Christmas day draws ever nearer, and preparations are going full swing across the world, but the run up to the big day isn’t always a cheery one. It can be a challenging time, a time of grief, loss and confusion, as the residents of Haworth Parsonage found out as Christmas 1848 loomed.
On 19th December 1848 the great genius Emily Brontë died, aged just 30 years old. All round them in the following days celebrations were in full swing, but for the Brontë family in the parsonage things would never be the same again. Little could they have known that whilst they suffered a personal and insurmountable loss the world of literature had suffered a great loss too.
Charlotte Brontë turned, as she so often did, to her pen to help her deal with her grief, and two letters she sent in the aftermath of Emily’s death paint a very moving, very mournful, picture. The first letter was sent to W. S. Williams, of Charlotte’s publishing house, on 20th December 1848:
“My dear sir, when I wrote in such haste to Dr. Epps, disease was making rapid strides, nor has it lingered since, the galloping consumption has merited its name – neither physician nor medicine are needed more. Tuesday night and morning saw the last hours, the last agonies, proudly ensured till the end. Yesterday Emily Jane Brontë died in the arms of those who loved her.
Thus the strange dispensation is completed – it is incomprehensible as yet to mortal intelligence. The last three months – ever since my brother’s death seem to us like a long, terrible dream. We look for support to God – and thus far he mercifully enables us to maintain our self-control in the midst of affliction whose bitterness none could have calculated on.”
W. S. Williams. the recipient of this letter
Three days later Charlotte Brontë wrote to Ellen Nussey, the friend to whom she had last written on the mourning of Emily’s passing just four days earlier:
“Dear Ellen, Emily suffers no more either from pain or weakness now. She never will 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 then 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 pain 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 keen wind – Emily does not feel them. She has died in a time of promise – we saw her torn from life in its prime – but it is God’s will, and the place where she is gone is better than that she has left.”
The Bronte burial plaque, St. Michael’s, Haworth
Emily’s final moments were spent upon the couch which can still be found in Haworth Parsonage’s dining room – that’s it at the head of this post. This day in 1848 marked the funeral of Emily Jane Brontë. The world would never see her like again, but we can still turn to her incredible novel and her wonderful poetry. Poetry like ‘The Old Stoic’, below, in which Emily set out her attitude to life, and death. Its final words now adorn the Brontë memorial at Westminster Abbey’s Poets’ Corner.
‘Riches I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream
That vanish’d with the morn:
And, if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, ‘Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!’
Yea, as my swift days near their goal,
‘Tis all that I implore:
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.’
The Bronte memorial, poets’ corner
We remember Emily Brontë today and her faithful dog Keeper who, as Ellen Nussey said, lost all his former cheerfulness after Emily’s death and his role as chief mourner at her funeral. Let us turn now to cheerier matters, and I hope to see you on Wednesday for my traditional Christmas morning Brontë blog post.
Christmas is exactly ten days away – have you bought your presents and sent your cards yet? Perhaps you like to send one of those ‘round robin’ letters to family and friends updating them on the situation in your home. Charlotte Brontë sent something very similar to best friend Ellen (Nell) Nussey on this day in 1846, so I reproduce it for you below.
Being written by Charlotte Brontë, as masterful a letter writer as she was a novelist, this is rather better than the standard circular you might receive today. Not for Charlotte the usual platitudes, although she does provide that most English of conversation openers: an update on the weather.
Haworth Parsonage in snow
We also hear how Anne Brontë is battling bravely against illness, and of how they are experiencing problems of a very different kind with brother Branwell Brontë – a man very much beholden to his demons at this time. The letter of 15th December 1846 follows:
“I hope you are not frozen up; the cold here is dreadful. I do not remember such a series of North-Pole days. England might really have taken a slide up into the Arctic Zone; the sky looks like ice; the earth is frozen; the wind is as keen as a two-edged blade. We have all had severe colds and coughs in consequence of the weather. Poor Anne has suffered greatly from asthma, but is now, we are glad to say, rather better. She had two nights last week when her cough and difficulty of breathing were painful indeed to hear and witness, and must have been most distressing to suffer; she bore it, as she bears all affliction, without one complaint, only sighing now and then when nearly worn out. She has an extraordinary heroism of endurance. I admire, but I certainly could not imitate her.
