. Branwell still remains at
home, and while he is here you shall not come. I am more confirmed
in that resolution the more I know of him. I wish I could say one
word to you in his favour, but I cannot, therefore I will hold my
tongue.
'Emily and Anne wish me to tell you that they think it very unlikely
for little Flossy to be expected to rear so numerous a family; they
think you are quite right in protesting against all the pups being
preserved, for, if kept, they will pull their poor little mother to
pieces.--Yours faithfully,
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_April_ 14_th_, 1846.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I assure you I was very glad indeed to get your last
note; for when three or four days elapsed after my second despatch to
you and I got no answer, I scarcely doubted something was wrong. It
relieved me much to find my apprehensions unfounded. I return you
Miss Ringrose's notes with thanks. I always like to read them, they
appear to me so true an index of an amiable mind, and one not too
conscious of its own worth; beware of awakening in her this
consciousness by undue praise. It is the privilege of
simple-hearted, sensible, but not brilliant people, that they can
_be_ and _do_ good without comparing their own thoughts and actions
too closely with those of other people, and thence drawing strong
food for self-appreciation. Talented people almost always know full
well the excellence that is in them. I wish I could say anything
favourable, but how can we be more comfortable so long as Branwell
stays at home, and degenerates instead of improving? It has been
lately intimated to him, that he would be received again on the
railroad where he was formerly stationed if he would behave more
steadily, but he refuses to make an effort; he will not work; and at
home he is a drain on every resource--an impediment to all happiness.
But there is no use in complaining.
'My love to all. Write again soon.
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_June_ 17_th_, 1846.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I was glad to perceive, by the tone of your last
letter, that you are beginning to be a little more settled. We, I am
sorry to say, have been somewhat more harassed than usual lately.
The death of Mr. Robinson, which took place about three weeks or a
month ago, served Branwell for a pretext to throw all about him into
hubbub and confusion with his emotions, etc., etc. Shortly after
came news from all hands that Mr. Robinson had altered his will
before he died, and effectually prevented all chance of a marriage
between his widow and Branwell, by stipulating that she should not
have a shilling if she ever ventured to re-open any communication
with him. Of course he then became intolerable. To papa he allows
rest neither day nor night, and he is continually screwing money out
of him, sometimes threatening that he will kill himself if it is
withheld from him. He says Mrs. Robinson is now insane; that her
mind is a complete wreck owing to remorse for her conduct towards Mr.
Robinson (whose end it appears was hastened by distress of mind) and
grief for having lost him. I do not know how much to believe of what
he says, but I fear she is very ill. Branwell declares that he
neither can nor will do anything for himself. Good situations have
been offered him more than once, for which, by a fortnight's work, he
might have qualified himself, but he will do nothing, except drink
and make us all wretched. I had a note from Ellen Taylor a week ago,
in which she remarks that letters were received from New Zealand a
month since, and that all was well. I should like to hear from you
again soon. I hope one day to see Brookroyd again, though I think it
will not be yet--these are not times of amusement. Love to all.
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _March_ 1_st_, 1847.
'DEAR ELLEN,--Branwell has been conducting himself very badly lately.
I expect from the extravagance of his behaviour, and from mysterious
hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we shall
be hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon. The Misses
Robinson, who had entirely ceased their correspondence with Anne for
half a year after their father's death, have lately recommenced it.
For a fortnight they sent her a letter almost every day, crammed with
warm protestations of endless esteem and gratitude. They speak with
great affection too of their mother, and never make any allusion
intimating acquaintance with her errors. We take special care that
Branwell does not know of their writing to Anne. My health is
better: I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather more
than on an uneasy mind, for, after all, I have many things to be
thankful for. Write again soon.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_May_ 12_th_, 1847.
'DEAR ELLEN,--We shall all be glad to see you on the Thursday or
Friday of next week, whichever day will suit you best. About what
time will you be likely to get here, and how will you come? By coach
to Keighley, or by a gig all the way to Haworth? There must be no
impediments now? I cannot do with them, I want very much to see you.
I hope you will be decently comfortable while you stay.
'Branwell is quieter now, and for a good reason: he has got to the
end of a considerable sum of money, and consequently is obliged to
restrict himself in some degree. You must expect to find him weaker
in mind, and a complete rake in appearance. I have no apprehension
of his being at all uncivil to you; on the contrary, he will be as
smooth as oil. I pray for fine weather that we may be able to get
out while you stay. Goodbye for the present. Prepare for much
dulness and monotony. Give my love to all at Brookroyd.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_July_ 28_th_, 1848.
'DEAR ELLEN,--Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His
constitution seems much shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us,
have sad nights with him: he sleeps most of the day, and consequently
will lie awake at night. But has not every house its trial?
'Write to me very soon, dear Nell, and--Believe me, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
Branwell Bronte died on Sunday, September the 24th, 1848, {138} and the
two following letters from Charlotte to her friend Mr. Williams are
peculiarly interesting.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_October_ 2_nd_, 1848.
'MY DEAR SIR,--"We have hurried our dead out of our sight." A lull
begins to succeed the gloomy tumult of last week. It is not
permitted us to grieve for him who is gone as others grieve for those
they lose. The removal of our only brother must necessarily be
regarded by us rather in the light of a mercy than a chastisement.
Branwell was his father's and his sisters' pride and hope in boyhood,
but since manhood the case has been otherwise. It has been our lot
to see him take a wrong bent; to hope, expect, wait his return to the
right path; to know the sickness of hope deferred, the dismay of
prayer baffled; to experience despair at last--and now to behold the
sudden early obscure close of what might have been a noble career.
'I do not weep from a sense of bereavement--there is no prop
withdrawn, no consolation torn away, no dear companion lost--but for
the wreck of talent, the ruin of promise, the untimely dreary
extinction of what might have been a burning and a shining light. My
brother was a year my junior. I had aspirations and ambitions for
him once, long ago--they have perished mournfully. Nothing remains
of him but a memory of errors and sufferings. There is such a
bitterness of pity for his life and death, such a yearning for the
emptiness of his whole existence as I cannot describe. I trust time
will allay these feelings.
'My poor father naturally thought more of his _only_ son than of his
daughters, and, much and long as he had suffered on his account, he
cried out for his loss like David for that of Absalom--my son my
son!--and refused at first to be comforted. And then when I ought to
have been able to collect my strength and be at hand to support him,
I fell ill with an illness whose approaches I had felt for some time
previously, and of which the crisis was hastened by the awe and
trouble of the death-scene--the first I had ever witnessed. The past
has seemed to me a strange week. Thank God, for my father's sake, I
am better now, though still feeble. I wish indeed I had more general
physical strength--the want of it is sadly in my way. I cannot do
what I would do for want of sustained animal spirits and efficient
bodily vigour.
'My unhappy brother never knew what his sisters had done in
literature--he was not aware that they had ever published a line. We
could not tell him of our efforts for fear of causing him too deep a
pang of remorse for his own time mis-spent, and talents misapplied.
Now he will _never_ know. I cannot dwell longer on the subject at
present--it is too painful.
'I thank you for your kind sympathy, and pray earnestly that your
sons may all do well, and that you may be spared the sufferings my
father has gone through.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'HAWORTH, _October_ 6_th_, 1848.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I thank you for your last truly friendly letter, and
for the number of _Blackwood_ which accompanied it. Both arrived at
a time when a relapse of illness had depressed me much. Both did me
good, especially the letter. I have only one fault to find with your
expressions of friendship: they make me ashamed, because they seem to
imply that you think better of me than I merit. I believe you are
prone to think too highly of your fellow-creatures in general--to see
too exclusively the good points of those for whom you have a regard.
Disappointment must be the inevitable result of this habit. Believe
all men, and women too, to be dust and ashes--a spark of the divinity
now and then kindling in the dull heap--that is all. When I looked
on the noble face and forehead of my dead brother (nature had
favoured him with a fairer outside, as well as a finer constitution,
than his sisters) and asked myself what had made him go ever wrong,
tend ever downwards, when he had so many gifts to induce to, and aid
in, an upward course, I seemed to receive an oppressive revelation of
the feebleness of humanity--of the inadequacy of even genius to lead
to true greatness if unaided by religion and principle. In the
value, or even the reality, of these two things he would never
believe till within a few days of his end; and then all at once he
seemed to open his heart to a conviction of their existence and
worth. The remembrance of this strange change now comforts my poor
father greatly. I myself, with painful, mournful joy, heard him
praying softly in his dying moments; and to the last prayer which my
father offered up at his bedside he added, "Amen." How unusual that
word appeared from his lips, of course you, who did not know him,
cannot conceive. Akin to this alteration was that in his feelings
towards his relations--all the bitterness seemed gone.
'When the struggle was over, and a marble calm began to succeed the
last dread agony, I felt, as I had never felt before, that there was
peace and forgiveness for him in Heaven. All his errors--to speak
plainly, all his vices--seemed nothing to me in that moment: every
wrong he had done, every pain he had caused, vanished; his sufferings
only were remembered; the wrench to the natural affections only was
left. If man can thus experience total oblivion of his fellow's
imperfections, how much more can the Eternal Being, who made man,
forgive His creature?
'Had his sins been scarlet in their dye, I believe now they are white
as wool. He is at rest, and that comforts us all. Long before he
quitted this world, life had no happiness for him.
'_Blackwood's_ mention of _Jane Eyre_ gratified me much, and will
gratify me more, I dare say, when the ferment of other feelings than
that of literary ambition shall have a little subsided in my mind.
'The doctor has told me I must not expect too rapid a restoration to
health; but to-day I certainly feel better. I am thankful to say my
father has hitherto stood the storm well; and so have my _dear_
sisters, to whose untiring care and kindness I am chiefly indebted
for my present state of convalescence.--Believe me, my dear sir,
yours faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
The last letter in order of date that I have concerning Branwell is
addressed to Ellen Nussey's sister:--
TO MISS MERCY NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _October_ 25_th_, 1848.
'MY DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--Accept my sincere thanks for your kind letter.
The event to which you allude came upon us with startling suddenness,
and was a severe shock to us all. My poor brother has long had a
shaken constitution, and during the summer his appetite had been
diminished, and he had seemed weaker, but neither we, nor himself,
nor any medical man who was consulted on the case, thought it one of
immediate danger. He was out of doors two days before death, and was
only confined to bed one single day.
'I thank you for your kind sympathy. Many, under the circumstances,
would think our loss rather a relief than otherwise; in truth, we
must acknowledge, in all humility and gratitude, that God has greatly
tempered judgment with mercy. But yet, as you doubtless know from
experience, the last earthly separation cannot take place between
near relatives without the keenest pangs on the part of the
survivors. Every wrong and sin is forgotten then, pity and grief
share the heart and the memory between them. Yet we are not without
comfort in our affliction. A most propitious change marked the few
last days of poor Branwell's life: his demeanour, his language, his
sentiments were all singularly altered and softened. This change
could not be owing to the fear of death, for till within half-an-hour
of his decease he seemed unconscious of danger. In God's hands we
leave him: He sees not as man sees.
'Papa, I am thankful to say, has borne the event pretty well. His
distress was great at first--to lose an only son is no ordinary
trial, but his physical strength has not hitherto failed him, and he
has now in a great measure recovered his mental composure; my dear
sisters are pretty well also. Unfortunately, illness attacked me at
the crisis when strength was most needed. I bore up for a day or
two, hoping to be better, but got worse. Fever, sickness, total loss
of appetite, and internal pain were the symptoms. The doctor
pronounced it to be bilious fever, but I think it must have been in a
mitigated form; it yielded to medicine and care in a few days. I was
only confined to my bed a week, and am, I trust, nearly well now. I
felt it a grievous thing to be incapacitated from action and effort
at a time when action and effort were most called for. The past
month seems an overclouded period in my life.
'Give my best love to Mrs. Nussey and your sister, and--Believe me,
my dear Miss Nussey, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
_My unhappy brother never knew what his sisters had done in
literature_--_he was not aware that they had ever published a line_.
Who that reads these words addressed to Mr. Williams can for a moment
imagine that Charlotte is speaking other than the truth? And yet we have
Mr. Grundy writing:
_Patrick Bronte declared to me that he wrote a great portion of_
'_Wuthering Heights_' _himself_.
And Mr. George Searle Phillips, {142} with more vivid imagination,
describes Branwell holding forth to his friends in the parlour of the
Black Bull at Haworth, upon the genius of his sisters, and upon the
respective merits of _Jane Eyre_ and other works. Mr. Leyland is even so
foolish as to compare Branwell's poetry with Emily's, to the advantage of
the former--which makes further comment impossible. 'My unhappy brother
never knew what his sisters had done in literature'--these words of
Charlotte's may be taken as final for all who had any doubts concerning
the authorship of _Wuthering Heights_.
CHAPTER VI: EMILY JANE BRONTE
Emily Bronte is the sphinx of our modern literature. She came into being
in the family of an obscure clergyman, and she went out of it at
twenty-nine years of age without leaving behind her one single
significant record which was any key to her character or to her mode of
thought, save only the one famous novel, _Wuthering Heights_, and a few
poems--some three or four of which will live in our poetic anthologies
for ever. And she made no single friend other than her sister Anne.
With Anne she must have corresponded during the two or three periods of
her life when she was separated from that much loved sister; and we may
be sure that the correspondence was of a singularly affectionate
character. Charlotte, who never came very near to her in thought or
sympathy, although she loved her younger sister so deeply, addressed her
in one letter 'mine own bonnie love'; and it is certain that her own
letters to her two sisters, and particularly to Anne, must have been
peculiarly tender and in no way lacking in abundant self-revelation.
When Emily and Anne had both gone to the grave, Charlotte, it is
probable, carefully destroyed every scrap of their correspondence, and,
indeed, of their literary effects; and thus it is that, apart from her
books and literary fragments, we know Emily only by two formal letters to
her sister's friend. Beyond these there is not one scrap of information
as to Emily's outlook upon life. In infancy she went with Charlotte to
Cowan Bridge, and was described by the governess as 'a pretty little
thing.' In girlhood she went to Miss Wooler's school at Roe Head; but
there, unlike Charlotte, she made no friends. She and Anne were
inseparable when at home, but of what they said to one another there is
no record. The sisters must have differed in many ways. Anne, gentle
and persuasive, grew up like Charlotte, devoted to the Christianity of
her father and mother, and entirely in harmony with all the conditions of
a parsonage. It is impossible to think that the author of 'The Old
Stoic' and 'Last Lines' was equally attached to the creeds of the
churches; but what Emily thought on religious subjects the world will
never know. Mrs. Gaskell put to Miss Nussey this very question: 'What
was Emily's religion?' But Emily was the last person in the world to
have spoken to the most friendly of visitors about so sacred a theme.
For a short time, as we know, Emily was in a school at Law Hill near
Halifax--a Miss Patchet's. {145a} She was, for a still longer period, at
the Heger Pensionnat at Brussels. Mrs. Gaskell's business was to write
the life of Charlotte Bronte and not of her sister Emily; and as a result
there is little enough of Emily in Mrs. Gaskell's book--no record of the
Halifax and Brussels life as seen through Emily's eyes. Time, however,
has brought its revenge. The cult which started with Mr. Sydney Dobell,
and found poetic expression in Mr. Matthew Arnold's fine lines on her,
'Whose soul
Knew no fellow for might,
Passion, vehemence, grief,
Daring, since Byron died,' {145b}
culminated in an enthusiastic eulogy by Mr. Swinburne, who placed her in
the very forefront of English women of genius.
We have said that Emily Bronte is a sphinx whose riddle no amount of
research will enable us to read; and this chapter, it may be admitted,
adds but little to the longed-for knowledge of an interesting
personality. One scrap of Emily's handwriting, of a personal character,
has indeed come to me--overlooked, I doubt not, by Charlotte when she
burnt her sister's effects. I have before me a little tin box about two
inches long, which one day last year Mr. Nicholls turned out from the
bottom of a desk. It is of a kind in which one might keep pins or beads,
certainly of no value whatever apart from its associations. Within were
four little pieces of paper neatly folded to the size of a sixpence.
These papers were covered with handwriting, two of them by Emily, and two
by Anne Bronte. They revealed a pleasant if eccentric arrangement on the
part of the sisters, which appears to have been settled upon even after
they had passed their twentieth year. They had agreed to write a kind of
reminiscence every four years, to be opened by Emily on her birthday.
The papers, however, tell their own story, and I give first the two which
were written in 1841. Emily writes at Haworth, and Anne from her
situation as governess to Mr. Robinson's children at Thorp Green. At
this time, at any rate, Emily was fairly happy and in excellent health;
and although it is five years from the publication of the volume of
poems, she is full of literary projects, as is also her sister Anne. The
_Gondaland Chronicles_, to which reference is made, must remain a mystery
for us. They were doubtless destroyed, with abundant other memorials of
Emily, by the heart-broken sister who survived her. We have plentiful
material in the way of childish effort by Charlotte and by Branwell, but
there is hardly a scrap in the early handwriting of Emily and Anne. This
chapter would have been more interesting if only one possessed _Solala
Vernon's Life_ by Anne Bronte, or the _Gondaland Chronicles_ by Emily!
[Picture: Facsimile of page of Emily Bronte's Diary]
_A PAPER to be opened_
_when Anne is_
25 _years old_,
_or my next birthday after_
_if_
_all be well_.
