Author: insearchofannebronte@hotmail.com

It’s that day again when we look forward to new life, to warmer weather, to flowers blooming and sun shining. Easter Day is always special, and for the Brontës of Haworth it must have been especially so. Easter was celebrated then even more so than it is now, and throughout this post you’ll see examples of Victorian era Easter cards. As regular readers of my blog will know, Victorian cards could be a little strange – to say the least!

The Brontë siblings held an exalted position within their parish – as daughters of the priest Patrick Brontë they had their own pew at the front of the church where their father preached. In later years Branwell Brontë played the church organ, and the three writing Brontë sisters, Charlotte, Emily and Anne, taught at the Church of England Sunday school founded by their father.

The girls were representatives of their father in a way, but all had different attitudes towards religion and faith which affected the way they lived and which would later reveal itself in their writing too. It is this fascinating subject which forms the heart of a talk I’ll be presenting to the Brussels Brontë Group on Saturday May 10th.

The talk is called “Doubt, Defiance and Devotion: Faith And The Brontë Sisters”, and I’m very excited to be addressing an international group of Brontë fans in the city where Charlotte and Emily Brontë attended the Pensionnat Heger school. I’ll be following the Brontë trail around the city too, so look out for a future post on that subject.

Today was a very special day in the Brontë story in 1820 for a non-Easter related reason; it was on this day exactly 205 years ago that Patrick Brontë, his wife Maria (whose birthday occurred on this week in 1783) and his young family moved from Thornton to his new parish of Haworth. No doubt Maria would have cradled little baby Anne Brontë, just three months old, throughout their journey across the moors.

You may have already seen the great news, but I’m delighted to share it again, that the Brontë Birthplace in Thornton is now ready to open to the public – you can make a booking for a guided tour via their website at https://Brontëbirthplace.com/guided-tours/

Let us now have an Easter extract from Anne Brontë’s brilliant debut novel Agnes Grey:

‘“Agnes, this sea air and change of scene do you no good, I think: I never saw you look so wretched. It must be that you sit too much, and allow the cares of the schoolroom to worry you. You must learn to take things easy, and to be more active and cheerful; you must take exercise whenever you can get it, and leave the most tiresome duties to me: they will only serve to exercise my patience, and, perhaps, try my temper a little.”

So said my mother, as we sat at work one morning during the Easter holidays. I assured her that my employments were not at all oppressive; that I was well; or, if there was anything amiss, it would be gone as soon as the trying months of spring were over: when summer came I should be as strong and hearty as she could wish to see me: but inwardly her observation startled me. I knew my strength was declining, my appetite had failed, and I was grown listless and desponding; – and if, indeed, he could never care for me, and I could never see him more – if I was forbidden to minister to his happiness – forbidden, for ever, to taste the joys of love, to bless, and to be blessed – then, life must be a burden, and if my heavenly Father would call me away, I should be glad to rest. But it would not do to die and leave my mother. Selfish, unworthy daughter, to forget her for a moment! Was not her happiness committed in a great measure to my charge? – and the welfare of our young pupils too? Should I shrink from the work that God had set before me, because it was not fitted to my taste? Did not He know best what I should do, and where I ought to labour? – and should I long to quit His service before I had finished my task, and expect to enter into His rest without having laboured to earn it? “No; by His help I will arise and address myself diligently to my appointed duty. If happiness in this world is not for me, I will endeavour to promote the welfare of those around me, and my reward shall be hereafter.” So said I in my heart; and from that hour I only permitted my thoughts to wander to Edward Weston – or at least to dwell upon him now and then -as a treat for rare occasions: and, whether it was really the approach of summer or the effect of these good resolutions, or the lapse of time, or all together, tranquillity of mind was soon restored; and bodily health and vigour began likewise, slowly, but surely, to return.’

Tomorrow is another day of celebration, not just because it’s a bank holiday but because it’s the 209th anniversary of the birth of Charlotte Brontë. Happy birthday Charlotte, and may I wish you all, whatever your faith, a very happy, loving and peaceful Easter. I hope to see you next week for another new Brontë blog post.

Easter approaches, a time which must have been busy, reflective and eventually joyous in the Brontë household at Haworth Parsonage. The village of Haworth has become synonymous with the Brontë sisters, drawing tourists from across the globe. Wherever you go in the village you will see the Brontë name, and long may that continue. Tourists want to visit the Parsonage, now a magnificent museum, of course, they want to visit inns like the Black Bull and conjure up images of Branwell Brontë sat on his three legged chair, and they also want to see the moors which stretch away from the village with bleak magnificence. The moors are a timeless reminder of the landscape the Brontës knew, they seem almost unchanged, but they are under threat.

In Emily Brontë’s breathtaking novel the moors seem to be as much of a character as Heathcliff or Catherine. It’s little wonder, for whilst the painfully shy Emily hated mixing with people (or at least people she didn’t know) she liked nothing more than walking on the moors. It is said she would walk up to twenty miles a day across the Pennine moors towards and then into Lancashire, an astonishing feat given the footwear she and others wore at that time. There was certainly no resemblance between the shoes of 1840 and the hiking boots of today, but Emily and others like her simply walked more in those days long before any form of transport other than four legged horse power.