Meantime, I fear you dear Nell, must have had your fair share of miseries; the habitation of economical gentility would not be the most desirable in the world at this season – and I imagine you must often have longed to be back in your Mother’s warm room or at Brookroyd drawing-room’s comfortable fireside. Write soon again and let me know how you are.
Brookroyd House, the Nussey family home
You say I am “to tell you plenty”, what would you have me say – nothing happens at Haworth – nothing at least of a pleasant kind. One little incident occurred about a week ago to sting us to life, but it gives no more pleasure for you to hear it than it did for us to witness – you will scarcely thank me for adverting to it.
It was merely the arrival of a Sheriff’s Officer on a visit to Branwell – inviting him either to pay his debts or take a trip to York. Of course his debts had to be paid – it is not agreeable to lose money time after time in this way but it is ten times worse to witness the shabbiness of his behaviour on such occasions. But where is the use of dwelling on this subject, it will make him no better.
‘Patrick Reid Turned Off’ by Branwell Bronte, showing one of his drunken scenes
I am glad to hear that Mary Hurst is likely to marry well – is her intended a clergyman? I have not heard any further tidings from Mary Taylor. I send you the last French newspaper, several have missed coming – I don’t know why. Do you intend paying a visit to Sussex before you return home? Write again soon – your last epistle was very interesting –
I am dear Nell, Yours in spirit & flesh, CB”
North-pole days notwithstanding I hope you can join me next Sunday for another, and increasingly festive, Brontë blog post.
December rushes on apace, if you haven’t yet got your Christmas decorations up then it’s probably time to get that old faithful tree down from the attic and start untangling the fairy lights. In today’s post we’re going to look at a seasonal depiction in one of the great Brontë novels.
Haworth Christmas
When we think of Christmas in a Brontë novel we probably think of its depiction in Wuthering Heights. It was the subjects of my latest YouTube video on my House Of Brontë channel, where we look at Emily Brontë’s description of a tense Christmas feast enlivened by the arrival of the Gimmerton band. A grand house is also the scene for another festive celebration – but this time it appears in Charlotte Brontë’s final completed novel Villette. The grand La Terrase is the setting this time, as the grand family of the Count de Bassompierre, once known by the more down to earth name Home, celebrate an English style Christmas in the heart of Belgium:
‘Cheerful as my godmother naturally was, and entertaining as, for our sakes, she made a point of being, there was no true enjoyment that evening at La Terrasse, till, through the wild howl of the winter-night, were heard the signal sounds of arrival. How often, while women and girls sit warm at snug fire-sides, their hearts and imaginations are doomed to divorce from the comfort surrounding their persons, forced out by night to wander through dark ways, to dare stress of weather, to contend with the snow-blast, to wait at lonely gates and stiles in wildest storms, watching and listening to see and hear the father, the son, the husband coming home.
Father and son came at last to the château: for the Count de Bassompierre that night accompanied Dr. Bretton. I know not which of our trio heard the horses first; the asperity, the violence of the weather warranted our running down into the hall to meet and greet the two riders as they came in; but they warned us to keep our distance: both were white—two mountains of snow; and indeed Mrs. Bretton, seeing their condition, ordered them instantly to the kitchen; prohibiting them, at their peril, from setting foot on her carpeted staircase till they had severally put off that mask of Old Christmas they now affected. Into the kitchen, however, we could not help following them: it was a large old Dutch kitchen, picturesque and pleasant. The little white Countess danced in a circle about her equally white sire, clapping her hands and crying, “Papa, papa, you look like an enormous Polar bear.”
The bear shook himself, and the little sprite fled far from the frozen shower. Back she came, however, laughing, and eager to aid in removing the arctic disguise. The Count, at last issuing from his dreadnought, threatened to overwhelm her with it as with an avalanche.