_Emily Jane Bronte_. _July the_ 30_th_, 1841.
_It is Friday evening_, _near 9 o'clock_--_wild rainy weather_. _I
am seated in the dining-room_, _having just concluded tidying our
desk boxes_, _writing this document_. _Papa is in the
parlour_--_aunt upstairs in her room_. _She has been reading
Blackwood's Magazine to papa_. _Victoria and Adelaide are ensconced
in the peat-house_. _Keeper is in the kitchen_--_Hero in his cage_.
_We are all stout and hearty_, _as I hope is the case with
Charlotte_, _Branwell_, _and Anne_, _of whom the first is at John
White_, _Esq._, _Upperwood House_, _Rawdon_; _the second is at
Luddenden Foot_; _and the third is_, _I believe_, _at Scarborough_,
_enditing perhaps a paper corresponding to this_.
_A scheme is at present in agitation for setting us up in a school of
our own_; _as yet nothing is determined_, _but I hope and trust it
may go on and prosper and answer our highest expectations_. _This
day four years I wonder whether we shall still be dragging on in our
present condition or established to our hearts' content_. _Time will
show_.
_I guess that at the time appointed for the opening of this paper
we_, i.e. _Charlotte_, _Anne_, _and I_, _shall be all merrily seated
in our own sitting-room in some pleasant and flourishing seminary_,
_having just gathered in for the midsummer ladyday_. _Our debts will
be paid off_, _and we shall have cash in hand to a considerable
amount_. _Papa_, _aunt_, _and Branwell will either_ _have been or be
coming to visit us_. _It will be a fine warm_, _summer evening_,
_very different from this bleak look-out_, _and Anne and I will
perchance slip out into the garden for a few minutes to peruse our
papers_. _I hope either this or something better will be the case_.
_The_ Gondaliand _are at present in a threatening state_, _but there
is no open rupture as yet_. _All the princes and princesses of the
Royalty are at the Palace of Instruction_. _I have a good many books
on hand_, _but I am sorry to say that as usual I make small progress
with any_. _However_, _I have just made a new regularity paper_!
_and I must verb sap to do great things_. _And now I close_,
_sending from far an exhortation of courage_, _boys_! _courage_, _to
exiled and harassed Anne_, _wishing she was here_.
Anne, as I have said, writes from Thorp Green.
_July the_ 30_th_, A.D. 1841.
_This is Emily's birthday_. _She has now completed her_ 23_rd_
_year_, _and is_, _I believe_, _at home_. _Charlotte is a governess
in the family of Mr. White_. _Branwell is a clerk in the railroad
station at Luddenden Foot_, _and I am a governess in the family of
Mr. Robinson_. _I dislike the situation and wish to change it for
another_. _I am now at Scarborough_. _My pupils are gone to bed and
I am hastening to finish this before I follow them_.
_We are thinking of setting up a school of our own_, _but nothing
definite is settled about it yet_, _and we do not know whether we
shall be able to or not_. _I hope we shall_. _And I wonder what
will be our condition and how or where we shall all be on this day
four years hence_; _at which time_, _all be well_, _I shall be_ 25
_years and_ 6 _months old_, _Emily will be_ 27 _years old_,
_Branwell_ 28 _years and_ 1 _month_, _and Charlotte_ 29 _years and a
quarter_. _We are now all separate and not likely to meet again for
many a weary week_, _but we are none of us ill_ _that I know of and
all are doing something for our own livelihood except Emily_, _who_,
_however_, _is as busy as any of us_, _and in reality earns her food
and raiment as much as we do_.
_How little know we what we are_
_How less what we may be_!
_Four years ago I was at school_. _Since then I have been a
governess at Blake Hall_, _left it_, _come to Thorp Green_, _and seen
the sea and York Minster_. _Emily has been a teacher at Miss
Patchet's school_, _and left it_. _Charlotte has left Miss
Wooler's_, _been a governess at Mrs. Sidgwick's_, _left her_, _and
gone to Mrs. White's_. _Branwell has given up painting_, _been a
tutor in Cumberland_, _left it_, _and become a clerk on the
railroad_. _Tabby has left us_, _Martha Brown has come in her
place_. _We have got Keeper_, _got a sweet little cat and lost it_,
_and also got a hawk_. _Got a wild goose which has flown away_, _and
three tame ones_, _one of which has been killed_. _All these
diversities_, _with many others_, _are things we did not expect or
foresee in the July of_ 1837. _What will the next four years bring
forth_? _Providence only knows_. _But we ourselves have sustained
very little alteration since that time_. _I have the same faults
that I had then_, _only I have more wisdom and experience_, _and a
little more self-possession than I then enjoyed_. _How will it be
when we open this paper and the one Emily has written_? _I wonder
whether the Gondaliand will still be flourishing_, _and what will be
their condition_. _I am now engaged in writing the fourth volume of
Solala Vernon's Life_.
_For some time I have looked upon_ 25 _as a sort of era in my
existence_. _It may prove a true presentiment_, _or it may be only a
superstitious fancy_; _the latter seems most likely_, _but time will
show_.
_Anne Bronte_.
Let us next take up the other two little scraps of paper. They are dated
July the 30th, 1845, or Emily's twenty-seventh birthday. Many things
have happened, as she says. She has been to Brussels, and she has
settled definitely at home again. They are still keenly interested in
literature, and we still hear of the Gondals. There is wonderfully
little difference in the tone or spirit of the journals. The concluding
'best wishes for this whole house till July the 30th, 1848, and as much
longer as may be,' contain no premonition of coming disaster. Yet July
1848 was to find Branwell Bronte on the verge of the grave, and Emily on
her deathbed. She died on the 14th of December of that year.
_Haworth_, _Thursday_, _July_ 30_th_, 1845.
_My birthday_--_showery_, _breezy_, _cool_. _I am twenty-seven years
old to-day_. _This morning Anne and I opened the papers we wrote
four years since_, _on my twenty-third birthday_. _This paper we
intend_, _if all be well_, _to open on my thirtieth_--_three years
hence_, _in_ 1848. _Since the_ 1841 _paper the following events have
taken place_. _Our school scheme has been abandoned_, _and instead
Charlotte and I went to Brussels on the_ 8_th_ _of February_ 1842.
_Branwell left his place at Luddenden Foot_. _C. and I returned from
Brussels_, _November_ 8_th_ 1842, _in consequence of aunt's death_.
_Branwell went to Thorp Green as a tutor_, _where Anne still
continued_, _January_ 1843.
_Charlotte returned to Brussels the same month_, _and_, _after
staying a year_, _came back again on New Year's Day_ 1844.
_Anne left her situation at Thorp Green of her own accord_, _June_
1845.
_Anne and I went our first long journey by ourselves together_,
_leaving home on the_ 30_th_ _of June_, _Monday_, _sleeping at York_,
_returning to Keighley Tuesday evening_, _sleeping there and walking
home on Wednesday morning_. _Though the weather was broken we
enjoyed ourselves very much_, _except during a few hours at
Bradford_. _And during our_ _excursion we were_, _Ronald Macalgin_,
_Henry Angora_, _Juliet Augusteena_, _Rosabella Esmaldan_, _Ella and
Julian Egremont_, _Catharine Navarre_, _and Cordelia Fitzaphnold_,
_escaping from the palaces of instruction to join the Royalists who
are hard driven at present by the victorious Republicans_. _The
Gondals still flourish bright as ever_. _I am at present writing a
work on the First War_. _Anne has been writing some articles on
this_, _and a book by Henry Sophona_. _We intend sticking firm by
the rascals as long as they delight us_, _which I am glad to say they
do at present_. _I should have mentioned that last summer the school
scheme was revived in full vigour_. _We had prospectuses printed_,
_despatched letters to all acquaintances imparting our plans_, _and
did our little all_; _but it was found no go_. _Now I don't desire a
school at all_, _and none of us have any great longing for it_. _We
have cash enough for our present wants_, _with a prospect of
accumulation_. _We are all in decent health_, _only that papa has a
complaint in his eyes_, _and with the exception of B._, _who_, _I
hope_, _will be better and do better hereafter_. _I am quite
contented for myself_: _not as idle as formerly_, _altogether as
hearty_, _and having learnt to make the most of the present and long
for the future with the fidgetiness that I cannot do all I wish_;
_seldom or ever troubled with nothing to do_, _and merely desiring
that everybody could be as comfortable as myself and as
undesponding_, _and then we should have a very tolerable world of
it_.
_By mistake I find we have opened the paper on the_ 31_st_ _instead
of the_ 30_th_. _Yesterday was much such a day as this_, _but the
morning was divine_.
_Tabby_, _who was gone in our last paper_, _is come back_, _and has
lived with us two years and a half_; _and is in good health_.
_Martha_, _who also departed_, _is here too_. _We have got Flossy_;
_got and lost Tiger_; _lost the hawk Hero_, _which_, _with the
geese_, _was given away_, _and is doubtless dead_, _for when I came
back from Brussels I inquired on all hands and could_ _hear nothing
of him_. _Tiger died early last year_. _Keeper and Flossy are
well_, _also the canary acquired four years since_. _We are now all
at home_, _and likely to be there some time_. _Branwell went to
Liverpool on Tuesday to stay a week_. _Tabby has just been teasing
me to turn as formerly to_ '_Pilloputate_.' _Anne and I should have
picked the black currants if it had been fine and sunshiny_. _I must
hurry off now to my turning and ironing_. _I have plenty of work on
hands_, _and writing_, _and am altogether full of business_. _With
best wishes for the whole house till_ 1848, _July_ 30_th_, _and as
much longer as may be_,--_I conclude_.
_Emily Bronte_.
Finally, I give Anne's last fragment, concerning which silence is
essential. Interpretation of most of the references would be mere
guess-work.
_Thursday_, _July the_ 31_st_, 1845. _Yesterday was Emily's
birthday_, _and the time when we should have opened our_ 1845
_paper_, _but by mistake we opened it to-day instead_. _How many
things have happened since it was written_--_some pleasant_, _some
far otherwise_. _Yet I was then at Thorp Green_, _and now I am only
just escaped from it_. _I was wishing to leave it then_, _and if I
had known that I had four years longer to stay how wretched I should
have been_; _but during my stay I have had some very unpleasant and
undreamt-of experience of human nature_. _Others have seen more
changes_. _Charlotte has left Mr. White's and been twice to
Brussels_, _where she stayed each time nearly a year_. _Emily has
been there too_, _and stayed nearly a year_. _Branwell has left
Luddenden Foot_, _and been a tutor at Thorp Green_, _and had much
tribulation and ill health_. _He was very ill on Thursday_, _but he
went with John Brown to Liverpool_, _where he now is_, _I suppose_;
_and we hope he will be better and do better in future_. _This is a
dismal_, _cloudy_, _wet evening_. _We have had so far a very cold
wet summer_. _Charlotte has lately been to Hathersage_, _in_
_Derbyshire_, _on a visit of three weeks to Ellen Nussey_. _She is
now sitting sewing in the dining-room_. _Emily is ironing upstairs_.
_I am sitting in the dining-room in the rocking-chair before the fire
with my feet on the fender_. _Papa is in the parlour_. _Tabby and
Martha are_, _I think_, _in the kitchen_. _Keeper and Flossy are_,
_I do not know where_. _Little Dick is hopping in his cage_. _When
the last paper was written we were thinking of setting up a school_.
_The scheme has been dropt_, _and long after taken up again and dropt
again because we could not get pupils_. _Charlotte is thinking about
getting another situation_. _She wishes to go to Paris_. _Will she
go_? _She has let Flossy in_, _by-the-by_, _and he is now lying on
the sofa_. _Emily is engaged in writing the Emperor Julius's life_.
_She has read some of it_, _and I want very much to hear the rest_.
_She is writing some poetry_, _too_. _I wonder what it is about_?
_I have begun the third volume of Passages in the Life of an
Individual_. _I wish I had finished it_. _This afternoon I began to
set about making my grey figured silk frock that was dyed at
Keighley_. _What sort of a hand shall I make of it_? _E. and I have
a great deal of work to do_. _When shall we sensibly diminish it_?
_I want to get a habit of early rising_. _Shall I succeed_? _We
have not yet finished our Gondal Chronicles that we began three years
and a half ago_. _When will they be done_? _The Gondals are at
present in a sad state_. _The Republicans are uppermost_, _but the
Royalists are not quite overcome_. _The young sovereigns_, _with
their brothers and sisters_, _are still at the Palace of
Instruction_. _The Unique Society_, _above half a year ago_, _were
wrecked on a desert island as they were returning from Gaul_. _They
are still there_, _but we have not played at them much yet_. _The
Gondals in general are not in first-rate playing condition_. _Will
they improve_? _I wonder how we shall all be and where and how
situated on the thirtieth of July_ 1848, _when_, _if we are all
alive_, _Emily will be just_ 30. _I shall_ _be in my_ 29th _year_,
_Charlotte in her_ 33rd, _and Branwell in his_ 32nd; _and what
changes shall we have seen and known_; _and shall we be much changed
ourselves_? _I hope not_, _for the worse at least_. _I for my part
cannot well be flatter or older in mind than I am now_. _Hoping for
the best_, _I conclude_.
_Anne Bronte_.
Exactly fifty years were to elapse before these pieces of writing saw the
light. The interest which must always centre in Emily Bronte amply
justifies my publishing a fragment in facsimile; and it has the greater
moment on account of the rough drawing which Emily has made of herself
and of her dog Keeper. Emily's taste for drawing is a pathetic element
in her always pathetic life. I have seen a number of her sketches.
There is one in the possession of Mr. Nicholls of Keeper and Flossy, the
former the bull-dog which followed her to the grave, the latter a little
King Charlie which one of the Miss Robinsons gave to Anne. The sketch,
however, like most of Emily's drawings, is technically full of errors.
She was not a born artist, and possibly she had not the best
opportunities of becoming one by hard work. Another drawing before me is
of the hawk mentioned in the above fragment; and yet another is of the
dog Growler, a predecessor of Keeper, which is not, however, mentioned in
the correspondence. Upon Emily Bronte, the poet, I do not propose to
write here. She left behind her, and Charlotte preserved, a manuscript
volume containing the whole of the poems in the two collections of her
verse, and there are other poems not yet published. Here, for example,
are some verses in which the Gondals make a slight reappearance.
[Picture: Facsimile of two pages of Emily Bronte's Diary]
'_May_ 21_st_, 1838.
GLENEDEN'S DREAM.
'Tell me, whether is it winter?
Say how long my sleep has been.
Have the woods I left so lovely
Lost their robes of tender green?
'Is the morning slow in coming?
Is the night time loth to go?
Tell me, are the dreary mountains
Drearier still with drifted snow?
'"Captive, since thou sawest the forest,
All its leaves have died away,
And another March has woven
Garlands for another May.
'"Ice has barred the Arctic waters;
Soft Southern winds have set it free;
And once more to deep green valley
Golden flowers might welcome thee."
'Watcher in this lonely prison,
Shut from joy and kindly air,
Heaven descending in a vision
Taught my soul to do and bear.
'It was night, a night of winter,
I lay on the dungeon floor,
And all other sounds were silent--
All, except the river's roar.
'Over Death and Desolation,
Fireless hearths, and lifeless homes;
Over orphans' heartsick sorrows,
Patriot fathers' bloody tombs;
'Over friends, that my arms never
Might embrace in love again;
Memory ponderous until madness
Struck its poniard in my brain.
'Deepest slumbers followed raving,
Yet, methought, I brooded still;
Still I saw my country bleeding,
Dying for a Tyrant's will.
'Not because my bliss was blasted,
Burned within the avenging flame;
Not because my scattered kindred
Died in woe or lived in shame.
'God doth know I would have given
Every bosom dear to me,
Could that sacrifice have purchased
Tortured Gondal's liberty!
'But that at Ambition's bidding
All her cherished hopes should wane,
That her noblest sons should muster,
Strive and fight and fall in vain.
'Hut and castle, hall and cottage,
Roofless, crumbling to the ground,
Mighty Heaven, a glad Avenger
Thy eternal Justice found.
'Yes, the arm that once would shudder
Even to grieve a wounded deer,
I beheld it, unrelenting,
Clothe in blood its sovereign's prayer.
'Glorious Dream! I saw the city
Blazing in Imperial shine,
And among adoring thousands
Stood a man of form divine.
'None need point the princely victim--
Now he smiles with royal pride!
Now his glance is bright as lightning,
Now the knife is in his side!
'Ah! I saw how death could darken,
Darken that triumphant eye!
His red heart's blood drenched my dagger;
My ear drank his dying sigh!
'Shadows come! what means this midnight?
O my God, I know it all!
Know the fever dream is over,
Unavenged, the Avengers fall!'