Charlotte Brontë gave us fascinating glimpses of the moors, and the impact they had on the Brontë family, in her writing. In a letter of 22nd May 1850, addressed to W. S. Williams, Charlotte writes mournfully of her attempts to come to terms with the deaths of her sisters Emily and Anne:

“I am free to walk on the moors – but when I go out there alone everything reminds me of the time when others were with me and then the moors seem a wilderness, featureless, solitary, saddening. My sister Emily had a particular love for them, and there is not a knoll of heather, not a branch of fern, not a young bilberry leaf not a fluttering lark or linnet but reminds me of her. The distant prospects were Anne’s delight, and when I look round, she is in the blue tints, the pale mists, the waves and shadows of the horizon. In the hill-country silence their poetry comes by lines and stanzas into my mind: once I loved it – now I dare not read it – and am driven often to wish I could taste one draught of oblivion and forget much that, while mind remains, I never shall forget.”

In the same year Charlotte wrote a preface for a new edition of Emily’s Wuthering Heights and she returned to those thoughts, saying of the novel.
“It is rustic all through, It is moorish, and wild, and knotty as the root of heath. Nor was it natural that it should be otherwise; the author being herself a native and nursling of the moors… Ellis Bell did not describe as one whose eye and taste alone found pleasure in the prospect; her native hills were far more to her than a spectacle; they were what she lived in, and by, as much as the wild birds, their tenants, or as the heather, their produce. Her descriptions, then, of natural scenery, are what they should be and all they should be.”

For now, people can and do walk those same moors and hills, take in the same views and prospects, see the wild birds fly and the heather moving in a whispering wind. But the wind has become the moor’s enemy, or at least it is being harnessed by the moor’s enemy.

Plans are well underway for a huge new windfarm installation to be installed across the Calderdale moors. There are 65 proposed sites, and one of them is the Walshaw Moor area which is home to a plethora of previously protected wildlife, and home to Top Withens. It is the moorland walked by Emily Brontë, by Charlotte Brontë, by Anne Brontë. The moorland that people still walk today and look across to the glorious ruins of Top Withens, imagining Heathcliff stalking moodily by. Soon that some view will be filled with huge turbines and the relentless hum of nature being turned into commodity, of money being made at every turn of a white turbine sail.

Local poet, campaigner and Brontë enthusiast Lydia Macpherson is one of the people leading the campaign against the proposals, and she is sharing a petition aimed at protecting peat moors such as those around Haworth. You can sign the petition at this link, it only takes a moment:

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/701290

On more positive news, another Brontë site of pilgrimage, the Brontë birthplace at Thornton, moves ever closer to its public opening, and it looks wonderful. It featured on the BBC’s ‘The One Show’ on Monday and if you missed it you can still catch the episode on the BBC iPlayer.

The beautiful image at the head of today’s post, by the way, was taken by talented photographer Dave Zdanowicz for use in my book In Search Of Anne Brontë. I hope, if you are marking the day or simply looking forward to eating a chocolate egg or two, you have a happy run up to Easter and I hope to see you here next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.

1846 was a year that changed literary history forever, and it certainly changed the lives of a certain family of Haworth in ways they could not possibly have imagined. It was the year which saw the publication of the very first book by the Brontë sisters, Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. In today’s post we’re going to look at a letter sent on this day in 1846 which shows that their ambitions didn’t end when they became published poets.

The collection of poems had done the rounds of multiple publishers until they alighted upon Aylott & Jones of London who agreed to publish the book by the Bell brothers (as the publisher thought them to be) as long as they covered the expense of printing and publicity. The book did not sell well but it did garner good reviews, and as Charlotte Brontë stated in her biographical notice of Ellis and Acton Bell, they were inspired to turn their hands to a work of fiction: 

“Ill-success failed to crush us: the mere effort to succeed had given us a wonderful zest to existence; it must be pursued. We each set to work on a prose tale: Ellis Bell produced ‘Wuthering Heights’, Acton Bell, ‘Agnes Grey’, and Currer Bell also wrote a narrative in one volume. These MSS. [manuscripts] were perseveringly obtruded among various publishers for the space of a year and a half; usually, their fate was an ignominious and abrupt dismissal.”

The first publisher ‘obtruded’ upon in this way was the one they knew best: Aylott & Jones. It was to Aylott & Jones that Charlotte Brontë, posing as an interlocutor for Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, wrote on the 6th of April 1846:

This letter is a historically important one: it notes the moment in time when Wuthering Heights, Agnes Grey and The Professor were completed and ready to be submitted for publication. The choice of publishers on this occasion, however, was a mistake. Aylott & Jones published poetry along with prose works of a religious nature; secular fiction, such as the Brontës were offering, was not at all their style. Aylott & Jones wrote to Charlotte explaining their stance but they also advised her where she could find the names and addresses of publishers who could potentially accept prose novels. This list was compiled and worked down fastidiously, until eventually Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey were accepted for publication by Thomas Cautley Newby. The Professor was not accepted, but undaunted as ever Charlotte soon began and completed Jane Eyre – the great novels we love today were now ready to face the world.

The Brontës evidently enjoyed writing, and being published, together, and three volume sets of the kind proposed to Aylott & Jones by Charlotte Brontë were all the rage. The proposed scheme does raise a question however: Wuthering Heights is much longer than the other novels in the planned triumvirate, and it was eventually published in two volumes alongside the one novel of Agnes Grey. Does that mean it was lengthened by Emily after Charlotte’s letter to Aylott & Jones, or that an initial shorter version was sent to the publisher? Like the rumours of a second novel by Emily Brontë, we will never know.