Did the Bronte’s enjoy scenes similar to Mr. Fezziwig’s Christmas ball?
“Come, then,” said she, bending to invite the fall, and when it was playfully advanced above her head, bounding out of reach like some little chamois.
Her movements had the supple softness, the velvet grace of a kitten; her laugh was clearer than the ring of silver and crystal; as she took her sire’s cold hands and rubbed them, and stood on tiptoe to reach his lips for a kiss, there seemed to shine round her a halo of loving delight. The grave and reverend seignor looked down on her as men do look on what is the apple of their eye.
“Mrs. Bretton,” said he: “what am I to do with this daughter or daughterling of mine? She neither grows in wisdom nor in stature. Don’t you find her pretty nearly as much the child as she was ten years ago?”
“She cannot be more the child than this great boy of mine,” said Mrs. Bretton, who was in conflict with her son about some change of dress she deemed advisable, and which he resisted. He stood leaning against the Dutch dresser, laughing and keeping her at arm’s length.
“Come, mamma,” said he, “by way of compromise, and to secure for us inward as well as outward warmth, let us have a Christmas wassail-cup, and toast Old England here, on the hearth.”
So, while the Count stood by the fire, and Paulina Mary still danced to and fro—happy in the liberty of the wide hall-like kitchen—Mrs. Bretton herself instructed Martha to spice and heat the wassail-bowl, and, pouring the draught into a Bretton flagon, it was served round, reaming hot, by means of a small silver vessel, which I recognised as Graham’s christening-cup.
“Here’s to Auld Lang Syne!” said the Count; holding the glancing cup on high. Then, looking at Mrs. Bretton.—
“We twa ha’ paidlet i’ the burn
Fra morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid ha’ roared
Sin’ auld lang syne.
“And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll taste a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne.”
“Scotch! Scotch!” cried Paulina; “papa is talking Scotch; and Scotch he is, partly. We are Home and de Bassompierre, Caledonian and Gallic.”
Auld Lang Syne, copied out by Anne Bronte
“And is that a Scotch reel you are dancing, you Highland fairy?” asked her father. “Mrs. Bretton, there will be a green ring growing up in the middle of your kitchen shortly. I would not answer for her being quite cannie: she is a strange little mortal.”
“Tell Lucy to dance with me, papa; there is Lucy Snowe.”
Mr. Home (there was still quite as much about him of plain Mr. Home as of proud Count de Bassompierre) held his hand out to me, saying kindly, “he remembered me well; and, even had his own memory been less trustworthy, my name was so often on his daughter’s lips, and he had listened to so many long tales about me, I should seem like an old acquaintance.”
Every one now had tasted the wassail-cup except Paulina, whose pas de fée, ou de fantaisie, nobody thought of interrupting to offer so profanatory a draught; but she was not to be overlooked, nor baulked of her mortal privileges.
“Let me taste,” said she to Graham, as he was putting the cup on the shelf of the dresser out of her reach.
Mrs. Bretton and Mr. Home were now engaged in conversation. Dr. John had not been unobservant of the fairy’s dance; he had watched it, and he had liked it. To say nothing of the softness and beauty of the movements, eminently grateful to his grace-loving eye, that ease in his mother’s house charmed him, for it set him at ease: again she seemed a child for him—again, almost his playmate. I wondered how he would speak to her; I had not yet seen him address her; his first words proved that the old days of “little Polly” had been recalled to his mind by this evening’s child-like light-heartedness.
“Your ladyship wishes for the tankard?”
“I think I said so. I think I intimated as much.”
“Couldn’t consent to a step of the kind on any account. Sorry for it, but couldn’t do it.”
“Why? I am quite well now: it can’t break my collar-bone again, or dislocate my shoulder. Is it wine?”
“No; nor dew.”
“I don’t want dew; I don’t like dew: but what is it?”
“Ale—strong ale—old October; brewed, perhaps, when I was born.”
“It must be curious: is it good?”
“Excessively good.”
And he took it down, administered to himself a second dose of this mighty elixir, expressed in his mischievous eyes extreme contentment with the same, and solemnly replaced the cup on the shelf.