There are, indeed, a few fragments, all written in that tiny handwriting
which the girls affected, and bearing various dates from 1833 to 1840. A
new edition of Emily's poems, will, by virtue of these verses, have a
singular interest for her admirers. With all her gifts as a poet,
however, it is by _Wuthering Heights_ that Emily Bronte is best known to
the world; and the weirdness and force of that book suggest an inquiry
concerning the influences which produced it. Dr. Wright, in his
entertaining book, _The Brontes in Ireland_, recounts the story of
Patrick Bronte's origin, and insists that it was in listening to her
father's anecdotes of his own Irish experiences that Emily obtained the
weird material of _Wuthering Heights_. It is not, of course, enough to
point out that Dr. Wright's story of the Irish Brontes is full of
contradictions. A number of tales picked up at random from an illiterate
peasantry might very well abound in inconsistencies, and yet contain some
measure of truth. But nothing in Dr. Wright's narrative is confirmed,
save only the fact that Patrick Bronte continued throughout his life in
some slight measure of correspondence with his brothers and sisters--a
fact rendered sufficiently evident by a perusal of his will. Dr. Wright
tells of many visits to Ireland in order to trace the Bronte traditions
to their source; and yet he had not--in his first edition--marked the
elementary fact that the registry of births in County Down records the
existence of innumerable Bruntys and of not a single Bronte. Dr. Wright
probably made his inquiries with the stories of Emily and Charlotte well
in mind. He sought for similar traditions, and the quick-witted Irish
peasantry gave him all that he wanted. They served up and embellished
the current traditions of the neighbourhood for his benefit, as the
peasantry do everywhere for folklore enthusiasts. Charlotte Bronte's
uncle Hugh, we are told, read the _Quarterly Review_ article upon _Jane
Eyre_, and, armed with a shillelagh, came to England, in order to wreak
vengeance upon the writer of the bitter attack. He landed at Liverpool,
walked from Liverpool to Haworth, saw his nieces, who 'gathered round
him,' and listened to his account of his mission. He then went to London
and made abundant inquiries--but why pursue this ludicrous story further?
In the first place, the _Quarterly Review_ article was published in
December 1848--after Emily was dead, and while Anne was dying. Very soon
after the review appeared Charlotte was informed of its authorship, and
references to Miss Rigby and the _Quarterly_ are found more than once in
her correspondence with Mr. Williams. {158}
This is a lengthy digression from the story of Emily's life, but it is of
moment to discover whether there is any evidence of influences other than
those which her Yorkshire home afforded. I have discussed the matter
with Miss Ellen Nussey, and with Mr. Nicholls. Miss Nussey never, in all
her visits to Haworth, heard a single reference to the Irish legends
related by Dr. Wright, and firmly believes them to be mythical. Mr.
Nicholls, during the six years that he lived alone at the parsonage with
his father-in-law, never heard one single word from Mr. Bronte--who was
by no means disposed to reticence--about these stories, and is also of
opinion that they are purely legendary.
It has been suggested that Emily would have been guilty almost of a crime
to have based the more sordid part of her narrative upon her brother's
transgressions. This is sheer nonsense. She wrote _Wuthering Heights_
because she was impelled thereto, and the book, with all its morbid force
and fire, will remain, for all time, as a monument of the most striking
genius that nineteenth century womanhood has given us. It was partly her
life in Yorkshire--the local colour was mainly derived from her brief
experience as a governess at Halifax--but it was partly, also, the German
fiction which she had devoured during the Brussels period, that inspired
_Wuthering Heights_.
Here, however, are glimpses of Emily Bronte on a more human side.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_March_ 25_th_, 1844.
'DEAR NELL,--I got home safely, and was not too much tired on
arriving at Haworth. I feel rather better to-day than I have been,
and in time I hope to regain more strength. I found Emily and Papa
well, and a letter from Branwell intimating that he and Anne are
pretty well too. Emily is much obliged to you for the flower seeds.
She wishes to know if the Sicilian pea and crimson corn-flower are
hardy flowers, or if they are delicate, and should be sown in warm
and sheltered situations? Tell me also if you went to Mrs. John
Swain's on Friday, and if you enjoyed yourself; talk to me, in short,
as you would do if we were together. Good-morning, dear Nell; I
shall say no more to you at present.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_April_ 5_th_, 1844.
'DEAR NELL,--We were all very glad to get your letter this morning.
_We_, I say, as both Papa and Emily were anxious to hear of the safe
arrival of yourself and the little _varmint_. {159} As you
conjecture, Emily and I set-to to shirt-making the very day after you
left, and we have stuck to it pretty closely ever since. We miss
your society at least as much as you miss ours, depend upon it; would
that you were within calling distance. Be sure you write to me. I
shall expect another letter on Thursday--don't disappoint me. Best
regards to your mother and sisters.--Yours, somewhat irritated,
'C. BRONTE.'
Earlier than this Emily had herself addressed a letter to Miss Nussey,
and, indeed, the two letters from Emily Bronte to Ellen Nussey which I
print here are, I imagine, the only letters of Emily's in existence. Mr.
Nicholls informs me that he has never seen a letter in Emily's
handwriting. The following letter is written during Charlotte's second
stay in Brussels, and at a time when Ellen Nussey contemplated joining
her there--a project never carried out.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_May_ 12, 1843.
'DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--I should be wanting in common civility if I did
not thank you for your kindness in letting me know of an opportunity
to send postage free.
'I have written as you directed, though if next Tuesday means
to-morrow I fear it will be too late. Charlotte has never mentioned
a word about coming home. If you would go over for half-a-year,
perhaps you might be able to bring her back with you--otherwise, she
might vegetate there till the age of Methuselah for mere lack of
courage to face the voyage.
'All here are in good health; so was Anne according to her last
account. The holidays will be here in a week or two, and then, if
she be willing, I will get her to write you a proper letter, a feat
that I have never performed.--With love and good wishes,
'EMILY J. BRONTE.'
The next letter is written at the time that Charlotte is staying with her
friend at Mr. Henry Nussey's house at Hathersage in Derbyshire.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _February_ 9_th_, 1846.
'DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--I fancy this note will be too late to decide one
way or other with respect to Charlotte's stay. Yours only came this
morning (Wednesday), and unless mine travels faster you will not
receive it till Friday. Papa, of course, misses Charlotte, and will
be glad to have her back. Anne and I ditto; but as she goes from
home so seldom, you may keep her a day or two longer, if your
eloquence is equal to the task of persuading her--that is, if she
still be with you when you get this permission. Love from
Anne.--Yours truly,
'EMILY J. BRONTE.'
_Wuthering Heights_ and _Agnes Grey_, 'by Ellis and Acton Bell,' were
published together in three volumes in 1847. The former novel occupied
two volumes, and the latter one. By a strange freak of publishing, the
book was issued as _Wuthering Heights_, vol. I. and II., and _Agnes
Grey_, vol. III., in deference, it must be supposed, to the passion for
the three volume novel. Charlotte refers to the publication in the next
letter, which contained as inclosure the second preface to _Jane
Eyre_--the preface actually published. {161} An earlier preface,
entitled 'A Word to the _Quarterly_,' was cancelled.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_December_ 21_st_, 1847.
'DEAR SIR,--I am, for my own part, dissatisfied with the preface I
sent--I fear it savours of flippancy. If you see no objection I
should prefer substituting the inclosed. It is rather more lengthy,
but it expresses something I have long wished to express.
'Mr. Smith is kind indeed to think of sending me _The Jar of Honey_.
When I receive the book I will write to him. I cannot thank you
sufficiently for your letters, and I can give you but a faint idea of
the pleasure they afford me; they seem to introduce such light and
life to the torpid retirement where we live like dormice. But,
understand this distinctly, you must never write to me except when
you have both leisure and inclination. I know your time is too fully
occupied and too valuable to be often at the service of any one
individual.
'You are not far wrong in your judgment respecting _Wuthering
Heights_ and _Agnes Grey_. Ellis has a strong, original mind, full
of strange though sombre power. When he writes poetry that power
speaks in language at once condensed, elaborated, and refined, but in
prose it breaks forth in scenes which shock more than they attract.
Ellis will improve, however, because he knows his defects. _Agnes
Grey_ is the mirror of the mind of the writer. The orthography and
punctuation of the books are mortifying to a degree: almost all the
errors that were corrected in the proof-sheets appear intact in what
should have been the fair copies. If Mr. Newby always does business
in this way, few authors would like to have him for their publisher a
second time.--Believe me, dear sir, yours respectfully,
'C. BELL.'
When _Jane Eyre_ was performed at a London theatre--and it has been more
than once adapted for the stage, and performed many hundreds of times in
England and America--Charlotte Bronte wrote to her friend Mr. Williams as
follows:--
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_February_ 5_th_, 1848.
'DEAR SIR,--A representation of _Jane Eyre_ at a minor theatre would
no doubt be a rather afflicting spectacle to the author of that work.
I suppose all would be wofully exaggerated and painfully vulgarised
by the actors and actresses on such a stage. What, I cannot help
asking myself, would they make of Mr. Rochester? And the picture my
fancy conjures up by way of reply is a somewhat humiliating one.
What would they make of Jane Eyre? I see something very pert and
very affected as an answer to that query.
'Still, were it in my power, I should certainly make a point of being
myself a witness of the exhibition. Could I go quietly and alone, I
undoubtedly should go; I should endeavour to endure both rant and
whine, strut and grimace, for the sake of the useful observations to
be collected in such a scene.
'As to whether I wish _you_ to go, that is another question. I am
afraid I have hardly fortitude enough really to wish it. One can
endure being disgusted with one's own work, but that a friend should
share the repugnance is unpleasant. Still, I know it would interest
me to hear both your account of the exhibition and any ideas which
the effect of the various parts on the spectators might suggest to
you. In short, I should like to know what you would think, and to
hear what you would say on the subject. But you must not go merely
to satisfy my curiosity; you must do as you think proper. Whatever
you decide on will content me: if you do not go, you will be spared a
vulgarising impression of the book; if you _do_ go, I shall perhaps
gain a little information--either alternative has its advantage.
{163}
'I am glad to hear that the second edition is selling, for the sake
of Messrs. Smith & Elder. I rather feared it would remain on hand,
and occasion loss. _Wuthering Heights_ it appears is selling too,
and consequently Mr. Newby is getting into marvellously good tune
with his authors.--I remain, my dear sir, yours faithfully,
'CURRER BELL.'
I print the above letter here because of its sequel, which has something
to say of Ellis--of Emily Bronte.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_February_ 15_th_, 1848.
'DEAR SIR,--Your letter, as you may fancy, has given me something to
think about. It has presented to my mind a curious picture, for the
description you give is so vivid, I seem to realise it all. I wanted
information and I have got it. You have raised the veil from a
corner of your great world--your London--and have shown me a glimpse
of what I might call loathsome, but which I prefer calling _strange_.
Such, then, is a sample of what amuses the metropolitan populace!
Such is a view of one of their haunts!
'Did I not say that I would have gone to this theatre and witnessed
this exhibition if it had been in my power? What absurdities people
utter when they speak of they know not what!
'You must try now to forget entirely what you saw.
'As to my next book, I suppose it will grow to maturity in time, as
grass grows or corn ripens; but I cannot force it. It makes slow
progress thus far: it is not every day, nor even every week that I
can write what is worth reading; but I shall (if not hindered by
other matters) be industrious when the humour comes, and in due time
I hope to see such a result as I shall not be ashamed to offer you,
my publishers, and the public.
'Have you not two classes of writers--the author and the bookmaker?
And is not the latter more prolific than the former? Is he not,
indeed, wonderfully fertile; but does the public, or the publisher
even, make much account of his productions? Do not both tire of him
in time?
'Is it not because authors aim at a style of living better suited to
merchants, professed gain-seekers, that they are often compelled to
degenerate to mere bookmakers, and to find the great stimulus of
their pen in the necessity of earning money? If they were not
ashamed to be frugal, might they not be more independent?
'I should much--very much--like to take that quiet view of the "great
world" you allude to, but I have as yet won no right to give myself
such a treat: it must be for some future day--when, I don't know.
Ellis, I imagine, would soon turn aside from the spectacle in
disgust. I do not think he admits it as his creed that "the proper
study of mankind is man"--at least not the artificial man of cities.
In some points I consider Ellis somewhat of a theorist: now and then
he broaches ideas which strike my sense as much more daring and
original than practical; his reason may be in advance of mine, but
certainly it often travels a different road. I should say Ellis will
not be seen in his full strength till he is seen as an essayist.
'I return to you the note inclosed under your cover, it is from the
editor of the _Berwick Warder_; he wants a copy of _Jane Eyre_ to
review.
'With renewed thanks for your continued goodness to me,--I remain, my
dear sir, yours faithfully,
'CURRER BELL.'
A short time afterwards the illness came to Emily from which she died the
same year. Branwell died in September 1848, and a month later Charlotte
writes with a heart full of misgivings:--
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_October_ 29_th_, 1848.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I am sorry you should have been uneasy at my not
writing to you ere this, but you must remember it is scarcely a week
since I received your last, and my life is not so varied that in the
interim much should have occurred worthy of mention. You insist that
I should write about myself; this puts me in straits, for I really
have nothing interesting to say about myself. I think I have now
nearly got over the effects of my late illness, and am almost
restored to my normal condition of health. I sometimes wish that it
was a little higher, but we ought to be content with such blessings
as we have, and not pine after those that are out of our reach. I
feel much more uneasy about my sisters than myself just now. Emily's
cold and cough are very obstinate. I fear she has pain in the chest,
and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing, when she has
moved at all quickly. She looks very, very thin and pale. Her
reserved nature occasions me great uneasiness of mind. It is useless
to question her--you get no answers. It is still more useless to
recommend remedies--they are never adopted. Nor can I shut my eyes
to the fact of Anne's great delicacy of constitution. The late sad
event has, I feel, made me more apprehensive than common. I cannot
help feeling much depressed sometimes. I try to leave all in God's
hands; to trust in His goodness; but faith and resignation are
difficult to practise under some circumstances. The weather has been
most unfavourable for invalids of late: sudden changes of
temperature, and cold penetrating winds have been frequent here.
Should the atmosphere become settled, perhaps a favourable effect
might be produced on the general health, and those harassing coughs
and colds be removed. Papa has not quite escaped, but he has, so
far, stood it out better than any of us. You must not mention my
going to Brookroyd this winter. I could not, and would not, leave
home on any account. I am truly sorry to hear of Miss Heald's
serious illness, it seems to me she has been for some years out of
health now. These things make one _feel_ as well as _know_, that
this world is not our abiding-place. We should not knit human ties
too close, or clasp human affections too fondly. They must leave us,
or we must leave them, one day. Good-bye for the present. God
restore health and strength to you and to all who need it.--Yours
faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_November_ 2_nd_, 1848.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I have received, since I last wrote to you, two
papers, the _Standard of Freedom_ and the _Morning Herald_, both
containing notices of the Poems; which notices, I hope, will at least
serve a useful purpose to Mr. Smith in attracting public attention to
the volume. As critiques, I should have thought more of them had
they more fully recognised Ellis Bell's merits; but the lovers of
abstract poetry are few in number.
'Your last letter was very welcome, it was written with so kind an
intention: you made it so interesting in order to divert my mind. I
should have thanked you for it before now, only that I kept waiting
for a cheerful day and mood in which to address you, and I grieve to
say the shadow which has fallen on our quiet home still lingers round
it. I am better, but others are ill now. Papa is not well, my
sister Emily has something like slow inflammation of the lungs, and
even our old servant, who lived with us nearly a quarter of a
century, is suffering under serious indisposition.
'I would fain hope that Emily is a little better this evening, but it
is difficult to ascertain this. She is a real stoic in illness: she
neither seeks nor will accept sympathy. To put any questions, to
offer any aid, is to annoy; she will not yield a step before pain or
sickness till forced; not one of her ordinary avocations will she
voluntarily renounce. You must look on and see her do what she is
unfit to do, and not dare to say a word--a painful necessity for
those to whom her health and existence are as precious as the life in
their veins. When she is ill there seems to be no sunshine in the
world for me. The tie of sister is near and dear indeed, and I think
a certain harshness in her powerful and peculiar character only makes
me cling to her more. But this is all family egotism (so to
speak)--excuse it, and, above all, never allude to it, or to the name
Emily, when you write to me. I do not always show your letters, but
I never withhold them when they are inquired after.
'I am sorry I cannot claim for the name Bronte the honour of being
connected with the notice in the _Bradford Observer_. That paper is
in the hands of dissenters, and I should think the best articles are
usually written by one or two intelligent dissenting ministers in the
town. Alexander Harris {168a} is fortunate in your encouragement, as
Currer Bell once was. He has not forgotten the first letter he
received from you, declining indeed his MS. of _The Professor_, but
in terms so different from those in which the rejections of the other
publishers had been expressed--with so much more sense and kind
feeling, it took away the sting of disappointment and kindled new
hope in his mind.
'Currer Bell might expostulate with you again about thinking too well
of him, but he refrains; he prefers acknowledging that the expression
of a fellow creature's regard--even if more than he deserves--does
him good: it gives him a sense of content. Whatever portion of the
tribute is unmerited on his part, would, he is aware, if exposed to
the test of daily acquaintance, disperse like a broken bubble, but he
has confidence that a portion, however minute, of solid friendship
would remain behind, and that portion he reckons amongst his
treasures.