All we do know for sure is that we can be very thankful that the letter was sent to Aylott & Jones, and then on to other publishers. I’m also very grateful to Gary Day, a retired English teacher, Brontë fan and reader of this blog. He very kindly this week sent me a poem he had composed about Anne Brontë’s grave in Scarborough. Entitled “Anne Brontë’s Grave: St Mary’s Church, Scarborough”, it was published last year in a magazine called ‘Lunar Rainbow’ and he has given permission for me to share it with you. I do so below, and a very fine poem it is. I hope you enjoy the poem and I hope also to see you next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post:

At first glance it looks neglected,
Tufts of grass and the brittle stalks
Of some dead flower, yet this is the one
They come to see. Is it a reverence
For the written word that draws them here?
Or because it’s on the tourist trail, along with
The Spa, the Italian Gardens and the Castle,
Still defying its own demise? Odd
Little offerings adorn the base:
A feather, a bracelet, the head
Of a violet and a scattering of pebbles.
The gravestone is flecked with white;
Salt air has corroded the copperplate
Epitaph. Its looping letters have lost
Their curls; now there are spaces where
There were words. Wind and rain
Have blurred the relief of a draped urn
Resting on two novels recording, like
Those of her sisters, the tide of
History rising in provincial lives.
Emily and Charlotte are together
At Haworth but Anne lies alone,
Except for her unfathomable
Visitors and the sea singing to her bones.

As so often when we look at the Brontë story during the year’s progress, tragedy follows hard fast after triumph and joy. Yesterday we marked Mother’s Day, but today we mark the 170th anniversary of the death of Charlotte Brontë.

Charlotte was pregnant at the time of her death, making her passing even more tragic as it ended the Brontë line. She had suffered from excessive morning sickness, hyperemesis gravidarum, at a time when the condition was not understood and there was no available cure. 

For Brontë fans and lovers of literature it was, and ever will be, a great loss. For those closest to Charlotte, it was a devastating personal tragedy, as two letters sent 170 years ago show.

On 30th March, Charlotte’s father Patrick Brontë wrote to her best friend Ellen Nussey:

“My Dear Madam, we are all in great trouble, and Mr. Nicholls so much so, that he is not sufficiently strong, and composed as to be able to write.

I therefore devote a few moments, to tell you, that my Dear Daughter is very ill, and apparently on the verge of the grave.

If she could speak, she would no doubt dictate to us whilst answering your kind letter, but we are left to ourselves, to give what answer we can. The Doctors have no hope of her case, and fondly as we a long time cherished, that hope is now gone, and we have only to look forward to that solemn event, with prayers to God, that he will give us grace and Strength sufficient unto our day.

Will you be so kind as to write to Miss Wooler, and Mrs. Joe Taylor, and inform them that we requested you do so – telling them of our present condition.

Ever truly and respectfully yours, P. Brontë”

A day later another letter followed for Ellen. Charlotte’s suffering was over:

Charlotte was gone from this world, but her work will never be gone from this world. As long as our Earth endures so will her great novels. She was a kind woman, fiercely loyal and devoted to her friends, a deeply loving woman, a fiery woman who did not suffer fools or hold back her words. She was a genius of the highest order. There will never be another Charlotte Brontë.

Let us raise a glass to the memory of Charlotte and her sisters. All were taken at the height of their powers, but in their short lifetimes they created an eternal legacy. I hope to see you on Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.

Here in the UK we are celebrating Mother’s Day, so in today’s Brontë blog post we are going to pay tribute to Maria Branwell, the mother of the Brontë siblings, as well as looking ahead to a rather more sombre anniversary tomorrow.

Maria Branwell was born in Penzance in April 1783, making her six years younger than the man she would later marry: Patrick Brontë. Her background was very different to that of Patrick Brontë; whereas he came from a relatively poor farming family in County Down, in what is now Northern Ireland, Maria came from a relatively wealthy family in Cornwall.

The Branwells were one of Penzance’s leading families, owning property, warehouses and even a brewery. Their position at the head of Penzance society was cemented when Thomas Branwell married Anne Carne. The Carnes were another successful family from this south west corner of England, and they had their own bank. Thomas and Anne were the maternal grandparents of the Brontë children, and they had a large family of their own: including Maria Branwell.

Maria grew up free from worries of poverty, in a beautiful part of the country with a pleasant climate, but after her parents died within a year of each other she was faced with a stark choice: she was nearing thirty, would she remain in Penzance and live off the annuity she had been left by Thomas and Anne, or would she try to make her own way in life?

It is a tribute to Maria’s character and determination that she chose the latter path. Her uncle and aunt, John and Jane Fennell, had opened a school in far away Yorkshire, and knowing Maria’s intelligence and work ethic they offered her a job. She travelled to Yorkshire in the summer of 1812, and would never see Cornwall again. 

Yorkshire must have seemed a very strange place to her. It was colder than she was used to, wetter than she was used to, and the northern accents must have seemed almost unintelligible to Maria. Nevertheless she persevered, and of course we all know that at the school, Woodhouse Grove, she met and fell in love with Patrick Brontë. After a triple wedding in 1812 they had six children together and the rest is literary history.

What was Maria like as a mother? It must have been difficult juggling the work of a mother of six with her role as wife of the parish priest, but clearly she loved her children very much. Alas, Maria was taken far too soon and she died in 1821 when her youngest child, Anne Brontë, was just a year old. Maria’s final thoughts were with those she was leaving behind, as she cried out: “Oh, my poor children.”