“I should like a little,” said Paulina, looking up; “I never had any ‘old October:’ is it sweet?”
“Perilously sweet,” said Graham.
She continued to look up exactly with the countenance of a child that longs for some prohibited dainty. At last the Doctor relented, took it down, and indulged himself in the gratification of letting her taste from his hand; his eyes, always expressive in the revelation of pleasurable feelings, luminously and smilingly avowed that it was a gratification; and he prolonged it by so regulating the position of the cup that only a drop at a time could reach the rosy, sipping lips by which its brim was courted.
“A little more—a little more,” said she, petulantly touching his hand with the forefinger, to make him incline the cup more generously and yieldingly. “It smells of spice and sugar, but I can’t taste it; your wrist is so stiff, and you are so stingy.”
He indulged her, whispering, however, with gravity: “Don’t tell my mother or Lucy; they wouldn’t approve.”
“Nor do I,” said she, passing into another tone and manner as soon as she had fairly assayed the beverage, just as if it had acted upon her like some disenchanting draught, undoing the work of a wizard: “I find it anything but sweet; it is bitter and hot, and takes away my breath. Your old October was only desirable while forbidden. Thank you, no more.”
And, with a slight bend—careless, but as graceful as her dance—she glided from him and rejoined her father.
I think she had spoken truth: the child of seven was in the girl of seventeen.’
Within this vignette we see glimpses of the festive celebrations Charlotte Brontë must have known, with the passing of the wassail cup, and the singing of Auld Lang Syne, the song set down by Robbie Burns so popular on New Year’s Day today, and which we know Anne Brontë had a copy of in her handwritten music book – as we see in the image above.
Whatever your plans are for this weekend and for all of this festive month to come, I hope you get to pass round a wassail cup with your loved ones, and I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post.
We’ve entered Advent and that big day draws ever nearer. We’ll be looking at Christmas in the Brontë lives and works on this blog throughout December, as usual, but I’ll also be looking at it on my new YouTube channel.
If you haven’t checked it out, it’s called The House of Brontë and I’ll be looking at all things Brontë-related, as well as telling the story of this remarkable family from beginning to end.
In today’s video I look at Emily Brontë’s depiction of Christmas within Wuthering Heights and consider what that tells us about Christmas in Haworth Parsonage.
If you want to see more of my House Of Brontë videos just click the ‘subscribe’ button on YouTube. On Sunday it will be business as usual here with another new Brontë blog post, I hope you can join me then.
December has begun, a busy month for most of us, but especially for a certain couple back in December 1812. Patrick Brontë and Maria Branwell had first met just months earlier, but already their wedding was fixed for 29th December – with that came not only the vows which would tie them together forever, and set literary history in process, but also a change of home. Patrick Brontë would be saying goodbye to Lousy Thorn Farm.
Portrait of a young Patrick Brontë
Both these people had already travelled a long way from the place of their birth, especially by early 19th century standards – the railway had yet to be invented, and long journeys were expensive and made by coach, ship or a combination of the two. Journeys such as the 400 miles or so that Maria made from Cornwall to the West Riding of Yorkshire were arduous and sometimes perilous – it was common for people to make their will before undertaking such a journey.
Maria Branwell herself experienced just how dangerous the journey could be – although she, thankfully, arrived safely, her belongings which were sent after her in a trunk were lost at sea when the ship carrying them was wrecked in a storm.
Maria Branwell aged 16
Patrick had crossed the sea on his journey from County Down, in what is now Northern Ireland, to England, via Cambridge, and although he remained in close contact with his relatives he never saw the country of his birth again. By 1812 he was in his mid thirties and Maria in her late twenties, but when they met they realised that their life had changed forever. We can see this in a moving letter sent by Maria to her fiance on 24th October:
‘Unless my love for you were very great how could I so contentedly give up my home and all my friends… Yet these have lost their weight… 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.’