'I am glad, by-the-bye, to hear that _Madeline_ is come out at last,
and was happy to see a favourable notice of that work and of _The
Three Paths_ in the _Morning Herald_. I wish Miss Kavanagh all
success. {168b}
'Trusting that Mrs. Williams's health continues strong, and that your
own and that of all your children is satisfactory, for without health
there is little comfort,--I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
The next letter gives perhaps the most interesting glimpse of Emily that
has been afforded us.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_November_ 22_nd_, 1848.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I put your most friendly letter into Emily's hands as
soon as I had myself perused it, taking care, however, not to say a
word in favour of homoeopathy--that would not have answered. It is
best usually to leave her to form her own judgment, and _especially_
not to advocate the side you wish her to favour; if you do, she is
sure to lean in the opposite direction, and ten to one will argue
herself into non-compliance. Hitherto she has refused medicine,
rejected medical advice; no reasoning, no entreaty, has availed to
induce her to see a physician. After reading your letter she said,
"Mr. Williams's intention was kind and good, but he was under a
delusion: Homoeopathy was only another form of quackery." Yet she
may reconsider this opinion and come to a different conclusion; her
second thoughts are often the best.
'The _North American Review_ is worth reading; there is no mincing
the matter there. What a bad set the Bells must be! What appalling
books they write! To-day, as Emily appeared a little easier, I
thought the _Review_ would amuse her, so I read it aloud to her and
Anne. As I sat between them at our quiet but now somewhat melancholy
fireside, I studied the two ferocious authors. Ellis, the "man of
uncommon talents, but dogged, brutal, and morose," sat leaning back
in his easy chair drawing his impeded breath as he best could, and
looking, alas! piteously pale and wasted; it is not his wont to
laugh, but he smiled half-amused and half in scorn as he listened.
Acton was sewing, no emotion ever stirs him to loquacity, so he only
smiled too, dropping at the same time a single word of calm amazement
to hear his character so darkly portrayed. I wonder what the
reviewer would have thought of his own sagacity could he have beheld
the pair as I did. Vainly, too, might he have looked round for the
masculine partner in the firm of "Bell & Co." How I laugh in my
sleeve when I read the solemn assertions that _Jane Eyre_ was written
in partnership, and that it "bears the marks of more than one mind
and one sex."
'The wise critics would certainly sink a degree in their own
estimation if they knew that yours or Mr. Smith's was the first
masculine hand that touched the MS. of _Jane Eyre_, and that till you
or he read it no masculine eye had scanned a line of its contents, no
masculine ear heard a phrase from its pages. However, the view they
take of the matter rather pleases me than otherwise. If they like, I
am not unwilling they should think a dozen ladies and gentlemen aided
at the compilation of the book. Strange patchwork it must seem to
them--this chapter being penned by Mr., and that by Miss or Mrs.
Bell; that character or scene being delineated by the husband, that
other by the wife! The gentleman, of course, doing the rough work,
the lady getting up the finer parts. I admire the idea vastly.
'I have read _Madeline_. It is a fine pearl in simple setting.
Julia Kavanagh has my esteem; I would rather know her than many far
more brilliant personages. Somehow my heart leans more to her than
to Eliza Lynn, for instance. Not that I have read either _Amymone_
or _Azeth_, but I have seen extracts from them which I found it
literally impossible to digest. They presented to my imagination
Lytton Bulwer in petticoats--an overwhelming vision. By-the-bye, the
American critic talks admirable sense about Bulwer--candour obliges
me to confess that.
'I must abruptly bid you good-bye for the present.--Yours sincerely,
'CURRER BELL.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_December_ 7_th_, 1848.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I duly received Dr. Curie's work on Homoeopathy, and
ought to apologise for having forgotten to thank you for it. I will
return it when I have given it a more attentive perusal than I have
yet had leisure to do. My sister has read it, but as yet she remains
unshaken in her former opinion: she will not admit there can be
efficacy in such a system. Were I in her place, it appears to me
that I should be glad to give it a trial, confident that it can
scarcely do harm and might do good.
'I can give no favourable report of Emily's state. My father is very
despondent about her. Anne and I cherish hope as well as we can, but
her appearance and her symptoms tend to crush that feeling. Yet I
argue that the present emaciation, cough, weakness, shortness of
breath are the results of inflammation, now, I trust, subsided, and
that with time these ailments will gradually leave her. But my
father shakes his head and speaks of others of our family once
similarly afflicted, for whom he likewise persisted in hoping against
hope, and who are now removed where hope and fear fluctuate no more.
There were, however, differences between their case and
hers--important differences I think. I must cling to the expectation
of her recovery, I cannot renounce it.
'Much would I give to have the opinion of a skilful professional man.
It is easy, my dear sir, to say there is nothing in medicine, and
that physicians are useless, but we naturally wish to procure aid for
those we love when we see them suffer; most painful is it to sit
still, look on, and do nothing. Would that my sister added to her
many great qualities the humble one of tractability! I have again
and again incurred her displeasure by urging the necessity of seeking
advice, and I fear I must yet incur it again and again. Let me leave
the subject; I have no right thus to make you a sharer in our sorrow.
'I am indeed surprised that Mr. Newby should say that he is to
publish another work by Ellis and Acton Bell. Acton has had quite
enough of him. I think I _have_ before intimated that that author
never more intends to have Mr. Newby for a publisher. Not only does
he seem to forget that engagements made should be fulfilled, but by a
system of petty and contemptible manoeuvring he throws an air of
charlatanry over the works of which he has the management. This does
not suit the "Bells": they have their own rude north-country ideas of
what is delicate, honourable, and gentlemanlike.
'Newby's conduct in no sort corresponds with these notions; they have
found him--I will not say what they have found him. Two words that
would exactly suit him are at my pen point, but I shall not take the
trouble to employ them.
'Ellis Bell is at present in no condition to trouble himself with
thoughts either of writing or publishing. Should it please Heaven to
restore his health and strength, he reserves to himself the right of
deciding whether or not Mr. Newby has forfeited every claim to his
second work.
'I have not yet read the second number of _Pendennis_. The first I
thought rich in indication of ease, resource, promise; but it is not
Thackeray's way to develop his full power all at once. _Vanity Fair_
began very quietly--it was quiet all through, but the stream as it
rolled gathered a resistless volume and force. Such, I doubt not,
will be the case with _Pendennis_.
'You must forget what I said about Eliza Lynn. She may be the best
of human beings, and I am but a narrow-minded fool to express
prejudice against a person I have never seen.
'Believe me, my dear sir, in haste, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
The next four letters speak for themselves.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_December_ 9_th_, 1848.
'MY DEAR SIR,--Your letter seems to relieve me from a difficulty and
to open my way. I know it would be useless to consult Drs. Elliotson
or Forbes: my sister would not see the most skilful physician in
England if he were brought to her just now, nor would she follow his
prescription. With regard to Homoeopathy, she has at least admitted
that it cannot do much harm; perhaps if I get the medicines she may
consent to try them; at any rate, the experiment shall be made.
'Not knowing Dr. Epps's address, I send the inclosed statement of her
case through your hands. {173}
'I deeply feel both your kindness and Mr. Smith's in thus interesting
yourselves in what touches me so nearly.--Believe me, yours
sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_December_ 15_th_, 1848.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I mentioned your coming here to Emily as a mere
suggestion, with the faint hope that the prospect might cheer her, as
she really esteems you perhaps more than any other person out of this
house. I found, however, it would not do; any, the slightest
excitement or putting out of the way is not to be thought of, and
indeed I do not think the journey in this unsettled weather, with the
walk from Keighley and walk back, at all advisable for yourself. Yet
I should have liked to see you, and so would Anne. Emily continues
much the same; yesterday I thought her a little better, but to-day
she is not so well. I hope still, for I _must_ hope--she is dear to
me as life. If I let the faintness of despair reach my heart I shall
become worthless. The attack was, I believe, in the first place,
inflammation of the lungs; it ought to have been met promptly in
time. She is too intractable. I _do_ wish I knew her state and
feelings more clearly. The fever is not so high as it was, but the
pain in the side, the cough, the emaciation are there still.
'Remember me kindly to all at Brookroyd, and believe me, yours
faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_December_ 21_st_, 1848.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now.
She will never suffer more in this world. She is gone, after a hard,
short conflict. She died on _Tuesday_, the very day I wrote to you.
I thought it very possible she might be with us still for weeks, and
a few hours afterwards she was in eternity. Yes, there is no Emily
in time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal
frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at
present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her
suffer is over; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone by; the
funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need now to
tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel
them. She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in
its prime. But it is God's will, and the place where she is gone is
better than she has left.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_December_ 25_th_, 1848.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I will write to you more at length when my heart can
find a little rest--now I can only thank you very briefly for your
letter, which seemed to me eloquent in its sincerity.
'Emily is nowhere here now, her wasted mortal remains are taken out
of the house. We have laid her cherished head under the church aisle
beside my mother's, my two sisters'--dead long ago--and my poor,
hapless brother's. But a small remnant of the race is left--so my
poor father thinks.
'Well, the loss is ours, not hers, and some sad comfort I take, as I
hear the wind blow and feel the cutting keenness of the frost, in
knowing that the elements bring her no more suffering; their severity
cannot reach her grave; her fever is quieted, her restlessness
soothed, her deep, hollow cough is hushed for ever; we do not hear it
in the night nor listen for it in the morning; we have not the
conflict of the strangely strong spirit and the fragile frame before
us--relentless conflict--once seen, never to be forgotten. A dreary
calm reigns round us, in the midst of which we seek resignation.
'My father and my sister Anne are far from well. As for me, God has
hitherto most graciously sustained me; so far I have felt adequate to
bear my own burden and even to offer a little help to others. I am
not ill; I can get through daily duties, and do something towards
keeping hope and energy alive in our mourning household. My father
says to me almost hourly, "Charlotte, you must bear up, I shall sink
if you fail me"; these words, you can conceive, are a stimulus to
nature. The sight, too, of my sister Anne's very still but deep
sorrow wakens in me such fear for her that I dare not falter.
Somebody _must_ cheer the rest.
'So I will not now ask why Emily was torn from us in the fulness of
our attachment, rooted up in the prime of her own days, in the
promise of her powers; why her existence now lies like a field of
green corn trodden down, like a tree in full bearing struck at the
root. I will only say, sweet is rest after labour and calm after
tempest, and repeat again and again that Emily knows that now.--Yours
sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
And then there are these last pathetic references to the beloved sister.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_January_ 2_nd_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--Untoward circumstances come to me, I think, less
painfully than pleasant ones would just now. The lash of the
_Quarterly_, however severely applied, cannot sting--as its praise
probably would not elate me. Currer Bell feels a sorrowful
independence of reviews and reviewers; their approbation might indeed
fall like an additional weight on his heart, but their censure has no
bitterness for him.
'My sister Anne sends the accompanying answer to the letter received
through you the other day; will you be kind enough to post it? She
is not well yet, nor is papa, both are suffering under severe
influenza colds. My letters had better be brief at present--they
cannot be cheerful. I am, however, still sustained. While looking
with dismay on the desolation sickness and death have wrought in our
home, I can combine with awe of God's judgments a sense of gratitude
for his mercies. Yet life has become very void, and hope has proved
a strange traitor; when I shall again be able to put confidence in
her suggestions, I know not: she kept whispering that Emily would
not, _could_ not die, and where is she now? Out of my reach, out of
my world--torn from me.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
'_March_ 3_rd_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--Hitherto, I have always forgotten to acknowledge the
receipt of the parcel from Cornhill. It came at a time when I could
not open it nor think of it; its contents are still a mystery. I
will not taste, till I can enjoy them. I looked at it the other day.
It reminded me too sharply of the time when the first parcel arrived
last October: Emily was then beginning to be ill--the opening of the
parcel and examination of the books cheered her; their perusal
occupied her for many a weary day. The very evening before her last
morning dawned I read to her one of Emerson's essays. I read on,
till I found she was not listening--I thought to recommence next day.
Next day, the first glance at her face told me what would happen
before night-fall.
'C. BRONTE.'
'_November_ 19_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I am very sorry to hear that Mr. Taylor's illness has
proved so much more serious than was anticipated, but I do hope he is
now better. That he should be quite well cannot be as yet expected,
for I believe rheumatic fever is a complaint slow to leave the system
it has invaded.
'Now that I have almost formed the resolution of coming to London,
the thought begins to present itself to me under a pleasant aspect.
At first it was sad; it recalled the last time I went and with whom,
and to whom I came home, and in what dear companionship I again and
again narrated all that had been seen, heard, and uttered in that
visit. Emily would never go into any sort of society herself, and
whenever I went I could on my return communicate to her a pleasure
that suited her, by giving the distinct faithful impression of each
scene I had witnessed. When pressed to go, she would sometimes say,
"What is the use? Charlotte will bring it all home to me." And
indeed I delighted to please her thus. My occupation is gone now.
'I shall come to be lectured. I perceive you are ready with
animadversion; you are not at all well satisfied on some points, so I
will open my ears to hear, nor will I close my heart against
conviction; but I forewarn you, I have my own doctrines, not
acquired, but innate, some that I fear cannot be rooted up without
tearing away all the soil from which they spring, and leaving only
unproductive rock for new seed.
'I have read the _Caxtons_, I have looked at _Fanny Hervey_. I think
I will not write what I think of either--should I see you I will
speak it.
'Take a hundred, take a thousand of such works and weigh them in the
balance against a page of Thackeray. I hope Mr. Thackeray is
recovered.
'The _Sun_, the _Morning Herald_, and the _Critic_ came this morning.
None of them express disappointment from _Shirley_, or on the whole
compare her disadvantageously with _Jane_. It strikes me that those
worthies--the _Athenaeum_, _Spectator_, _Economist_, made haste to be
first with their notices that they might give the tone; if so, their
manoeuvre has not yet quite succeeded.
'The _Critic_, our old friend, is a friend still. Why does the pulse
of pain beat in every pleasure? Ellis and Acton Bell are referred
to, and where are they? I will not repine. Faith whispers they are
not in those graves to which imagination turns--the feeling,
thinking, the inspired natures are beyond earth, in a region more
glorious. I believe them blessed. I think, I _will_ think, my loss
has been _their_ gain. Does it weary you that I refer to them? If
so, forgive me.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.
'Before closing this I glanced over the letter inclosed under your
cover. Did you read it? It is from a lady, not quite an old maid,
but nearly one, she says; no signature or date; a queer, but
good-natured production, it made me half cry, half laugh. I am sure
_Shirley_ has been exciting enough for her, and too exciting. I
cannot well reply to the letter since it bears no address, and I am
glad--I should not know what to say. She is not sure whether I am a
gentleman or not, but I fancy she thinks so. Have you any idea who
she is? If I were a gentleman and like my heroes, she suspects she
should fall in love with me. She had better not. It would be a pity
to cause such a waste of sensibility. You and Mr. Smith would not
let me announce myself as a single gentleman of mature age in my
preface, but if you had permitted it, a great many elderly spinsters
would have been pleased.'
The last words that I have to say concerning Emily are contained in a
letter to me from Miss Ellen Nussey.
'So very little is known of Emily Bronte,' she writes, 'that every
little detail awakens an interest. Her extreme reserve seemed
impenetrable, yet she was intensely lovable; she invited confidence
in her moral power. Few people have the gift of looking and smiling
as she could look and smile. One of her rare expressive looks was
something to remember through life, there was such a depth of soul
and feeling, and yet a shyness of revealing herself--a strength of
self-containment seen in no other. She was in the strictest sense a
law unto herself, and a heroine in keeping to her law. She and
gentle Anne were to be seen twined together as united statues of
power and humility. They were to be seen with their arms lacing each
other in their younger days whenever their occupations permitted
their union. On the top of a moor or in a deep glen Emily was a
child in spirit for glee and enjoyment; or when thrown entirely on
her own resources to do a kindness, she could be vivacious in
conversation and enjoy giving pleasure. A spell of mischief also
lurked in her on occasions when out on the moors. She enjoyed
leading Charlotte where she would not dare to go of her own
free-will. Charlotte had a mortal dread of unknown animals, and it
was Emily's pleasure to lead her into close vicinity, and then to
tell her of how and of what she had done, laughing at her horror with
great amusement. If Emily wanted a book she might have left in the
sitting-room she would dart in again without looking at any one,
especially if any guest were present. Among the curates, Mr.
Weightman was her only exception for any conventional courtesy. The
ability with which she took up music was amazing; the style, the
touch, and the expression was that of a professor absorbed heart and
soul in his theme. The two dogs, Keeper and Flossy, were always in
quiet waiting by the side of Emily and Anne during their breakfast of
Scotch oatmeal and milk, and always had a share handed down to them
at the close of the meal. Poor old Keeper, Emily's faithful friend
and worshipper, seemed to understand her like a human being. One
evening, when the four friends were sitting closely round the fire in
the sitting-room, Keeper forced himself in between Charlotte and
Emily and mounted himself on Emily's lap; finding the space too
limited for his comfort he pressed himself forward on to the guest's
knees, making himself quite comfortable. Emily's heart was won by
the unresisting endurance of the visitor, little guessing that she
herself, being in close contact, was the inspiring cause of
submission to Keeper's preference. Sometimes Emily would delight in
showing off Keeper--make him frantic in action, and roar with the
voice of a lion. It was a terrifying exhibition within the walls of
an ordinary sitting-room. Keeper was a solemn mourner at Emily's
funeral and never recovered his cheerfulness.'