We get an insight into Maria’s mind with an essay she wrote entitled “The Advantages Of Poverty In Religious Concerns.” In this essay Maria comes across as a woman of great faith, but we also get a glimpse of her view of motherhood as she writes:”‘Is it not an evil to be deprived of the necessaries of life? Can there be any anguish equal to that occasioned by objects, dear as your own soul, famishing with cold and hunger? Is it not an evil to hear the heart-rending cries of your children craving for that which you have it not in your power to give them? And, as an aggravation of this distress, to know that some are surfeited by abundance at the same time that you and yours are perishing for want?”

We also know that decades after her death, Patrick presented Charlotte Brontë with a selection of Maria’s letters. It must have been a deeply touching moment for Charlotte, who wrote mounrfully: “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 wished she had lived and that I had known her.”

Charlotte herself nearly became a mother, but it was not to be and tragedy struck yet again in the Brontë story. Tomorrow marks the 170th anniversary of the death of Charlotte Brontë, and I will be marking the day with a new Brontë blog post. I hope you can join me for that tomorrow, but in the meantime I would like to wish all mothers, step-mothers and grandmothers a very happy mother’s day!

As we know, Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë published their work anonymously by using the pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. Emily and Anne took their anonymity, at least as far as the reading public was concerned, to the grave, but Charlotte Brontë achieved fame in her own right during her lifetime. It allowed her to forge friendships with some of the greatest writers and thinkers of the time, but one notable friend drifted in and out of her favour. In today’s post we will look at a letter sent on this day 1851 in which Charlotte Brontë opined that one such person had received a “death-blow” to her reputation: Harriet Martineau.

Harriet Martineau (a portrait of her by George Richmond sits at the head of this post) may not be as celebrated today as some of Charlotte’s other literary friends such as Elizabeth Gaskell or William Makepeace Thackeray, but she is still rightly regarded as an important nineteenth-century figure, and was both a celebrated and controversial writer at the time Charlotte penned the following letter to her friend James Taylor:

Taylor was one of the chief clerks of Smith, Elder & Co, Charlotte’s publisher, and a friendship had grown between them by the time of this letter. A month later their friendship would be irretrievably strained; en route to India on behalf of Smith, Elder, Taylor called at Haworth Parsonage and proposed to Charlotte Brontë. She refused his proposal and their friendship was never the same again.

A similar strain happened in the friendship between Charlotte and Martineau. At the start of 1851 Charlotte (who had originally met Martineau in London two years earlier) accepted an invitation to visit Harriet Martineau in Ambleside. This meeting went well, and Charlotte wrote to her publisher George Smith, exclaiming: “I did enjoy my visit to Miss Martineau very much.” She then tried to cajole Smith into publishing Harriet’s novel Oliver Weld, going as far as to tell him that Harriet Martineau was “a greater writer” than Elizabeth Gaskell.

Just two months later, Charlotte’s attitude to Harriet seems to have changed greatly. The reason was the publication in that month of a book entitled Letters On the Laws of Man’s Nature and Development. The book consists of a series of letters between Henry George Atkinson and Harriet Martineau (who edited the book), in which they examine the nature of man, humanity and religion. It was a book in which Martineau declared to the world her atheism, a declaration which shook Charlotte’s views on her friend to the core.

Charlotte had long known of Martineau’s atheism, and had enjoyed theological debates with her, but she feared that this new book would shock the reading public and damage Martineau’s standing forever. It is possible Charlotte also feared that being associated with so radical and unapologetic an atheist as Martineau would damage her own reputation. 

Charlotte was the daughter of a Church of England curate, and a devout Christian. Her moral response to Atkinson and Martineau’s book is summed up in the following line to Taylor: “Who can trust the word or rely on the judgment of an avowed Atheist?”

Nonetheless, Charlotte did later place her faith once more in the judgment of her once close friend. Two years later, in 1853, she urged Harriet Martineau to review her new novel Villette. It was the subsequent scathing review, not any profession of atheism, that put an end to their friendship forever.

I hope you can join me on Sunday for another new Brontë blog post, as we mark a day of celebration and look ahead to a day of mourning in the Brontë story.

St. Patrick’s Day is just a few hours away; it’s a great day to celebrate all things Irish, wherever in the world we are, but in the Brontë household within Haworth Parsonage it was a day for a more personal celebration – for in Drumballyroney, County Down, on 17th March 1777 a boy was born who would begin the story of the most famous literary family of them all: Patrick Brontë.

In today’s we’re going to wish an early birthday to Patrick Brontë by looking at some reports of first person encounters with those who met him, published in newspapers and periodicals at the time he still lived:

Bradford Observer, 19th November 1857, ‘A Day At Haworth’, J.W.F. 