As December opened, plans for the wedding were heading into overdrive. As Brontë fans and regular readers of my blog may remember this wasn’t any old wedding – it was a triple wedding! At the same ceremony that would see Maria and Patrick wed, Maria’s cousin Jane and Patrick’s best friend William also wed. On the same day and at the same time, although in distant Cornwall, Maria’s sister (and Jane’s cousin) Charlotte Branwell was marrying yet another cousin Joseph Branwell. In 1884 this Charlotte Branwell’s daughter, another Charlotte Branwell, later gave this summary to a Cornish newspaper:
‘It was arranged that the two marriages [Patrick and Maria and William and Jane] should be solemnized on the same day as that of Miss Charlotte Branwell’s mother, fixed for 29th December in far off Penzance. And so, whilst the youngest sister of Mrs. Brontë was being married to her cousin, the late Mr Joseph Branwell, the double marriage, as already noted, was taking place in Yorkshire. Miss Charlotte Branwell also adds that at Guiseley not only did the Rev. Mr Brontë and the Rev. Mr Morgan perform the marriage ceremony for one another, but the brides acted as bridesmaids for each other. Mr Fennell, who was a clergyman of the Church of England, would have united the young people, but he had to give both brides away. Miss Branwell notes these facts to prove that the arrangement for the three marriages on the same day was no caprice or eccentricity on the part of Mr Brontë, but was made entirely by the brides. She has many a time heard her mother speak of the circumstances. “It is but seldom,” continues Miss Branwell, “that two sisters and four cousins are united in holy matrimony on the same day. Those who were united on that day bore that relationship to each other. Mrs. Brontë (formerly Maria Branwell) and my mother, Charlotte Branwell, were sisters; my father was their cousin; and Jane Fennell was a cousin to them all, her father, the Rev. J. Fennell, having married a Miss Branwell of a former generation. If the account I have given you is likely to be of any interest you are quite at liberty to use it as you think proper. I really think a deal of eccentricity has been ascribed to Mr Brontë which he never possessed, and from his letters to my dear mother, of which there are some still in existence, I should say he was a very worthy man, but one who had to pass through some great trials in the early death of a truly amiable wife and of a very gifted family.”’
St. Oswald’s Church, Guiseley, site of the wedding in December 1812
That’s all clear as mud isn’t it, but what is clear is that the start of December 1812 must have seen lots of excitement and lots of planning. In another letter, dated 5th December, we hear that Maria is anticipating the baking:
‘We intend to set about making the cakes here next week, but as fifteen or twenty persons whom you mention live probably in your neighbourhood, I think it will be most convenient for Mrs Bedford to make a small one for the purpose of distributing there, which will save us the difficulty of sending so far.’
Mrs Bedford was presumably Patrick’s landlady for at the time he, as vicar of the parish of Hartshead cum Clifton (near Mirfield, which Anne Brontë would come to know so well), was renting accommodation at the less than delightfully named Lousy Thorn Farm in Hartshead.
This was Lousy Thorn Farm, home of Patrick Bronte
What Patrick’s accommodation looked like we have little way of knowing – the building fell into disrepair, but it is now being restored and is currently called Thornbush Farm. The plan is to turn it into a Brontë visitor attraction, so I hope that comes to fruition!
After their marriage Patrick and Maria Brontë began their married life in a new home together – and this building still stands today. It is Clough House in Hightown near Liversedge, and the site bears a plaque remembering its illustrious former residents. The building itself can be seen at the head of this post.
Whatever your December plans are, I hope they progress smoothly and happily, and I hope to see you next week for another new Brontë blog post – on Sunday at the usual time, I’m sorry that today’s post was a day later than usual, December can be a hectic month for all of us!
I know I’m not the only one who is endlessly fascinated by those brilliant Brontë sisters – not only by their magnificent poems and novels but by their all too brief lives as well. There are many great sources for information on the Brontë sisters’ lives – from biographies and YouTube channels such as my own House Of Brontë to the hundreds of letters that Ellen Nussey kept from her best friend Charlotte Brontë. One other source of Brontë information has an impeccable provenance – and it began on this very day exactly 190 years ago.