CHAPTER VII: ANNE BRONTE
It can scarcely be doubted that Anne Bronte's two novels, _Agnes Grey_
and _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_, would have long since fallen into
oblivion but for the inevitable association with the romances of her two
greater sisters. While this may he taken for granted, it is impossible
not to feel, even at the distance of half a century, a sense of Anne's
personal charm. Gentleness is a word always associated with her by those
who knew her. When Mr. Nicholls saw what professed to be a portrait of
Anne in a magazine article, he wrote: 'What an awful caricature of the
dear, gentle Anne Bronte!' Mr. Nicholls has a portrait of Anne in his
possession, drawn by Charlotte, which he pronounces to be an admirable
likeness, and this does convey the impression of a sweet and gentle
nature.
Anne, as we have seen, was taken in long clothes from Thornton to
Haworth. Her godmother was a Miss Outhwaite, a fact I learn from an
inscription in Anne's _Book of Common Prayer_. '_Miss Outhwaite to her
goddaughter_, _Anne Bronte_, _July _13_th_, 1827.' Miss Outhwaite was
not forgetful of her goddaughter, for by her will she left Anne 200
pounds.
There is a sampler worked by Anne, bearing date January 23rd, 1830, and
there is a later book than the Prayer Book, with Anne's name in it, and,
as might be expected, it is a good-conduct prize. _Prize for good
conduct presented to Miss A. Bronte with Miss Wooler's kind love_, _Roe
Head_, _Dec._ 14_th_, 1836, is the inscription in a copy of Watt _On the
Improvement of the Mind_.
Apart from the correspondence we know little more than this--that Anne
was the least assertive of the three sisters, and that she was more
distinctly a general favourite. We have Charlotte's own word for it that
even the curates ventured upon 'sheep's eyes' at Anne. We know all too
little of her two experiences as governess, first at Blake Hall with Mrs.
Ingham, and later at Thorp Green with Mrs. Robinson. The painful episode
of Branwell's madness came to disturb her sojourn at the latter place,
but long afterwards her old pupils, the Misses Robinson, called to see
her at Haworth; and one of them, who became a Mrs. Clapham of Keighley,
always retained the most kindly memories of her gentle governess.
[Picture: Anne Bronte]
With the exception of these two uncomfortable episodes as governess, Anne
would seem to have had no experience of the larger world. Even before
Anne's death, Charlotte had visited Brussels, London, and Hathersage (in
Derbyshire). Anne never, I think, set foot out of her native county,
although she was the only one of her family to die away from home. Of
her correspondence I have only the two following letters:--
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _October_ 4_th_, 1847.
'MY DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--Many thanks to you for your unexpected and
welcome epistle. Charlotte is well, and meditates writing to you.
Happily for all parties the east wind no longer prevails. During its
continuance she complained of its influence as usual. I too suffered
from it in some degree, as I always do, more or less; but this time,
it brought me no reinforcement of colds and coughs, which is what I
dread the most. Emily considers it a very uninteresting wind, but it
does not affect her nervous system. Charlotte agrees with me in
thinking the --- {183a} a very provoking affair. You are quite
mistaken about her parasol; she affirms she brought it back, and I
can bear witness to the fact, having seen it yesterday in her
possession. As for my book, I have no wish to see it again till I
see you along with it, and then it will be welcome enough for the
sake of the bearer. We are all here much as you left us. I have no
news to tell you, except that Mr. Nicholls begged a holiday and went
to Ireland three or four weeks ago, and is not expected back till
Saturday; but that, I dare say, is no news at all. We were all and
severally pleased and gratified for your kind and judiciously
selected presents, from papa down to Tabby, or down to myself,
perhaps I ought rather to say. The crab-cheese is excellent, and
likely to be very useful, but I don't intend to need it. It is not
choice but necessity has induced me to choose such a tiny sheet of
paper for my letter, having none more suitable at hand; but perhaps
it will contain as much as you need wish to read, and I to write, for
I find I have nothing more to say, except that your little Tabby must
be a charming little creature. That is all, for as Charlotte is
writing, or about to write to you herself, I need not send any
messages from her. Therefore accept my best love. I must not omit
the Major's {183b} compliments. And--Believe me to be your
affectionate friend,
'ANNE BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 4_th_, 1848.
'MY DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--I am not going to give you a "nice _long_
letter"--on the contrary, I mean to content myself with a shabby
little note, to be ingulfed in a letter of Charlotte's, which will,
of course, be infinitely more acceptable to you than any production
of mine, though I do not question your friendly regard for me, or the
indulgent welcome you would accord to a missive of mine, even without
a more agreeable companion to back it; but you must know there is a
lamentable deficiency in my organ of language, which makes me almost
as bad a hand at writing as talking, unless I have something
particular to say. I have now, however, to thank you and your friend
for your kind letter and her pretty watch-guards, which I am sure we
shall all of us value the more for being the work of her own hands.
You do not tell us how _you_ bear the present unfavourable weather.
We are all cut up by this cruel east wind. Most of us, i.e.
Charlotte, Emily, and I have had the influenza, or a bad cold
instead, twice over within the space of a few weeks. Papa has had it
once. Tabby has escaped it altogether. I have no news to tell you,
for we have been nowhere, seen no one, and done nothing (to speak of)
since you were here--and yet we contrive to be busy from morning till
night. Flossy is fatter than ever, but still active enough to relish
a sheep-hunt. I hope you and your circle have been more fortunate in
the matter of colds than we have.
'With kind regards to all,--I remain, dear Miss Nussey, yours ever
affectionately,
'ANNE BRONTE.'
_Agnes Grey_, as we have noted, was published by Newby, in one volume, in
1847. _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_ was issued by the same publisher, in
three volumes, in 1848. It is not generally known that _The Tenant of
Wildfell Hall_ went into a second edition the same year; and I should
have pronounced it incredible, were not a copy of the later issue in my
possession, that Anne Bronte had actually written a preface to this
edition. The fact is entirely ignored in the correspondence. The
preface in question makes it quite clear, if any evidence of that were
necessary, that Anne had her brother in mind in writing the book. 'I
could not be understood to suppose,' she says, 'that the proceedings of
the unhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I have here
introduced, are a specimen of the common practices of society: the case
is an extreme one, as I trusted none would fail to perceive; but I knew
that such characters do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from
following in their steps, or prevented one thoughtless girl from falling
into the very natural error of my heroine, the book has not been written
in vain.' 'One word more and I have done,' she continues. 'Respecting
the author's identity, I would have it to be distinctly understood that
Acton Bell is neither Currer nor Ellis Bell, and, therefore, let not his
faults be attributed to them. As to whether the name is real or
fictitious, it cannot greatly signify to those who know him only by his
works.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_January_ 18_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--In sitting down to write to you I feel as if I were
doing a wrong and a selfish thing. I believe I ought to discontinue
my correspondence with you till times change, and the tide of
calamity which of late days has set so strongly in against us takes a
turn. But the fact is, sometimes I feel it absolutely necessary to
unburden my mind. To papa I must only speak cheeringly, to Anne only
encouragingly--to you I may give some hint of the dreary truth.
'Anne and I sit alone and in seclusion as you fancy us, but we do not
study. Anne cannot study now, she can scarcely read; she occupies
Emily's chair; she does not get well. A week ago we sent for a
medical man of skill and experience from Leeds to see her. He
examined her with the stethoscope. His report I forbear to dwell on
for the present--even skilful physicians have often been mistaken in
their conjectures.
'My first impulse was to hasten her away to a warmer climate, but
this was forbidden: she must not travel; she is not to stir from the
house this winter; the temperature of her room is to be kept
constantly equal.
'Had leave been given to try change of air and scene, I should hardly
have known how to act. I could not possibly leave papa; and when I
mentioned his accompanying us, the bare thought distressed him too
much to be dwelt upon. Papa is now upwards of seventy years of age;
his habits for nearly thirty years have been those of absolute
retirement; any change in them is most repugnant to him, and probably
could not, at this time especially when the hand of God is so heavy
upon his old age, be ventured upon without danger.
'When we lost Emily I thought we had drained the very dregs of our
cup of trial, but now when I hear Anne cough as Emily coughed, I
tremble lest there should be exquisite bitterness yet to taste.
However, I must not look forwards, nor must I look backwards. Too
often I feel like one crossing an abyss on a narrow plank--a glance
round might quite unnerve.
'So circumstanced, my dear sir, what claim have I on your friendship,
what right to the comfort of your letters? My literary character is
effaced for the time, and it is by that only you know me. Care of
papa and Anne is necessarily my chief present object in life, to the
exclusion of all that could give me interest with my publishers or
their connections. Should Anne get better, I think I could rally and
become Currer Bell once more, but if otherwise, I look no farther:
sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
'Anne is very patient in her illness, as patient as Emily was
unflinching. I recall one sister and look at the other with a sort
of reverence as well as affection--under the test of suffering
neither has faltered.
'All the days of this winter have gone by darkly and heavily like a
funeral train. Since September, sickness has not quitted the house.
It is strange it did not use to be so, but I suspect now all this has
been coming on for years. Unused, any of us, to the possession of
robust health, we have not noticed the gradual approaches of decay;
we did not know its symptoms: the little cough, the small appetite,
the tendency to take cold at every variation of atmosphere have been
regarded as things of course. I see them in another light now.
'If you answer this, write to me as you would to a person in an
average state of tranquillity and happiness. I want to keep myself
as firm and calm as I can. While papa and Anne want me, I hope, I
pray, never to fail them. Were I to see you I should endeavour to
converse on ordinary topics, and I should wish to write on the
same--besides, it will be less harassing to yourself to address me as
usual.
'May God long preserve to you the domestic treasures you value; and
when bereavement at last comes, may He give you strength to bear
it.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_February_ 1_st_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--Anne seems so tranquil this morning, so free from pain
and fever, and looks and speaks so like herself in health, that I too
feel relieved, and I take advantage of the respite to write to you,
hoping that my letter may reflect something of the comparative peace
I feel.
'Whether my hopes are quite fallacious or not, I do not know; but
sometimes I fancy that the remedies prescribed by Mr. Teale, and
approved--as I was glad to learn--by Dr. Forbes, are working a good
result. Consumption, I am aware, is a flattering malady, but
certainly Anne's illness has of late assumed a less alarming
character than it had in the beginning: the hectic is allayed; the
cough gives a more frequent reprieve. Could I but believe she would
live two years--a year longer, I should be thankful: I dreaded the
terrors of the swift messenger which snatched Emily from us, as it
seemed, in a few days.
'The parcel came yesterday. You and Mr. Smith do nothing by halves.
Neither of you care for being thanked, so I will keep my gratitude in
my own mind. The choice of books is perfect. Papa is at this moment
reading Macaulay's _History_, which he had wished to see. Anne is
engaged with one of Frederika Bremer's tales.
'I wish I could send a parcel in return; I had hoped to have had one
by this time ready to despatch. When I saw you and Mr. Smith in
London, I little thought of all that was to come between July and
Spring: how my thoughts were to be caught away from imagination,
enlisted and absorbed in realities the most cruel.
'I will tell you what I want to do; it is to show you the first
volume of my MS., which I have copied. In reading Mary Barton (a
clever though painful tale) I was a little dismayed to find myself in
some measure anticipated both in subject and incident. I should like
to have your opinion on this point, and to know whether the
resemblance appears as considerable to a stranger as it does to
myself. I should wish also to have the benefit of such general
strictures and advice as you choose to give. Shall I therefore send
the MS. when I return the first batch of books?
'But remember, if I show it to you it is on two conditions: the
first, that you give me a faithful opinion--I do not promise to be
swayed by it, but I should like to have it; the second, that you show
it and speak of it to _none_ but Mr. Smith. I have always a great
horror of premature announcements--they may do harm and can never do
good. Mr. Smith must be so kind as not to mention it yet in his
quarterly circulars. All human affairs are so uncertain, and my
position especially is at present so peculiar, that I cannot count on
the time, and would rather that no allusion should be made to a work
of which great part is yet to create.
'There are two volumes in the first parcel which, having seen, I
cannot bring myself to part with, and must beg Mr. Smith's permission
to retain: Mr. Thackeray's _Journey from Cornhill_, _etc_. and _The
testimony to the Truth_. That last is indeed a book after my own
heart. I _do_ like the mind it discloses--it is of a fine and high
order. Alexander Harris may be a clown by birth, but he is a
nobleman by nature. When I could read no other book, I read his and
derived comfort from it. No matter whether or not I can agree in all
his views, it is the principles, the feelings, the heart of the man I
admire.
'Write soon and tell me whether you think it advisable that I should
send the MS.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'HAWORTH, _February_ 4_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I send the parcel up without delay, according to your
request. The manuscript has all its errors upon it, not having been
read through since copying. I have kept _Madeline_, along with the
two other books I mentioned; I shall consider it the gift of Miss
Kavanagh, and shall value it both for its literary excellence and for
the modest merit of the giver. We already possess Tennyson's _Poems_
and _Our Street_. Emerson's _Essays_ I read with much interest, and
often with admiration, but they are of mixed gold and clay--deep and
invigorating truth, dreary and depressing fallacy seem to me combined
therein. In George Borrow's works I found a wild fascination, a
vivid graphic power of description, a fresh originality, an athletic
simplicity (so to speak), which give them a stamp of their own.
After reading his _Bible in Spain_ I felt as if I had actually
travelled at his side, and seen the "wild Sil" rush from its mountain
cradle; wandered in the hilly wilderness of the Sierras; encountered
and conversed with Manehegan, Castillian, Andalusian, Arragonese,
and, above all, with the savage Gitanos.
'Your mention of Mr. Taylor suggests to me that possibly you and Mr.
Smith might wish him to share the little secret of the MS.--that
exclusion might seem invidious, that it might make your mutual
evening chat less pleasant. If so, admit him to the confidence by
all means. He is attached to the firm, and will no doubt keep its
secrets. I shall be glad of another censor, and if a severe one, so
much the better, provided he is also just. I court the keenest
criticism. Far rather would I never publish more, than publish
anything inferior to my first effort. Be honest, therefore, all
three of you. If you think this book promises less favourably than
_Jane Eyre_, say so; it is but trying again, _i.e._, if life and
health be spared.
'Anne continues a little better--the mild weather suits her. At
times I hear the renewal of hope's whisper, but I dare not listen too
fondly; she deceived me cruelly before. A sudden change to cold
would be the test. I dread such change, but must not anticipate.
Spring lies before us, and then summer--surely we may hope a little!
'Anne expresses a wish to see the notices of the poems. You had
better, therefore, send them. We shall expect to find painful
allusions to one now above blame and beyond praise; but these must be
borne. For ourselves, we are almost indifferent to censure. I read
the _Quarterly_ without a pang, except that I thought there were some
sentences disgraceful to the critic. He seems anxious to let it be
understood that he is a person well acquainted with the habits of the
upper classes. Be this as it may, I am afraid he is no gentleman;
and moreover, that no training could make him such. {190} Many a
poor man, born and bred to labour, would disdain that reviewer's cast
of feeling.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_March_ 2_nd_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--My sister still continues better: she has less languor
and weakness; her spirits are improved. This change gives cause, I
think, both for gratitude and hope.
'I am glad that you and Mr. Smith like the commencement of my present
work. I wish it were _more than a commencement_; for how it will be
reunited after the long break, or how it can gather force of flow
when the current has been checked or rather drawn off so long, I know
not.
'I sincerely thank you both for the candid expression of your
objections. What you say with reference to the first chapter shall
be duly weighed. At present I feel reluctant to withdraw it,
because, as I formerly said of the Lowood part of _Jane Eyre_, _it is
true_. The curates and their ongoings are merely photographed from
the life. I should like you to explain to me more fully the ground
of your objections. Is it because you think this chapter will render
the work liable to severe handling by the press? Is it because
knowing as you now do the identity of "Currer Bell," this scene
strikes you as unfeminine? Is it because it is intrinsically
defective and inferior? I am afraid the two first reasons would not
weigh with me--the last would.
'Anne and I thought it very kind in you to preserve all the notices
of the Poems so carefully for us. Some of them, as you said, were
well worth reading. We were glad to find that our old friend the
_Critic_ has again a kind word for us. I was struck with one curious
fact, viz., that four of the notices are fac-similes of each other.
How does this happen? I suppose they copy.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_March_ 8_th_, 1849.
'DEAR ELLEN,--Anne's state has apparently varied very little during
the last fortnight or three weeks. I wish I could say she gains
either flesh, strength, or appetite; but there is no progress on
these points, nor I hope, as far as regards the two last at least,
any falling off; she is piteously thin. Her cough, and the pain in
her side continue the same.
'I write these few lines that you may not think my continued silence
strange; anything like frequent correspondence I cannot keep up, and
you must excuse me. I trust you and all at Brookroyd are happy and
well. Give my love to your mother and all the rest, and--Believe me,
yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_March_ 11_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--My sister has been something worse since I wrote last.
We have had nearly a week of frost, and the change has tried her, as
I feared it would do, though not so severely as former experience had
led me to apprehend. I am thankful to say she is now again a little
better. Her state of mind is usually placid, and her chief
sufferings consist in the harassing cough and a sense of languor.
'I ought to have acknowledged the safe arrival of the parcel before
now, but I put it off from day to day, fearing I should write a
sorrowful letter. A similar apprehension induces me to abridge this
note.
'Believe me, whether in happiness or the contrary, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS LAETITIA WHEELWRIGHT
'HAWORTH, _March_ 15_th_, 1849.