It was on a beautiful morning in August that my friend Puzzlecraft and myself set off to visit Haworth… Haworth is five miles from Keighley, the road is uphill most of the way and decidedly uninteresting, as your view is confined to the turnpike, the walls on either side acting as blinders. For two miles, however, before you enter the village you have it in full view, and the thoughts which it suggests are quite sufficient to employ your mind until you reach the bottom of the eminence whereon it stands. Haworth is most peculiarly situated. It is built in a circumspect fashion, up a steep hill, with a brook at the base, the church and parsonage at the top, and beyond that illimitable heather. It is a genuine Yorkshire village, macademized after a fashion, with no particular distinction drawn between the footpath and the road. The houses are of all sizes and shapes, like a wilderness of monkeys; some low-browed and flat-topped, poking themselves prominently forward, like a dowager at a dinner party; others small and spare, crushed out of all form into a corner, like a little man in a crowd or an unprotected female. Queer, quaint and quiet is the old village, reposing lazily against the hill side – yet not unvisited by the progressive principles of the age; for we found two or three shops at the west end garnished with plate-glass windows, and we even discovered the preliminary paraphernalia of a gas company. As we walked slowly up the street, we lighted upon a chemist’s shop, with a frame of photographic portraits hung outside. In the centre was the likeness of an elderly gentleman, with white hair, strongly marked but expressive features, and a peculiarly large neckcloth. “Mr Brontë!” we both exclaimed in a breath, although we had neither of us ever seen the gentleman or his portrait. There was such a striking individuality upon the countenance, that we recognised at once the original so plainly painted by Mrs Gaskell. We put up at the ‘White Lion’ and ordered dinner. Mine host, whose outer man, attired in a cap and a white shooting jacket, was eminently suggestive of terrier-dogs, went off forthwith to the parsonage to summon his maid servant, who had gone to wait upon the rector during the temporary absence of the regular domestic. Presently she came down, and in an unsophisticated Yorkshire fashion, as if anything she had to say was not of the slightest importance, she gave us her few particulars respecting the Brontë family. “Her family had lived at the parsonage for long – she had often been there herself – had seen Mrs Nicholls writing a great deal; it was when she was writing ‘Jane Eyre’ – had oft carried large parcels to the post and wondered what was in them – Mrs Nicholls was very small, Miss Emily was bigger a good deal – they were all great walkers, used to go up on to the moor for hours together – had seen Mrs Gaskell but didn’t know much about her – Mrs Nicholls had never got the better of a cold  she caught going one winter’s day onto the moor to the waterfall, cascade Mrs Gaskell called it.” We asked her if she thought Mr Brontë would be annoyed if we called upon him:- “She didn’t know – there had been lots of people there, but he didn’t often see any of them.” We requested of her to take our cards up to the parsonage, and to say that if Mr Brontë was disengaged there were two gentlemen who would be happy to wait upon him; and, while she delivered the message, we went up to view the house and churchyard, round which cluster now so many mournful and hallowed associations… 

Returning to our inn, we received Mr Brontë’s invitation to visit him, with which we immediately complied. We were ushered into a small front parlour, and very cordially saluted by the original of the photograph we had seen in the chemist’s shop. Truly a most noticeable man is Mr Brontë, and worthy to be the father of such a family. Though now well up in years (he told us his age, but it has escaped our memory), he appears quite hale and fresh, and preaches regularly every Sunday morning. He has a grand face, indicative of a power and energy which are merely mellowed by time, and shaded somewhat mournfully by suffering. One glance at that physiognomy assures you that its possessor has been shaped by nature after a model of his own – a man of strong passions, but stronger self-control; of warm emotions, but adamantine will – a man possibly eccentric, but whose eccentricities merely prove the positive tendency of his being, and the strength and struggles of his soul. This we must say, that we never saw a finer physique, more courteous and gentlemanly bearing, and more sincere and correct feeling than we met in Mr Brontë. Mournful was it to see the venerable man, and to know that of all his children – the gifted, the admired, the affectionate – not one was left. And most mournful was the thought that in this house – in this very room where we now are – those three sisters wrote their books and read their manuscripts to one another; the chair we sat upon they had handled; they have perused those volumes; watched the stars and snow-storms from those windows; their very presence seems still to linger here; and though they rest in yonder gray church, cold and still, we feel their spirits solemnizing and subduing us, and bidding us, beneath the shadow of the dead but deathless daughters, forbear to trench upon the feelings of the father, or to speak, save reverently and low. 

After sitting about a quarter of an hour with Mr Brontë, we took a five minutes run on to the moor; then, with one last glance at the vicarage, the church, the graveyard, and the school, we turned homeward. We purchased a couple of photographic portraits of Mr Brontë as we passed the chemist’s; and we were just leaving the village when we encountered a comical fellow, with a merry mouth and an eye like a weazel’s. He had been a boon companion of poor Branwell, and many strange and characteristic stories did he tell us of their exploits in former days, the which, however, we shall not here record. Let those who have passed away repose in peace:- delicacy forbids the blazoning abroad of the failings of the dead, especially when those still live upon whose feelings the repetition of such tales must strangely jar.

The Scotsman, 18th September 1858, ‘A Visit To Haworth – The Brontë Family’, T. H.

Near Haworth I got many little traits of the family, all indicating the kindly and respectful feelings with which its various members are still regarded in the district. One young man belonging to Haworth, whom I overtook, a worker now at one of the Keighley factories, informed me that when a boy he frequently had occasion to be in the parsonage, and was often regaled with a tune on the piano, a pocketful of fruit, etc. Charlotte seemed generally to be considered the most affable, having a smile and a kind word for everybody; Emily and Anne were more reserved, and for that reason not quite so great favourites. Mr Brontë was spoken of by everyone in terms of the highest respect, even by those whom on many occasions he had opposed on ecclesiastical matters, dissent being strong in the vicinity. I had neither the intention nor expectation of seeing him; but the sexton, who acts as guide to the church, etc., having told me that Mr Brontë, when well, was always glad to see strangers, I was vain enough to send up my card, and had the pleasure of a little conversation with the venerable patriarch, now more than eighty years of age, and the sole survivor of his family. He was very kind, and spoke of Scotland, and Burns, more particularly, cordially, and with discrimination. Although frail he enjoys tolerable health, and in general preaches once every Sunday; Mr Nicholls, Charlotte’s husband (who is still curate, and whom I saw about the village), doing the principal part of the duty.