This Bronte tin box had a remarkable secret
The tin box above contained Emily Brontë’s sewing equipment, a collection of needles, threads and fabrics – but it had within it a very important secret. It came into the hands of Arthur Bell Nicholls, having been passed to him following the death of his first wife Charlotte Brontë, and formed part of his large, much loved yet mournful collection of Brontë ephemera. In 1895, 40 years after the passing of Charlotte, Arthur turned the box around in his hand, heard a click and a secret compartment opened which had not seen the light of day since the death of Emily Brontë in 1848. Inside were tiny scraps of folded paper, incredible treasures.
What Arthur had discovered was the hiding place of Emily and Anne Brontë’s secret diary papers in which they detailed their life in Haworth Parsonage and beyond, and their dreams for the future. The very first diary paper was composed jointly by Emily and Anne Brontë, and Emily has sketched Anne’s hair flowing down the side of the page. It was dated 24th November 1834, and I produce it below:
The 1834 diary paper front page
“November the 24, 1834 Monday, Emily Jane Brontë, Anne Brontë, I fed Rainbow, Diamond, Snowflake, Jasper, pheasant this morning. Branwell went down to Mr Drivers and brought news that Sir Robert Peel was going to stand for Leeds. Anne and I have been peeling apples for Charlotte to make an apple pudding and for Aunt’s nuts and apples. Charlotte said she made puddings perfectly and she was of a quick but limited intellect. Tabby said just now come Anne pilloputate (ie pill a potato). Aunt has come into the kitchen just now and said, ‘where are your feet Anne?’ Anne answered, ‘on the floor Aunt’. Papa opened the parlour door and gave Branwell a letter saying, ‘here Branwell read this and show it to your Aunt and Charlotte’. The Gondals are discovering the interior of Gaaldine, Sally Mosley is washing in the back kitchen.
It is past twelve o’clock Anne and I have not tidied ourselves, done our bed work or done our lessons and we want to go out to play. We are going to have for dinner boiled beef, turnips, potatoes and apple pudding; the kitchen is in a very untidy state. Anne and I have not done our music exercise which consists of b major. Tabby said, on my putting a pen in her face, ‘ya pitter pottering there instead of pilling a potate’, I answered, ‘oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, I will directly’. With that I get up, take a knife and begin pilling (finished pilling the potatoes). Papa going to walk. Mr Sunderland expected.
Anne and I say I wonder what we shall be like and what we shall be and where we shall be if all goes on well in the year 1874 – in which year I shall be in my 57th year, Anne will be going in her 55th year, Branwell will be going in his 58th year, and Charlotte in her 59th year; hoping we shall all be well at that time, we close our paper. Emily and Anne, November the 24 1834”
1837 Bronte diary paper
Emily and Anne at this point placed little emphasis on spelling and punctuation, yet this is our first glimpse of them in writing – our first insight into two of the greatest literary genii of the nineteenth century. The image above shows Emily’s sketch of herself and Anne at their table composing their 1837 diary paper.
I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post, put the date in your diary and then seal it away in your secret tin box.
I’ve just returned from a lovely weekend in Bridlington, in the very best company. It was surprisingly busy, as, unbeknownst to us, it was the grand unveiling of the east coast resort’s Christmas tree and illuminations. The resort has been a popular town for visitors for the last two hundred years, and in today’s post we’re going to look at one who is very much of interest to us: Charlotte Brontë.
Bridlington
The resort today has a lot to offer holiday makers of all ages, including stomach churning rides, golden sands and more fish and chip shops than you can shake a stick of Bridlington rock. Some things, and certainly some of the views, available there today would have seemed familiar to Charlotte, but one thing at least has changed: the resort’s name. In the first half of the nineteenth century it was called Burlington not Bridlington, and it was here that Charlotte Brontë came, in company with her great friend Ellen Nussey, for her first ever journey to the seaside.