'DEAR LAETITIA,--I have not quite forgotten you through the winter,
but I have remembered you only like some pleasant waking idea
struggling through a dreadful dream. You say my last letter was
dated September 14th. You ask how I have passed the time since.
What has happened to me? Why have I been silent?
'It is soon told.
'On the 24th of September my only brother, after being long in weak
health, and latterly consumptive--though we were far from
apprehending immediate danger--died, quite suddenly as it seemed to
us. He had been out two days before. The shock was great. Ere he
could be interred I fell ill. A low nervous fever left me very weak.
As I was slowly recovering, my sister Emily, whom you knew, was
seized with inflammation of the lungs; suppuration took place; two
agonising months of hopes and fears followed, and on the 19th of
December _she died_.
'She was scarcely cold in her grave when Anne, my youngest and last
sister, who has been delicate all her life, exhibited symptoms that
struck us with acute alarm. We sent for the first advice that could
be procured. She was examined with the stethoscope, and the dreadful
fact was announced that her lungs too were affected, and that
tubercular consumption had already made considerable progress. A
system of treatment was prescribed, which has since been ratified by
the opinion of Dr. Forbes, whom your papa will, I dare say, know. I
hope it has somewhat delayed disease. She is now a patient invalid,
and I am her nurse. God has hitherto supported me in some sort
through all these bitter calamities, and my father, I am thankful to
say, has been wonderfully sustained; but there have been hours, days,
weeks of inexpressible anguish to undergo, and the cloud of impending
distress still lowers dark and sullen above us. I cannot write much.
I can only pray Providence to preserve you and yours from such
affliction as He has seen good to accumulate on me and mine.
'With best regards to your dear mamma and all your circle,--Believe
me, yours faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS WOOLER
'HAWORTH, _March_ 24_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR MISS WOOLER,--I have delayed answering your letter in the
faint hope that I might be able to reply favourably to your inquiries
after my sister's health. This, however, is not permitted me to do.
Her decline is gradual and fluctuating, but its nature is not
doubtful. The symptoms of cough, pain in the side and chest, wasting
of flesh, strength, and appetite, after the sad experience we have
had, cannot but be regarded by us as equivocal.
'In spirit she is resigned; at heart she is, I believe, a true
Christian. She looks beyond this life, and regards her home and rest
as elsewhere than on earth. May God support her and all of us
through the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the last hour
when the struggle which separates soul from body must be gone
through!
'We saw Emily torn from the midst of us when our hearts clung to her
with intense attachment, and when, loving each other as we did--well,
it seemed as if (might we but have been spared to each other) we
could have found complete happiness in our mutual society and
affection. She was scarcely buried when Anne's health failed, and we
were warned that consumption had found another victim in her, and
that it would be vain to reckon on her life.
'These things would be too much if Reason, unsupported by Religion,
were condemned to bear them alone. I have cause to be most thankful
for the strength which has hitherto been vouchsafed both to my father
and myself. God, I think, is specially merciful to old age; and for
my own part, trials which in prospective would have seemed to me
quite intolerable, when they actually came, I endured without
prostration. Yet, I must confess, that in the time which has elapsed
since Emily's death, there have been moments of solitary, deep, inert
affliction, far harder to bear than those which immediately followed
our loss. The crisis of bereavement has an acute pang which goads to
exertion, the desolate after-feeling sometimes paralyses.
'I have learned that we are not to find solace in our own strength:
we must seek it in God's omnipotence. Fortitude is good, but
fortitude itself must be shaken under us to teach us how weak we are.
'With best wishes to yourself and all dear to you, and sincere thanks
for the interest you so kindly continue to take in me and my
sister,--Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_April_ 16_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--Your kind advice on the subject of Homoeopathy
deserves and has our best thanks. We find ourselves, however, urged
from more than one quarter to try different systems and medicines,
and I fear we have already given offence by not listening to all.
The fact is, were we in every instance compliant, my dear sister
would be harassed by continual changes. Cod-liver oil and carbonate
of iron were first strongly recommended. Anne took them as long as
she could, but at last she was obliged to give them up: the oil
yielded her no nutriment, it did not arrest the progress of
emaciation, and as it kept her always sick, she was prevented from
taking food of any sort. Hydropathy was then strongly advised. She
is now trying Gobold's Vegetable Balsam; she thinks it does her some
good; and as it is the first medicine which has had that effect, she
would wish to persevere with it for a time. She is also looking
hopefully forward to deriving benefit from change of air. We have
obtained Mr. Teale's permission to go to the seaside in the course of
six or eight weeks. At first I felt torn between two duties--that of
staying with papa and going with Anne; but as it is papa's own most
kindly expressed wish that I should adopt the latter plan, and as,
besides, he is now, thank God! in tolerable health, I hope to be
spared the pain of resigning the care of my sister to other hands,
however friendly. We wish to keep together as long as we can. I
hope, too, to derive from the change some renewal of physical
strength and mental composure (in neither of which points am I what I
ought or wish to be) to make me a better and more cheery nurse.
'I fear I must have seemed to you hard in my observations about _The
Emigrant Family_. The fact was, I compared Alexander Harris with
himself only. It is not equal to the _Testimony to the Truth_, but,
tried by the standard of other and very popular books too, it is very
clever and original. Both subject and the manner of treating it are
unhackneyed: he gives new views of new scenes and furnishes
interesting information on interesting topics. Considering the
increasing necessity for and tendency to emigration, I should think
it has a fair chance of securing the success it merits.
'I took up Leigh Hunt's book _The Town_ with the impression that it
would be interesting only to Londoners, and I was surprised, ere I
had read many pages, to find myself enchained by his pleasant,
graceful, easy style, varied knowledge, just views, and kindly
spirit. There is something peculiarly anti-melancholic in Leigh
Hunt's writings, and yet they are never boisterous. They resemble
sunshine, being at once bright and tranquil.
'I like Carlyle better and better. His style I do not like, nor do I
always concur in his opinions, nor quite fall in with his hero
worship; but there is a manly love of truth, an honest recognition
and fearless vindication of intrinsic greatness, of intellectual and
moral worth, considered apart from birth, rank, or wealth, which
commands my sincere admiration. Carlyle would never do for a
contributor to the _Quarterly_. I have not read his _French
Revolution_.
'I congratulate you on the approaching publication of Mr. Ruskin's
new work. If the _Seven Lamps of Architecture_ resemble their
predecessor, _Modern Painters_, they will be no lamps at all, but a
new constellation--seven bright stars, for whose rising the reading
world ought to be anxiously agaze.
'Do not ask me to mention what books I should like to read. Half the
pleasure of receiving a parcel from Cornhill consists in having its
contents chosen for us. We like to discover, too, by the leaves cut
here and there, that the ground has been travelled before us. I may
however say, with reference to works of fiction, that I should much
like to see one of Godwin's works, never having hitherto had that
pleasure--_Caleb Williams_ or _Fleetwood_, or which you thought best
worth reading.
'But it is yet much too soon to talk of sending more books; our
present stock is scarcely half exhausted. You will perhaps think I
am a slow reader, but remember, Currer Bell is a country housewife,
and has sundry little matters connected with the needle and kitchen
to attend to which take up half his day, especially now when, alas!
there is but one pair of hands where once there were three. I did
not mean to touch that chord, its sound is too sad.
'I try to write now and then. The effort was a hard one at first.
It renewed the terrible loss of last December strangely. Worse than
useless did it seem to attempt to write what there no longer lived an
"Ellis Bell" to read; the whole book, with every hope founded on it,
faded to vanity and vexation of spirit.
'One inducement to persevere and do my best I still have, however,
and I am thankful for it: I should like to please my kind friends at
Cornhill. To that end I wish my powers would come back; and if it
would please Providence to restore my remaining sister, I think they
would.
'Do not forget to tell me how you are when you write again. I trust
your indisposition is quite gone by this time.--Believe me, yours
sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_May_ 1_st_, 1849.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I returned Mary Taylor's letter to Hunsworth as soon as
I had read it. Thank God she was safe up to that time, but I do not
think the earthquake was then over. I shall long to hear tidings of
her again.
'Anne was worse during the warm weather we had about a week ago. She
grew weaker, and both the pain in her side and her cough were worse;
strange to say, since it is colder, she has appeared rather to revive
than sink. I still hope that if she gets over May she may last a
long time.
'We have engaged lodgings at Scarbro'. We stipulated for a
good-sized sitting-room and an airy double-bedded lodging room, with
a sea view, and if not deceived, have obtained these desiderata at
No. 2 Cliff. Anne says it is one of the best situations in the
place. It would not have done to have taken lodgings either in the
town or on the bleak steep coast, where Miss Wooler's house is
situated. If Anne is to get any good she must have every advantage.
Miss Outhwaite [her godmother] left her in her will a legacy of 200
pounds, and she cannot employ her money better than in obtaining what
may prolong existence, if it does not restore health. We hope to
leave home on the 23rd, and I think it will be advisable to rest at
York, and stay all night there. I hope this arrangement will suit
you. We reckon on your society, dear Ellen, as a real privilege and
pleasure. We shall take little luggage, and shall have to buy
bonnets and dresses and several other things either at York or
Scarbro'; which place do you think would be best? Oh, if it would
please God to strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we might be
together! His will, however, must be done, and if she is not to
recover, it remains to pray for strength and patience.
'C. B.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_May_ 8_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I hasten to acknowledge the two kind letters for which
I am indebted to you. That fine spring weather of which you speak
did not bring such happiness to us in its sunshine as I trust it did
to you and thousands besides--the change proved trying to my sister.
For a week or ten days I did not know what to think, she became so
weak, and suffered so much from increased pain in the side, and
aggravated cough. The last few days have been much colder, yet,
strange to say, during their continuance she has appeared rather to
revive than sink. She not unfrequently shows the very same symptoms
which were apparent in Emily only a few days before she died--fever
in the evenings, sleepless nights, and a sort of lethargy in the
morning hours; this creates acute anxiety--then comes an improvement,
which reassures. In about three weeks, should the weather be genial
and her strength continue at all equal to the journey, we hope to go
to Scarboro'. It is not without misgiving that I contemplate a
departure from home under such circumstances; but since she herself
earnestly wishes the experiment to be tried, I think it ought not to
be neglected. We are in God's hands, and must trust the results to
Him. An old school-fellow of mine, a tried and faithful friend, has
volunteered to accompany us. I shall have the satisfaction of
leaving papa to the attentions of two servants equally tried and
faithful. One of them is indeed now old and infirm, and unfit to
stir much from her chair by the kitchen fireside; but the other is
young and active, and even she has lived with us seven years. I have
reason, therefore, you see, to be thankful amidst sorrow, especially
as papa still possesses every faculty unimpaired, and though not
robust, has good general health--a sort of chronic cough is his sole
complaint.
'I hope Mr. Smith will not risk a cheap edition of _Jane Eyre_ yet,
he had better wait awhile--the public will be sick of the name of
that one book. I can make no promise as to when another will be
ready--neither my time nor my efforts are my own. That absorption in
my employment to which I gave myself up without fear of doing wrong
when I wrote _Jane Eyre_, would now be alike impossible and blamable;
but I do what I can, and have made some little progress. We must all
be patient.
'Meantime, I should say, let the public forget at their ease, and let
us not be nervous about it. And as to the critics, if the Bells
possess real merit, I do not fear impartial justice being rendered
them one day. I have a very short mental as well as physical sight
in some matters, and am far less uneasy at the idea of public
impatience, misconstruction, censure, etc., than I am at the thought
of the anxiety of those two or three friends in Cornhill to whom I
owe much kindness, and whose expectations I would earnestly wish not
to disappoint. If they can make up their minds to wait tranquilly,
and put some confidence in my goodwill, if not my power, to get on as
well as may be, I shall not repine; but I verily believe that the
"nobler sex" find it more difficult to wait, to plod, to work out
their destiny inch by inch, than their sisters do. They are always
for walking so fast and taking such long steps, one cannot keep up
with them. One should never tell a gentleman that one has commenced
a task till it is nearly achieved. Currer Bell, even if he had no
let or hindrance, and if his path were quite smooth, could never
march with the tread of a Scott, a Bulwer, a Thackeray, or a Dickens.
I want you and Mr. Smith clearly to understand this. I have always
wished to guard you against exaggerated anticipations--calculate low
when you calculate on me. An honest man--and woman too--would always
rather rise above expectation than fall below it.
'Have I lectured enough? and am I understood?
'Give my sympathising respects to Mrs. Williams. I hope her little
daughter is by this time restored to perfect health. It pleased me
to see with what satisfaction you speak of your son. I was glad,
too, to hear of the progress and welfare of Miss Kavanagh. The
notices of Mr. Harris's works are encouraging and just--may they
contribute to his success!
'Should Mr. Thackeray again ask after Currer Bell, say the secret is
and will be well kept because it is not worth disclosure. This fact
his own sagacity will have already led him to divine. In the hope
that it may not be long ere I hear from you again,--Believe me, yours
sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS WOOLER
'HAWORTH, _May_ 16_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR MISS WOOLER,--I will lose no time in thanking you for your
letter and kind offer of assistance. We have, however, already
engaged lodgings. I am not myself acquainted with Scarbro', but Anne
knows it well, having been there three or four times. She had a
particular preference for the situation of some lodgings (No. 2
Cliff). We wrote about them, and finding them disengaged, took them.
Your information is, notwithstanding, valuable, should we find this
place in any way ineligible. It is a satisfaction to be provided
with directions for future use.
'Next Wednesday is the day fixed for our departure. Ellen Nussey
accompanies us (by Anne's expressed wish). I could not refuse her
society, but I dared not urge her to go, for I have little hope that
the excursion will be one of pleasure or benefit to those engaged in
it. Anne is extremely weak. She herself has a fixed impression that
the sea air will give her a chance of regaining strength; that
chance, therefore, we must have. Having resolved to try the
experiment, misgivings are useless; and yet, when I look at her,
misgivings will rise. She is more emaciated than Emily was at the
very last; her breath scarcely serves her to mount the stairs,
however slowly. She sleeps very little at night, and often passes
most of the forenoon in a semi-lethargic state. Still, she is up all
day, and even goes out a little when it is fine. Fresh air usually
acts as a stimulus, but its reviving power diminishes.
'With best wishes for your own health and welfare,--Believe me, my
dear Miss Wooler, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'No. 2 CLIFF, SCARBORO', _May_ 27_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--The date above will inform you why I have not answered
your last letter more promptly. I have been busy with preparations
for departure and with the journey. I am thankful to say we reached
our destination safely, having rested one night at York. We found
assistance wherever we needed it; there was always an arm ready to do
for my sister what I was not quite strong enough to do: lift her in
and out of the carriages, carry her across the line, etc.
'It made her happy to see both York and its Minster, and Scarboro'
and its bay once more. There is yet no revival of bodily strength--I
fear indeed the slow ebb continues. People who see her tell me I
must not expect her to last long--but it is something to cheer her
mind.
'Our lodgings are pleasant. As Anne sits at the window she can look
down on the sea, which this morning is calm as glass. She says if
she could breathe more freely she would be comfortable at this
moment--but she cannot breathe freely.
'My friend Ellen is with us. I find her presence a solace. She is a
calm, steady girl--not brilliant, but good and true. She suits and
has always suited me well. I like her, with her phlegm, repose,
sense, and sincerity, better than I should like the most talented
without these qualifications.
'If ever I see you again I should have pleasure in talking over with
you the topics you allude to in your last--or rather, in hearing
_you_ talk them over. We see these things through a glass darkly--or
at least I see them thus. So far from objecting to speculation on,
or discussion of, the subject, I should wish to hear what others have
to say. By _others_, I mean only the serious and reflective--levity
in such matters shocks as much as hypocrisy.
'Write to me. In this strange place your letters will come like the
visits of a friend. Fearing to lose the post, I will add no more at
present.--Believe me, yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_May_ 30_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--My poor sister is taken quietly home at last. She
died on Monday. With almost her last breath she said she was happy,
and thanked God that death was come, and come so gently. I did not
think it would be so soon.
'You will not expect me to add more at present.--Yours faithfully,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_June_ 25_th_, 1849.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I am now again at home, where I returned last
Thursday. I call it _home_ still--much as London would be called
London if an earthquake should shake its streets to ruins. But let
me not be ungrateful: Haworth parsonage is still a home for me, and
not quite a ruined or desolate home either. Papa is there, and two
most affectionate and faithful servants, and two old dogs, in their
way as faithful and affectionate--Emily's large house-dog which lay
at the side of her dying bed, and followed her funeral to the vault,
lying in the pew couched at our feet while the burial service was
being read--and Anne's little spaniel. The ecstasy of these poor
animals when I came in was something singular. At former returns
from brief absences they always welcomed me warmly--but not in that
strange, heart-touching way. I am certain they thought that, as I
was returned, my sisters were not far behind. But here my sisters
will come no more. Keeper may visit Emily's little bed-room--as he
still does day by day--and Flossy may look wistfully round for Anne,
they will never see them again--nor shall I--at least the human part
of me. I must not write so sadly, but how can I help thinking and
feeling sadly? In the daytime effort and occupation aid me, but when
evening darkens, something in my heart revolts against the burden of
solitude--the sense of loss and want grows almost too much for me. I
am not good or amiable in such moments, I am rebellious, and it is
only the thought of my dear father in the next room, or of the kind
servants in the kitchen, or some caress from the poor dogs, which
restores me to softer sentiments and more rational views. As to the
night--could I do without bed, I would never seek it. Waking, I
think, sleeping, I dream of them; and I cannot recall them as they
were in health, still they appear to me in sickness and suffering.