Fraser’s Magazine, October 1859, ‘About The West Riding’, Devonia

The attendance was small in the morning, but better in the afternoon, when Mr Brontë preached; owing to his advanced years, he is not able to attend the whole of the service, but comes into church when the afternoon prayers are half over. A most affecting sight, in truth, it is to see him walking down the aisle with feeble steps, and entering his solitary pew, once filled with wife and children, now utterly desolate, while close beside it rises the tombstone inscribed with their names. Full of sorrow and trouble though his life has been, the energy of the last survivor of the race seems not a whit abated; his voice is still loud and clear, his words full of fire, his manner of earnestness. Lucid, nervous, and logical, the style of his preaching belongs to a  bye-gone day, when sermons were made more of a study than they are now, and when it was considered quite as necessary to think much and deeply, as to give expression to those thoughts in language not only impressive and eloquent, but vigorous and concise. It would not be easy to give a faithful impression of the impression which Mr Brontë evidently produces upon his hearers, or of his own venerable and striking appearance in the pulpit. He used no notes whatever, and preached for half an hour without ever being at a loss for a word, or betraying the smallest sign of any decay of his intellectual faculties. Very handsome he must have been in his younger days, for traces of beauty most refined and noble in expression, even yet show themselves in his features and in his striking profile. His brow is still unwrinkled; his hair and whiskers snowy white: lines very decided in their character are impressed about the mouth; the eyes are large and penetrating. In manner he is, as may have been gathered from what has been already said, quiet and dignified.

Bradford Observer, 27th June 1861, William Dearden

It is a duty I owe to the memory of my late venerable friend, and in fulfilment of a sacred promise, to place his character in a true light before the world; and this is the more imperatively necessary, because – though Mrs Gaskell has, in her later editions of Charlotte Brontë’s life, toned down some of its harsher features in obedience to conviction of their distortion and untruthfulness – it still stands prominently forth in repulsive stoical sternness and misanthropical gloom. My acquaintance with Mr Brontë extends over a long series of years. In the early portion of that acquaintanceship, I had frequent opportunities of seeing him surrounded by his young family at the fireside of his solitary abode, in his wanderings on the hills, and in his visits to Keighley friends. On these occasions, he invariably displayed the greatest kindness and affability, and a most anxious desire to promote the happiness and improvement of his children. This testimony, it is presumed, will have some weight, especially with whose who wish to form a correct estimate of human character.  

It will be remembered that Mr Brontë’s children were deprived of their mother when they were at a very tender age. We are led to infer from Mrs Gaskell’s narrative, that their father – if he felt – at least did not manifest much anxiety about their physical and mental welfare; and we are told that the eldest of the motherless group, then at home, by a sort of premature inspiration, under the feeble wing of a maiden aunt, undertook their almost entire supervision. Branwell – with whom I was on terms of literary intimacy long before his fatal lapse – told me, when accidentally alluding to this painful period of in the history of his family, that his father watched over his little bereaved flock with truly paternal solicitude and affection – that he was their constant guardian and instructor – and that he took a lively interest in all their innocent amusements. Such – before the blight of disgrace fell upon him – is the testimony of Branwell to the domestic conduct of his father. “Alas!” said he to me, many years after that sad event, “had I been what my father earnestly wished and strove to make me, I should not have been the wreck you see me now!” Poor Branwell! May his sad example  prove a warning to others to shun the gulf of misery into which he was prematurely plunged! If Mr Brontë had been the cold indifferent stoic he has been represented, the perpetual outflow of love and tenderness in regard to him from the hearts of his children, could not have been naturally expected. An unfeeling father ought not to complain, if he reaps but a scanty harvest of filial duty and affection in return for what he has sown. Love begets love – a saying not the less true, because it is trite. 

As Mr Brontë’s children grew up, he afforded them every opportunity his limited means would allow of gratifying their tastes either in literature or the fine arts; and many times do I remember meeting him, little Charlotte, and Branwell, in the studio of the late John Bradley, at Keighley, where they hung with close-gazing inspection and silent admiration over some fresh production of the artist’s genius. Branwell was a pupil of Bradley’s, and, though some of his drawings were creditable and displayed good taste, he would never, I think, on account of his defective vision, have become a first-rate artist. In some departments of literature, and especially in poetry of a highly imaginative kind, he would have excelled… 

The cold stoicism attributed to Mr Brontë was apparent only to those who knew him least; beneath this “seeming cloud” beat a heart of the deepest emotions, the effects of whose outflowings, like the waters of a placid hidden brook, were more perceptible in the verdure that marked their course than in the voice they uttered. God, and the objects to whom that good heart swelled forth in loving kindness – and the latter only, perhaps, very imperfectly – know the depth and intensity of its emotions. He was not a prater of good words, but a doer of them, for God’s inspection, not man’s approbation. Every honest appeal to his sympathy met a ready response. The needy never went empty away from his presence, nor the broken in spirit without consolation.

Dearden was a close friend of Patrick Brontë’s, but the other correspondents only met him on fleeting visits to Haworth but together they give a compelling vision of a remarkable man. Patrick Brontë was curate at Haworth for over 40 years, but his impact on literature, thanks to his daughters Charlotte, Emily and Anne, is even more enduring.

Happy (nearly) 248th birthday Patrick Brontë, happy St. Patrick’s Day eve to you all, and I hope you can join me next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.

This week saw the celebration of International Women’s Day, a day as important today as it has ever been. Women’s voices are all too often struggling to be heard across the globe, which is why it’s so important to celebrate women’s successes in business, in politics and in the arts. Successes, of course, like the Brontë sisters, who are surely the most remarkable literary siblings of them all.