Still, my nights were worse after the first shock of Branwell's
death--they were terrible then; and the impressions experienced on
waking were at that time such as we do not put into language. Worse
seemed at hand than was yet endured--in truth, worse awaited us.
'All this bitterness must be tasted. Perhaps the palate will grow
used to the draught in time, and find its flavour less acrid. This
pain must be undergone; its poignancy, I trust, will be blunted one
day. Ellen would have come back with me but I would not let her. I
knew it would be better to face the desolation at once--later or
sooner the sharp pang must be experienced.
'Labour must be the cure, not sympathy. Labour is the only radical
cure for rooted sorrow. The society of a calm, serenely cheerful
companion--such as Ellen--soothes pain like a soft opiate, but I find
it does not probe or heal the wound; sharper, more severe means, are
necessary to make a remedy. Total change might do much; where that
cannot be obtained, work is the best substitute.
'I by no means ask Miss Kavanagh to write to me. Why should she
trouble herself to do it? What claim have I on her? She does not
know me--she cannot care for me except vaguely and on hearsay. I
have got used to your friendly sympathy, and it comforts me. I have
tried and trust the fidelity of one or two other friends, and I lean
upon it. The natural affection of my father and the attachment and
solicitude of our two servants are precious and consolatory to me,
but I do not look round for general pity; conventional condolence I
do not want, either from man or woman.
'The letter you inclosed in your last bore the signature H. S.
Mayers--the address, Sheepscombe, Stroud, Gloucestershire; can you
give me any information respecting the writer? It is my intention to
acknowledge it one day. I am truly glad to hear that your little
invalid is restored to health, and that the rest of your family
continue well. Mrs. Williams should spare herself for her husband's
and children's sake. Her life and health are too valuable to those
round her to be lavished--she should be careful of them.--Believe me,
yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
It is not necessary to tell over again the story of Anne's death. Miss
Ellen Nussey, who was an eye witness, has related it once for all in Mrs.
Gaskell's Memoir. The tomb at Scarborough hears the following
inscription:--
HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF
ANNE BRONTE
DAUGHTER OF THE REV. P. BRONTE
INCUMBENT OF HAWORTH, YORKSHIRE
_She Died_, _Aged_ 28, _May_ 28_th_, 1849
CHAPTER VIII: ELLEN NUSSEY
If to be known by one's friends is the index to character that it is
frequently assumed to be, Charlotte Bronte comes well out of that ordeal.
She was discriminating in friendship and leal to the heart's core. With
what gratitude she thought of the publisher who gave her the 'first
chance' we know by recognising that the manly Dr. John of _Villette_ was
Mr. George Smith of Smith & Elder. Mr. W. S. Williams, again, would seem
to have been a singularly gifted and amiable man. To her three girl
friends, Ellen Nussey, Mary Taylor, and Laetitia Wheelwright, she was
loyal to her dying day, and pencilled letters to the two of them who were
in England were written in her last illness. Of all her friends, Ellen
Nussey must always have the foremost place in our esteem. Like Mary
Taylor, she made Charlotte's acquaintance when, at fifteen years of age,
she first went to Roe Head School. Mrs. Gaskell has sufficiently
described the beginnings of that friendship which death was not to break.
Ellen Nussey and Charlotte Bronte corresponded with a regularity which
one imagines would be impossible had they both been born half a century
later. The two girls loved one another profoundly. They wrote at times
almost daily. They quarrelled occasionally over trifles, as friends
will, but Charlotte was always full of contrition when a few hours had
passed. Towards the end of her life she wrote to Mr. Williams a letter
concerning Miss Nussey which may well be printed here.
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
'_January_ 3_rd_, 1850.
'MY DEAR SIR,--I have to acknowledge the receipt of the _Morning
Chronicle_ with a good review, and of the _Church of England
Quarterly_ and the _Westminster_ with bad ones. I have also to thank
you for your letter, which would have been answered sooner had I been
alone; but just now I am enjoying the treat of my friend Ellen's
society, and she makes me indolent and negligent--I am too busy
talking to her all day to do anything else. You allude to the
subject of female friendships, and express wonder at the infrequency
of sincere attachments amongst women. As to married women, I can
well understand that they should be absorbed in their husbands and
children--but single women often like each other much, and derive
great solace from their mutual regard. Friendship, however, is a
plant which cannot be forced. True friendship is no gourd, springing
in a night and withering in a day. When I first saw Ellen I did not
care for her; we were school-fellows. In course of time we learnt
each other's faults and good points. We were contrasts--still, we
suited. Affection was first a germ, then a sapling, then a strong
tree--now, no new friend, however lofty or profound in intellect--not
even Miss Martineau herself--could be to me what Ellen is; yet she is
no more than a conscientious, observant, calm, well-bred Yorkshire
girl. She is without romance. If she attempts to read poetry, or
poetic prose, aloud, I am irritated and deprive her of the book--if
she talks of it, I stop my ears; but she is good; she is true; she is
faithful, and I love her.
'Since I came home, Miss Martineau has written me a long and truly
kindly letter. She invites me to visit her at Ambleside. I like the
idea. Whether I can realise it or not, it is pleasant to have in
prospect.
'You ask me to write to Mrs. Williams. I would rather she wrote to
me first; and let her send any kind of letter she likes, without
studying mood or manner.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
Good, True, Faithful--friendship has no sweeter words than these; and it
was this loyalty in Miss Nussey which has marked her out in our day as a
fine type of sweet womanliness, and will secure to her a lasting name as
the friend of Charlotte Bronte.
Miss Ellen Nussey was one of a large family of children, all of whom she
survives. Her home during the years of her first friendship with
Charlotte Bronte was at the Rydings, at that time the property of an
uncle, Reuben Walker, a distinguished court physician. The family in
that generation and in this has given many of its members to high public
service in various professions. Two Nusseys, indeed, and two Walkers,
were court physicians in their day. When Earl Fitzwilliam was canvassing
for the county in 1809, he was a guest at the Rydings for two weeks, and
on his election was chaired by the tenantry. Reuben Walker, this uncle
of Miss Nussey's, was the only Justice of the Peace for the district
which included Leeds, Bradford, Huddersfield, and Halifax, during the
Luddite riots--a significant reminder of the growth of population since
that day. Ellen Nussey's home was at the Rydings, then tenanted by her
brother John, until 1837, and she then removed to Brookroyd, where she
lived until long after Charlotte Bronte died.
The first letter to Ellen Nussey is dated May 31, 1831, Charlotte having
become her school-fellow in the previous January. It would seem to have
been a mere play exercise across the school-room, as the girls were then
together at Roe Head.
[Picture: Ellen Nussey as schoolgirl and adult]
'DEAR MISS NUSSEY,--I take advantage of the earliest opportunity to
thank you for the letter you favoured me with last week, and to
apologise for having so long neglected to write to you; indeed, I
believe this will be the first letter or note I have ever addressed
to you. I am extremely obliged to Mary for her kind invitation, and
I assure you that I should very much have liked to hear the Lectures
on Galvanism, as they would doubtless have been amusing and
instructive. But we are often compelled to bend our inclination to
our duty (as Miss Wooler observed the other day), and since there are
so many holidays this half-year, it would have appeared almost
unreasonable to ask for an extra holiday; besides, we should perhaps
have got behindhand with our lessons, so that, everything considered,
it is perhaps as well that circumstances have deprived us of this
pleasure.--Believe me to remain, your affectionate friend,
'C. BRONTE.'
But by the Christmas holidays, 'Dear Miss Nussey' has become 'Dear
Ellen,' and the friendship has already well commenced.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 13_th_, 1832.
'DEAR ELLEN,--The receipt of your letter gave me an agreeable
surprise, for notwithstanding your faithful promises, you must excuse
me if I say that I had little confidence in their fulfilment, knowing
that when school girls once get home they willingly abandon every
recollection which tends to remind them of school, and indeed they
find such an infinite variety of circumstances to engage their
attention and employ their leisure hours, that they are easily
persuaded that they have no time to fulfil promises made at school.
It gave me great pleasure, however, to find that you and Miss Taylor
are exceptions to the general rule. The cholera still seems slowly
advancing, but let us yet hope, knowing that all things are under the
guidance of a merciful Providence. England has hitherto been highly
favoured, for the disease has neither raged with the astounding
violence, nor extended itself with the frightful rapidity which
marked its progress in many of the continental countries.--From your
affectionate friend,
'CHARLOTTE BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 1_st_, 1833.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I believe we agreed to correspond once a month. That
space of time has now elapsed since I received your last interesting
letter, and I now therefore hasten to reply. Accept my
congratulations on the arrival of the New Year, every succeeding day
of which will, I trust, find you _wiser_ and _better_ in the true
sense of those much-used words. The first day of January always
presents to my mind a train of very solemn and important reflections,
and a question more easily asked than answered frequently occurs,
viz.--How have I improved the past year, and with what good
intentions do I view the dawn of its successor? These, my dearest
Ellen, are weighty considerations which (young as we are) neither you
nor I can too deeply or too seriously ponder. I am sorry your too
great diffidence, arising, I think, from the want of sufficient
confidence in your own capabilities, prevented you from writing to me
in French, as I think the attempt would have materially contributed
to your improvement in that language. You very kindly caution me
against being tempted by the fondness of my sisters to consider
myself of too much importance, and then in a parenthesis you beg me
not to be offended. O Ellen, do you think I could be offended by any
good advice you may give me? No, I thank you heartily, and love you,
if possible, better for it. I am glad you like _Kenilworth_. It is
certainly a splendid production, more resembling a romance than a
novel, and, in my opinion, one of the most interesting works that
ever emanated from the great Sir Walter's pen. I was exceedingly
amused at the characteristic and naive manner in which you expressed
your detestation of Varney's character--so much so, indeed, that I
could not forbear laughing aloud when I perused that part of your
letter. He is certainly the personification of consummate villainy;
and in the delineation of his dark and profoundly artful mind, Scott
exhibits a wonderful knowledge of human nature as well as surprising
skill in embodying his perceptions so as to enable others to become
participators in that knowledge. Excuse the want of news in this
very barren epistle, for I really have none to communicate. Emily
and Anne beg to be kindly remembered to you. Give my best love to
your mother and sisters, and as it is very late permit me to conclude
with the assurance of my unchanged, unchanging, and unchangeable
affection for you.--Adieu, my sweetest Ellen, I am ever yours,
'CHARLOTTE.'
Here is a pleasant testimony to Miss Nussey's attractions from Emily and
Anne.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _September_ 11_th_, 1833.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I have hitherto delayed answering your last letter
because from what you said I imagined you might be from home. Since
you were here Emily has been very ill. Her ailment was erysipelas in
the arm, accompanied by severe bilious attacks, and great general
debility. Her arm was obliged to be cut in order to relieve it. It
is now, I am happy to say, nearly healed--her health is, in fact,
almost perfectly re-established. The sickness still continues to
recur at intervals. Were I to tell you of the impression you have
made on every one here you would accuse me of flattery. Papa and
aunt are continually adducing you as an example for me to shape my
actions and behaviour by. Emily and Anne say "they never saw any one
they liked so well as Miss Nussey," and Tabby talks a great deal more
nonsense about you than I choose to report. You must read this
letter, dear Ellen, without thinking of the writing, for I have
indited it almost all in the twilight. It is now so dark that,
notwithstanding the singular property of "seeing in the night-time"
which the young ladies at Roe Head used to attribute to me, I can
scribble no longer. All the family unite with me in wishes for your
welfare. Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and
supply all those expressions of warm and genuine regard which the
increasing darkness will not permit me to insert.
'CHARLOTTE BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _February_ 11_th_, 1834.
'DEAR ELLEN,--My letters are scarcely worth the postage, and
therefore I have, till now, delayed answering your last
communication; but upwards of two months having elapsed since I
received it, I have at length determined to take up my pen in reply
lest your anger should be roused by my apparent negligence. It
grieved me extremely to hear of your precarious state of health. I
trust sincerely that your medical adviser is mistaken in supposing
you have any tendency to a pulmonary affection. Dear Ellen, that
would indeed be a calamity. I have seen enough of consumption to
dread it as one of the most insidious and fatal diseases incident to
humanity. But I repeat it, I _hope_, nay _pray_, that your alarm is
groundless. If you remember, I used frequently to tell you at school
that you were constitutionally nervous--guard against the gloomy
impressions which such a state of mind naturally produces. Take
constant and regular exercise, and all, I doubt not, will yet be
well. What a remarkable winter we have had! Rain and wind
continually, but an almost total absence of frost and snow. Has
_general_ ill health been the consequence of wet weather at Birstall
or not? With us an unusual number of deaths have lately taken place.
According to custom I have no news to communicate, indeed I do not
write either to retail gossip or to impart solid information; my
motives for maintaining our mutual correspondence are, in the first
place, to get intelligence from you, and in the second that we may
remind each other of our separate existences; without some such
medium of reciprocal converse, according to the nature of things,
_you_, who are surrounded by society and friends, would soon forget
that such an insignificant being as myself ever lived. _I_, however,
in the solitude of our wild little hill village, think of my only
unrelated friend, my dear ci-devant school companion daily--nay,
almost hourly. Now Ellen, don't you think I have very cleverly
contrived to make up a letter out of nothing? Goodbye, dearest.
That God may bless you is the earnest prayer of your ever faithful
friend,
'CHARLOTTE BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _November_ 10_th_, 1834.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I have been a long while, a very long while without
writing to you. A letter I received from Mary Taylor this morning
reminded me of my neglect, and made me instantly sit down to atone
for it, if possible. She tells me your aunt, of Brookroyd, is dead,
and that Sarah is very ill; for this I am truly sorry, but I hope her
case is not yet without hope. You should however remember that
death, should it happen, will undoubtedly be great gain to her. In
your last, dear Ellen, you ask my opinion respecting the amusement of
dancing, and whether I thought it objectionable when indulged in for
an hour or two in parties of boys and girls. I should hesitate to
express a difference of opinion from Mr. Atkinson, but really the
matter seems to me to stand thus: It is allowed on all hands that the
sin of dancing consists not in the mere action of shaking the shanks
(as the Scotch say), but in the consequences that usually attend
it--namely, frivolity and waste of time; when it is used only, as in
the case you state, for the exercise and amusement of an hour among
young people (who surely may without any breach of God's commandments
be allowed a little light-heartedness), these consequences cannot
follow. Ergo (according to my manner of arguing), the amusement is
at such times perfectly innocent. Having nothing more to say, I will
conclude with the expression of my sincere and earnest attachment
for, Ellen, your own dear self.
'CHARLOTTE BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _January_ 12_th_, 1835.
'DEAREST ELLEN,--I thought it better not to answer your kind letter
too soon, lest I should (in the present fully occupied state of your
time) appear intrusive. I am happy to inform you papa has given me
permission to accept the invitation it conveyed, and ere long I hope
once more to have the pleasure of seeing _almost_ the _only_ and
certainly the _dearest_ friend I possess (out of our own family). I
leave it to you to fix the time, only requesting you not to appoint
too early a day; let it be a fortnight or three weeks at least from
the date of the present letter. I am greatly obliged to you for your
kind offer of meeting me at Bradford, but papa thinks that such a
plan would involve uncertainty, and be productive of trouble to you.
He recommends that I should go direct in a gig from Haworth at the
time you shall determine, or, if that day should prove unfavourable,
the first subsequent fine one. Such an arrangement would leave us
both free, and if it meets with your approbation would perhaps be the
best we could finally resolve upon. Excuse the brevity of this
epistle, dear Ellen, for I am in a great hurry, and we shall, I
trust, soon see each other face to face, which will be better than a
hundred letters. Give my respectful love to your mother and sisters,
accept the kind remembrances of all our family, and--Believe me in
particular to be, your firm and faithful friend,
'CHARLOTTE BRONTE.
'_P.S._--You ask me to stay a month when I come, but as I do not wish
to tire you with my company, and as, besides, papa and aunt both
think a fortnight amply sufficient, I shall not exceed that period.
Farewell, _dearest_, _dearest_.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'ROE HEAD, _September_ 10_th_, 1835.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--You are far too kind and frequent in your
invitations. You puzzle me: I hardly know how to refuse, and it is
still more embarrassing to accept. At any rate, I cannot come this
week, for we are in the very thickest _melee_ of the repetitions; I
was hearing the terrible fifth section when your note arrived. But
Miss Wooler says I must go to Gomersall next Friday as she promised
for me on Whitsunday; and on Sunday morning I will join you at
church, if it be convenient, and stay at Rydings till Monday morning.
There's a free and easy proposal! Miss Wooler has driven me to
it--she says her character is implicated! I am very sorry to hear
that your mother has been ill. I do hope she is better now, and that
all the rest of the family are well. Will you be so kind as to
deliver the accompanying note to Miss Taylor when you see her at
church on Sunday? Dear Ellen, excuse the most horrid scrawl ever
penned by mortal hands. Remember me to your mother and sisters,
and--Believe me, E. Nussey's friend,
'CHARLOTTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_February_ 20_th_, 1837.
'I read your letter with dismay, Ellen--what shall I do without you?
Why are we so to be denied each other's society? It is an
inscrutable fatality. I long to be with you because it seems as if
two or three days or weeks spent in your company would beyond measure
strengthen me in the enjoyment of those feelings which I have so
lately begun to cherish. You first pointed out to me that way in
which I am so feebly endeavouring to travel, and now I cannot keep
you by my side, I must proceed sorrowfully alone.
'Why are we to be divided? Surely, Ellen, it must be because we are
in danger of loving each other too well--of losing sight of the
_Creator_ in idolatry of the _creature_. At first I could not say,
"Thy will be done." I felt rebellious; but I know it was wrong to
feel so. Being left a moment alone this morning I prayed fervently
to be enabled to resign myself to _every_ decree of God's
will--though it should be dealt forth with a far severer hand than
the present disappointment. Since then, I have felt calmer and
humbler--and consequently happier. Last Sunday I took up my Bible in
a gloomy frame of mind; I began to read; a feeling stole over me such
as I have not known for many long years--a sweet placid sensation
like those that I remember used to visit me when I was a little
child, and on Sunday evenings in summer stood by the open window
reading the life of a certain French nobleman who attained a purer
and higher degree of sanctity than has been known since the days of
the early Martyrs. I thought of my own Ellen--I wished she had been
near me that I might have told her how happy I was, how bright and
glorious the pages of God's holy word seemed to me. But the
"foretaste" passed away, and earth and sin returned. I must see you
before you go, Ellen; if you cannot come to Roe Head I will contrive
to walk over to Brookroyd, provided you will let me know the time of
your departure. Should you not be at home at Easter I dare not
promise to accept your mother's and sisters' invitation. I should be
miserable at Brookroyd without you, yet I would contrive to visit
them for a few hours if I could not for a few days. I love them for
your sake. I have written this note at a venture. When it will
reach you I know not, but I was determined not to let slip an
opportunity for want of being prepared to embrace it. Farewell, may
God bestow on you all His blessings. My darling--Farewell. Perhaps
you may return before midsummer--do you think you possibly can? I
wish your brother John knew how unhappy I am; he would almost pity
me.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_June_ 8_th_, 1837.
'MY DEAREST ELLEN,--The inclosed, as you will perceive, was written
before I received your last. I had intended to send it by this, but
what you said altered my intention. I scarce dare build a hope on
the foundation your letter lays--we have been disappointed so often,
and I fear I shall not be able to prevail on them to part with you;
but I will try my utmost, and at any rate there is a chance of our
meeting soon; with that thought I will comfort myself. You do not
know how selfishly _glad_ I am that you still continue to dislike
London and the Londoners--it seems to afford a sort of proof that
your affections are not changed. Shall we really stand once again
together on the moors of Haworth? I _dare_ not flatter myself with
too sanguine an expectation. I see many doubts and difficulties.
But with Miss Wooler's leave, which I have asked and in part
obtained, I will go to-morrow and try to remove them.--Believe me, my
own Ellen, yours always truly,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_January_ 12_th_, 1839.
'MY _dear kind_ ELLEN,--I can hardly help laughing when I reckon up
the number of urgent invitations I have received from you during the
last three months. Had I accepted all or even half of them, the
Birstallians would certainly have concluded that I had come to make
Brookroyd my permanent residence. When you set your mind upon it,
you have a peculiar way of edging one in with a circle of dilemmas,
so that they hardly know how to refuse you; however, I shall take a
running leap and clear them all. Frankly, my dear Ellen, I _cannot
come_. Reflect for yourself a moment. Do you see nothing absurd in
the idea of a person coming again into a neighbourhood within a month
after they have taken a solemn and formal leave of all their
acquaintance? However, I thank both you and your mother for the
invitation, which was most kindly expressed. You give no answer to
my proposal that you should come to Haworth with the Taylors. I
still think it would be your best plan. I wish you and the Taylors
were safely here; there is no pleasure to be had without toiling for
it. You must invite me no more, my dear Ellen, until next Midsummer
at the nearest. All here desire to be remembered to you, aunt
particularly. Angry though you are, I will venture to sign myself as
usual (no, not as usual, but as suits circumstances).--Yours, under a
cloud,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_May_ 5_th_, 1838.
'MY DEAREST ELLEN,--Yesterday I heard that you were ill. Mr. and
Miss Heald were at Dewsbury Moor, and it was from them I obtained the
information. This morning I set off to Brookroyd to learn further
particulars, from whence I am but just returned. Your mother is in
great distress about you, she can hardly mention your name without
tears; and both she and Mercy wish very much to see you at home
again. Poor girl, you have been a fortnight confined to your bed;
and while I was blaming you in my own mind for not writing, you were
suffering in sickness without one kind _female_ friend to watch over
you. I should have heard all this before and have hastened to
express my sympathy with you in this crisis had I been able to visit
Brookroyd in the Easter holidays, but an unexpected summons back to
Dewsbury Moor, in consequence of the illness and death of Mr. Wooler,
prevented it. Since that time I have been a fortnight and two days
quite alone, Miss Wooler being detained in the interim at Rouse Mill.
You will now see, Ellen, that it was not neglect or failure of
affection which has occasioned my silence, though I fear you will
long ago have attributed it to those causes. If you are well enough,
do write to me just two lines--just to assure me of your
convalescence; not a word, however, if it would harm you--not a
syllable. They value you at home. Sickness and absence call forth
expressions of attachment which might have remained long enough
unspoken if their object had been present and well. I wish your
_friends_ (I include myself in that word) may soon cease to have
cause for so painful an excitement of their regard. As yet I have
but an imperfect idea of the nature of your illness--of its
extent--or of the degree in which it may now have subsided. When you
can let me know all, no particular, however minute, will be
uninteresting to me. How have your spirits been? I trust not much
overclouded, for that is the most melancholy result of illness. You
are not, I understand, going to Bath at present; they seem to have
arranged matters strangely. When I parted from you near White-lee
Bar, I had a more sorrowful feeling than ever I experienced before in
our temporary separations. It is foolish to dwell too much on the
idea of presentiments, but I certainly had a feeling that the time of
our reunion had never been so indefinite or so distant as then. I
doubt not, my dear Ellen, that amidst your many trials, amidst the
sufferings that you have of late felt in yourself, and seen in
several of your relations, you have still been able to look up and
find support in trial, consolation in affliction, and repose in
tumult, where human interference can make no change. I think you
know in the right spirit how to withdraw yourself from the vexation,
the care, the meanness of life, and to derive comfort from purer
sources than this world can afford. You know how to do it silently,
unknown to others, and can avail yourself of that hallowed communion
the Bible gives us with God. I am charged to transmit your mother's
and sister's love. Receive mine in the same parcel, I think it will
scarcely be the smallest share. Farewell, my dear Ellen.
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_May_ 15_th_, 1840.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--I read your last letter with a great deal of
interest. Perhaps it is not always well to tell people when we
approve of their actions, and yet it is very pleasant to do so; and
as, if you had done wrongly, I hope I should have had honesty enough
to tell you so, so now, as you have done rightly, I shall gratify
myself by telling you what I think.
'If I made you my father confessor I could reveal weaknesses which
you do not dream of. I do not mean to intimate that I attach a _high
value_ to empty compliments, but a word of panegyric has often made
me feel a sense of confused pleasure which it required my strongest
effort to conceal--and on the other hand, a hasty expression which I
could construe into neglect or disapprobation has tortured me till I
have lost half a night's rest from its rankling pangs.
'C. BRONTE.
'_P.S._--Don't talk any more of sending for me--when I come I will
_send_ myself. All send their love to you. I have no prospect of a
situation any more than of going to the moon. Write to me again as
soon as you can.'
Here is the only glimpse that we find of her Penzance relatives in these
later years. They would seem to have visited Haworth when Charlotte was
twenty-four years of age. The impression they left was not a kindly one.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_August_ 14_th_, 1840.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--As you only sent me a note, I shall only send you
one, and that not out of revenge, but because like you I have but
little to say. The freshest news in our house is that we had, a
fortnight ago, a visit from some of our South of England relations,
John Branwell and his wife and daughter. They have been staying
above a month with Uncle Fennell at Crosstone. They reckon to be
very grand folks indeed, and talk largely--I thought assumingly. I
cannot say I much admired them. To my eyes there seemed to be an
attempt to play the great Mogul down in Yorkshire. Mr. Branwell was
much less assuming than the womenites; he seemed a frank, sagacious
kind of man, very tall and vigorous, with a keen active look. The
moment he saw me he exclaimed that I was the very image of my aunt
Charlotte. Mrs. Branwell sets up for being a woman of great talent,
tact, and accomplishment. I thought there was much more noise than
work. My cousin Eliza is a young lady intended by nature to be a
bouncing, good-looking girl--art has trained her to be a languishing,
affected piece of goods. I would have been friendly with her, but I
could get no talk except about the Low Church, Evangelical clergy,
the Millennium, Baptist Noel, botany, and her own conversion. A
mistaken education has utterly spoiled the lass. Her face tells that
she is naturally good-natured, though perhaps indolent. Her
affectations were so utterly out of keeping with her round rosy face
and tall bouncing figure, I could hardly refrain from laughing as I
watched her. Write a long letter next time and I'll write you ditto.
Good-bye.'
We have already read the letters which were written to Miss Nussey during
the governess period, and from Brussels. On her final return from
Brussels, Charlotte implores a letter.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'HAWORTH, _February_ 10_th_, 1844.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I cannot tell what occupies your thoughts and time.
Are you ill? Is some one of your family ill? Are you married? Are
you dead? If it be so, you may as well write a word and let me
know--for my part, I am again in old England. I shall tell you
nothing further till you write to me.
'C. BRONTE.
'Write to me directly, that is a good girl; I feel really anxious,
and have felt so for a long time to hear from you.'
She visits Miss Nussey soon afterwards at Brookroyd, and a little later
writes as follows:
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_April_ 7_th_, 1844.
'DEAR NELL,--I have received your note. It communicated a piece of
good news which I certainly did not expect to hear. I want, however,
further enlightenment on the subject. Can you tell me what has
caused the change in Mary's plans, and brought her so suddenly back
to England? Is it on account of Mary Dixon? Is it the wish of her
brother, or is it her own determination? I hope, whatever the reason
be, it is nothing which can give her uneasiness or do her harm. Do
you know how long she is likely to stay in England? or when she
arrives at Hunsworth?
'You ask how I am. I really have felt much better the last week--I
think my visit to Brookroyd did me good. What delightful weather we
have had lately. I wish we had had such while I was with you. Emily
and I walk out a good deal on the moors, to the great damage of our
shoes, but I hope to the benefit of our health.
'Good-bye, dear Ellen. Send me another of your little notes soon.
Kindest regards to all,
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_June_ 9_th_, 1844.
'MY DEAR ELLEN,--Anne and Branwell are now at home, and they and
Emily add their request to mine, that you will join us at the
beginning of next week. Write and let us know what day you will
come, and how--if by coach, we will meet you at Keighley. Do not let
your visit be later than the beginning of next week, or you will see
little of Anne and Branwell as their holidays are very short. They
will soon have to join the family at Scarborough. Remember me kindly
to your mother and sisters. I hope they are all well.
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_November_ 14_th_, 1844.
'DEAR ELLEN,--Your letter came very apropos, as, indeed, your letters
always do; but this morning I had something of a headache, and was
consequently rather out of spirits, and the epistle (scarcely legible
though it be--excuse a rub) cheered me. In order to evince my
gratitude, as well as to please my own inclination, I sit down to
answer it immediately. I am glad, in the first place, to hear that
your brother is going to be married, and still more so to learn that
his wife-elect has a handsome fortune--not that I advocate marrying
for money in general, but I think in many cases (and this is one)
money is a very desirable contingent of matrimony.
'I wonder when Mary Taylor is expected in England. I trust you will
be at home while she is at Hunsworth, and that you, she, and I, may
meet again somewhere under the canopy of heaven. I cannot, dear
Ellen, make any promise about myself and Anne going to Brookroyd at
Christmas; her vacations are so short she would grudge spending any
part of them from home.
'The catastrophe, which you related so calmly, about your book-muslin
dress, lace bertha, etc., convulsed me with cold shudderings of
horror. You have reason to curse the day when so fatal a present was
offered you as that infamous little "varmint." The perfect serenity
with which you endured the disaster proves most fully to me that you
would make the best wife, mother, and mistress in the world. You and
Anne are a pair for marvellous philosophical powers of endurance; no
spoilt dinners, scorched linen, dirtied carpets, torn sofa-covers,
squealing brats, cross husbands, would ever discompose either of you.
You ought never to marry a good-tempered man, it would be mingling
honey with sugar, like sticking white roses upon a black-thorn
cudgel. With this very picturesque metaphor I close my letter.
Good-bye, and write very soon.
'C. BRONTE.'
Much has been said concerning Charlotte Bronte's visit to Hathersage in
Derbyshire, and it is interesting because of the fact that Miss Bronte
obtained the name of 'Eyre' from a family in that neighbourhood, and
Morton in _Jane Eyre_ may obviously be identified with Hathersage. {221}
Miss Ellen Nussey's brother Henry became Vicar of Hathersage, and he
married shortly afterwards. While he was on his honeymoon his sister
went to Hathersage to keep house for him, and she invited her friend
Charlotte Bronte to stay with her. The visit lasted three weeks. This
was the only occasion that Charlotte visited Hathersage. Here are two or
three short notes referring to that visit.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_June_ 10_th_, 1845.
'DEAR ELLEN,--It is very vexatious for you to have had to go to
Sheffield in vain. I am glad to hear that there is an omnibus on
Thursday, and I have told Emily and Anne I will try to come on that
day. The opening of the railroad is now postponed till July 7th. I
should not like to put you off again, and for that and some other
reasons they have decided to give up the idea of going to Scarbro',
and instead, to make a little excursion next Monday and Tuesday, to
Ilkley or elsewhere. I hope no other obstacle will arise to prevent
my going to Hathersage. I do long to be with you, and I feel
nervously afraid of being prevented, or put off in some way.
Branwell only stayed a week with us, but he is to come home again
when the family go to Scarboro'. I will write to Brookroyd directly.
Yesterday I had a little note from Henry inviting me to go to see
you. This is one of your contrivances, for which you deserve
smothering. You have written to Henry to tell him to write to me.
Do you think I stood on ceremony about the matter?
'The French papers have ceased to come. Good-bye for the present.
'C. B.'
TO MRS. NUSSEY
'_July_ 23_rd_, 1845.
'MY DEAR MRS. NUSSEY,--I lose no time after my return home in writing
to you and offering you my sincere thanks for the kindness with which
you have repeatedly invited me to go and stay a few days at
Brookroyd. It would have given me great pleasure to have gone, had
it been only for a day, just to have seen you and Miss Mercy (Miss
Nussey I suppose is not at home) and to have been introduced to Mrs.
Henry, but I have stayed so long with Ellen at Hathersage that I
could not possibly now go to Brookroyd. I was expected at home; and
after all _home_ should always have the first claim on our attention.
When I reached home (at ten o'clock on Saturday night) I found papa,
I am thankful to say, pretty well, but he thought I had been a long
time away.
'I left Ellen well, and she had generally good health while I stayed
with her, but she is very anxious about matters of business, and
apprehensive lest things should not be comfortable against the
arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Henry--she is so desirous that the day of
their arrival at Hathersage should be a happy one to both.
'I hope, my dear Mrs. Nussey, you are well; and I should be very
happy to receive a little note either from you or from Miss Mercy to
assure me of this.--Believe me, yours affectionately and sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_July_ 24_th_, 1845.
'DEAR ELLEN,--A series of toothaches, prolonged and severe, bothering
me both day and night, have kept me very stupid of late, and
prevented me from writing to you. More than once I have sat down and
opened my desk, but have not been able to get up to par. To-day,
after a night of fierce pain, I am better--much better, and I take
advantage of the interval of ease to discharge my debt. I wish I had
50 pounds to spare at present, and that you, Emily, Anne, and I were
all at liberty to leave home without our absence being detrimental to
any body. How pleasant to set off _en masse_ to the seaside, and
stay there a few weeks, taking in a stock of health and strength.--We
could all do with recreation. Adversity agrees with you, Ellen.
Your good qualities are never so obvious as when under the pressure
of affliction. Continued prosperity might develope too much a
certain germ of ambition latent in your character. I saw this little
germ putting out green shoots when I was staying with you at
Hathersage. It was not then obtrusive, and perhaps might never
become so. Your good sense, firm principle, and kind feeling might
keep it down. Holding down my head does not suit my toothache. Give
my love to your mother and sisters. Write again as soon as may
be.--Yours faithfully,
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_August_ 18_th_, 1845.
'DEAR ELLEN,--I am writing to you, not because I have anything to
tell you, but because I want you to write to me. I am glad to see
that you were pleased with your new sister. When I was at Hathersage
you were talking of writing to Mary Taylor. I have lately written to
her a brief, shabby epistle of which I am ashamed, but I found when I
began to write I had really very little to say. I sent the letter to
Hunsworth, and I suppose it will go sometime. You must write to me
soon, a long letter. Remember me respectfully to Mr. and Mrs. Henry
Nussey. Give my love to Miss R.--Yours,
'C. B.'
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
'_December_ 14_th_, |