There have been other cases of families producing more than one celebrated writer, I think of the likes of the Dumas and Amis families, or the brothers Grimm. I think the achievement of the Brontës, however, remains unmatched. It’s incredible to think that three sisters from a relatively inauspicious background, with little formal schooling and in an area of England which was extremely under-privileged at the time, should all produced such amazing and enduring works of literary genius. It’s a story almost as good as the ones Charlotte, Emily and Anne set down on paper, which is why we should remember and celebrate them not just on International Women’s Day but every day.

The Brontës, or at least one of them, were also being celebrated amidst exalted company on 17th June 1911, as this picture of The Historical Pageant Of Great Women shows.

This date was chosen as a gathering for suffragettes and suffragists from across the nation. Organised by the Women’s Social and Political Unions, a huge crowd of women gathered and then marched through the capital’s streets. The date had been carefully chosen as it was a week before the coronation procession of new King George V. Here then was a large group of women saying that their voice needed to be heard too at this time of change for the nation, and at some points it was estimated that the women’s procession stretched for several miles.

Many marchers carried the names of prominent women from recent British history, which is why one marcher proudly holds aloft the banner bearing the name of Charlotte Brontë. Another nearby marcher holds the name of Harriet Martineau aloft: Martineau was at one time a close friend of Charlotte’s, but political and religious differences eventually led to a severing of their friendship. Other banners in this photo celebrate Florence Nightingale, Grace Darling and Mrs Charles Kean – a reference to Ellen Kean, who had been a popular Victorian actress working alongside her husband.

What would Charlotte Brontë have made of it all? It’s hard to say, as Charlotte often held strident political views of a rather conservative nature, but there can be no doubt that Charlotte, along with her sisters Anne and Emily, did much to set on paper what it was like to be a woman in the nineteenth century – characters and novels which still resonate today. 

I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post.

 

As regular readers of this Brontë blog will know, it’s been a very busy few weeks for me. I was married two weeks ago, and earlier this week I returned from the beautiful, sunny island of Fuerteventura. It was a perfect honeymoon after a perfect wedding, so thank you to all who sent their congratulations. There has also been another event, and this time it’s Brontë related – at the start of this week The History Press released a new paperback edition of my book Emily Brontë: A Life In 20 Poems.

The original hardback version was published in 2018 to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Emily Brontë’s birth, and it was the second of my Brontë biographies after In Search Of Anne Brontë (also published by The History Press). It received a glowing review in The Times Literary Supplement, so I’m thrilled that this new paperback version will allow the book, and Emily’s life story, to reach even more people.

Emily Brontë was far from an ordinary writer; a genius of the highest order, she was also a unique woman. For that reason I didn’t want to write a simple, straightforward account of her life. That’s why I chose to look at Emily’s life through her poetry. Each of the twenty chapters begins with one of Emily’s powerful poems, and I use that to illuminate one of twenty areas of her life. By doing so, I hoped to present a comprehensive unveiling of Emily’s life and beliefs.

In the book I look at Emily’s work, her brilliant poetry and her sole novel Wuthering Heights, which I think is the greatest book ever written. I look at how such a shy woman could have written such powerful and enduring work, and investigate the ‘world within’ which came to dominate her life and thoughts. My book also looks at Emily’s relationships with key figures in her life such as Charlotte, Anne and Branwell Brontë, and at her love of nature and the moors which stretched around her.

This new paperback edition allowed me to utilise some of the additional Emily Brontë research I’ve been carrying out since the book’s initial publication. As well as an all new introduction, there are also two brand new appendices. In the first of these, I solve the mystery of Emily Brontë’s name (as Emily is the only Brontë child not named after a relative); in the second, I provide translations of Emily’s Belgian devoirs, or homeworks. These French language essays are now available in English, so we can all enjoy Emily’s brilliant takes on a range of subjects. When asked to present a simple essay about the cat, for example, Emily begins by stating: “I can sincerely say that I love cats, and so I will give very good reasons why those who hate them are wrong.”

The book is available right now from The History Press, Amazon and all good booksellers. If you’d like a signed copy please do get in touch and I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime I hope you can join me next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.

As I type this I’m enjoying my honeymoon in beautiful Fuertaventura in the Canary Islands with my beautiful wife Yvette. It’s been a fabulous and much needed holiday, so I hope you’ll forgive me for repeating a post I first wrote in 2017. In this post we look at the Brontes on holiday, but as I return from my honeymoon soon I hope you can join me for an all new Bronte blog post next Sunday.

Anne Brontë and her sisters lived in a very different society to ours, and yet they had pressures and strains that we would recognise today. Like us, they needed on occasion to get away from the demands and mundanity of everyday life, an escape to a place of joy and relaxation – a holiday:

‘A little while, a little while,
The noisy crowd are barred away;
And I can sing and I can smile,
A little while I’ve holiday!
Where wilt thou go my harassed heart?
Full many a land invites thee now;
And places near, and far apart,
Have rest for thee, my weary brow –
There is a spot ‘mid barren hills,
Where winter howls and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
And moonless bends the misty dome;
But what on earth is half so dear –
So longed for as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The garden-walk with weeds o’ergrown,
I love them – how I love them all!
Shall I go there? or shall I seek,
Another clime, another sky,
Where tongues familiar music speak,
In accents dear to memory?
Yes, as I mused, the naked room,
The flickering firelight died away;
And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
I passed to bright, unclouded day –
A little and a lone green lane,
That opened on a common wide;
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain,
Of mountains circling every side –
A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere –
That was the scene – I knew it well;
I knew the pathways far and near,
That winding o’er each billowy swell,
Marked out the tracks of wandering deer.
Could I have lingered but an hour,
It well had paid a week of toil;
But truth has banished fancy’s power:
I hear my dungeon bars recoil –
Even as I stood with raptured eye,
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
My hour of rest had fleeted by,
And given me back to weary care.’

Emily Brontë wrote this poem in December 1838, during her brief spell as a teacher at Law Hill near Halifax. It shows that for her there was only one place for a holiday – the old, familiar Haworth. Whilst Emily would become increasingly attached to the Parsonage and its surrounds, becoming a virtual recluse after her return from a year in Brussels, she could find relaxation and stimulation whenever she needed it, simply by walking across the moors she knew so well.

Out of all the Brontë sisters it was Charlotte who had the greatest yearning to travel. Even during the months and years that she resided at Haworth she would often journey to spend time with her friend Ellen Nussey at Birstall or at Hathersage, where her brother had been made vicar. These last sojourns proved particularly fruitful, as Hathersage was later recreated on paper as the Morton of ‘Jane Eyre’.

Charlotte’s love of travel developed in childhood. All of the Brontë siblings were fascinated by the tales of exploration and adventure that they read about in their father’s newspapers and magazines – this after all was a time of great exploration, led by people like Mungo Park and Hugh Clapperton. These tales were the catalyst for the creation of the imaginary lands of Angria and then Gondal, whose little books were the result of a ‘scribblemania’, as Charlotte put it, that would later find release in the novels we love so much today.

Whilst the other Brontës were happy to confine their adventures to the page, Charlotte wanted to explore in real life. This wanderlust was the reason that Charlotte jumped at the opportunity to head to Belgium at the beginning of 1842. Ostensibly travelling, with Emily beside her, to learn languages that would help attract pupils to their proposed school, she was really journeying to fulfill her dream of seeing new faces and places in a new country.

Charlotte’s Belgian adventure did not end well, returning to England with little more than a broken heart. She later found holiday-like enjoyment in her visits to London. After the death of her sisters, Charlotte began to appear within the London literary scene, and this gave her the chance to experience sights and events that were far removed from those she knew in Yorkshire. One event that had a particular impact on her was the Great Exhibition which ran in London’s Hyde Park from May to October of 1851. The huge structure in which it was held was christened the Crystal Palace, and within it were held treasures of science, art and culture from around the world. To Charlotte, and the millions of others who attended, it was a magical experience. She visited on numerous occasions, and gave a vivid description of what she saw:

‘Yesterday I went for the second time to the Crystal Palace. We remained in it about three hours, and I must say I was more struck with it on this occasion than at my first visit. It is a wonderful place – vast, strange, new and impossible to describe. Its grandeur does not consist in one thing, but in the unique assemblage of all things. Whatever human industry has created you find there, from the great compartments filled with railway engines and boilers, with mill machinery in full work, with splendid carriages of all kinds, with harness of every description, to the glass-covered and velvet-spread stands loaded with the most gorgeous work of the goldsmith and silversmith, and the carefully guarded caskets full of real diamonds and pearls worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. It may be called a bazaar or a fair, but it is such a bazaar or fair as Eastern genii might have created. It seems as if only magic could have gathered this mass of wealth from all the ends of the earth – as if none but supernatural hands could have arranged it this, with such a blaze and contrast of colours and marvellous power of effect. The multitude filling the great aisles seems ruled and subdued by some invisible influence. Amongst the thirty thousand souls that peopled it the day I was there not one loud noise was to be heard, not one irregular movement seen; the living tide rolls on quietly, with a deep hum like the sea heard from the distance.’

This was one of the greatest moments of Charlotte’s life, and a perfect holiday experience for her. Whilst she was captivated by the living tide, the sea of humanity, it was a very different tide that charmed her youngest sister Anne Brontë. From her earliest days, Anne loved the sea. The crashing, roaring waves with their white topped sprays held the same place in her heart that the wild purple moors held in Emily’s. We get a glimpse of Anne’s love of the sea in her 1839 picture ‘Sunrise Over Sea’. In this picture the sea is a vision of beauty, gilded by the golden rays of the sun, and at its centre is a woman with her back to us. With her characteristic long curled hair, it seems that this is a picture of Anne herself.

What is remarkable about this picture is that it was created before Anne had ever seen the sea, but a year later that would change. In June 1840 she made her first visit to Scarborough on the east coast of Yorkshire, spending around a month in Wood’s Lodgings in company with the Robinson family of Thorp Green, for whom she was working as a governess. She would make five such visits in all, and then one further visit in company with Charlotte and their friend Ellen Nussey in May 1849 – this was of course Anne’s final journey, as she had chosen to die in the place that meant so much to her.

Just what did Anne Brontë love so much about Scarborough? She liked the exciting new spa building and the grand bridge crossing to it, she loved the regular musical concerts given in the town, but most of all she loved to walk the sands and look out to the vast expanse of the sea. As she did so, she imagined two other women looking out to the sea from a similar beach in their childhood: her Aunt Elizabeth and Maria Branwell, the mother she had never known. Aunt Branwell was immensely proud of Penzance, and we know that she often talked about it. For Anne, who shared a room with her aunt throughout her childhood, these tales were magical, and they gave her a glimpse into the happy childhood her mother had spent by the Cornish coast. Anne would never travel to Penzance, it was after all further from Haworth than Brussels was, but Scarborough became her own substitute for it. Anne’s love of Scarborough, then, was a symbol of her love for her aunt and of her longing to have known her mother.