In August 1839 Charlotte travelled by train to Ellen to what we now know as Bridlington, staying in a cottage in nearby Easton. Ellen Nussey later gave an account of the incredible effect the sea had on Charlotte:
“‘The day but one after their capture they walked to the sea, and as soon as they were near enough for Charlotte to see it in its expanse, she was quite over-powered, she could not speak till she had shed some tears she signed to her friend to leave her and walk on; this she did for a few steps, knowing full well what Charlotte was passing through, and the stern efforts she was making to subdue her emotions her friend turned to her as soon as she thought she might without inflicting pain; her eyes were red and swollen, she was still trembling, but submitted to be led onwards where the view was less impressive; for the remainder of the day she was very quiet, subdued, and exhausted. Distant glimpses of the German Ocean had been visible as the two friends neared the coast on the day of their arrival, but Charlotte being without her glasses, could not see them, and when they were described to her, she said, “Don’t tell me any more. Let me wait.”’
The North Sea at Bridlington, what Charlotte called the German Ocean
A love of the sea, and awe at its power, lasted for Charlotte – as we see especially in her novel Villette where the sea is both facilitator and destroyer – the channel (in a very real sense) for the beginning of Lucy Snowe’s adventure and the end of her dreams. Love of Bridlington lasted for Charlotte too, as when she was looking for a suitable location to open a school with sisters Emily and Anne Brontë the town was her first choice, although she later decided to try to open a school in Haworth.
Thank you as always for all your support for my blog – you can also now follow my YouTube account with the channel name House Of Brontë, my latest video looks at why the Brontë sisters used male names and the moving stories behind their choices.
I hope to see you next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.
Today in the United Kingdom has seen a suitably solemn recollection of Remembrance Sunday. It’s a day when we remember wars of the past, when we remember the soldiers who fought in them and the civilians caught up in them, and think of wars still being waged across the globe. Human civilisation has changed a lot in the last two thousand years, at least on a technological scale, but one thing has remained constant: war. Group has fought group and country fought country in every century since then, and surely this is a pattern which will continue until the end of time.
Certainly war was present in the time of the Brontës, as we shall see, but it was a relative in the succeeding generation who was to see the horrors and the twisted triumphs of war up close and personal. It may seem astonishing that a Brontë relative was amidst the hellish spectacle of the first world war, but that’s exactly what Captain Arthur Branwell was. He was in fact just one generation away from Anne Brontë and her siblings, in other words he was a first cousin once removed. His father Thomas Brontë Branwell was the son of Charlotte Branwell (who had kept her surname by marrying her cousin Joseph Branwell). Thomas was given his middle name in tribute to his mother’s elder sister who had married and taken the Brontë name. This sister was, of course, Maria Branwell who married Patrick Brontë in Yorkshire on exactly the same 1812 day as Charlotte married Joseph in Cornwall – a remarkable triple wedding separated by 400 miles.
Captain Branwell miniature
Marrying cousins was nothing new for the extended Branwell family of Penzance, for Thomas Brontë Branwell travelled 400 miles from Cornwall to Haworth in 1851. His purpose was to propose to Charlotte Brontë! After being turned down by Charlotte, something she also did to Ellen Nussey’s brother Henry, Thomas married a woman named Sarah Jones. Their son kept up the family tradition of marrying a cousin –a cousin rather remarkably named Charlotte Brontë Jones! So whilst the father failed to marry a Charlotte Brontë the son succeeded in doing so, and it was this very son, the husband of Charlotte Brontë Jones, who found himself amidst the unspeakable horrors of France in World War One.
Born in 1862, Arthur was a military man by profession. He had served with distinction in the Boer War in South Aftrica and had actually retired from service by the time war in Europe was declared in 1914. Like many others, however, Arthur Branwell was called out of retirement and at first took up a role as an officer in charge of training new recruits. Before long he was somehow in France itself, where he was captured forever in this photograph of the officers of a group of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. The photograph shows Captain Branwell with his supporting officers, two First Lieutenants and two Second Lieutenants.
As the caption notes: ‘This group has, alas, suffered severely since the picture was taken. In fact, Lieutenant Maunsell was killed in France, 2nd Lieutenant Gamble was killed in Palestine, Lieutenant Elliott and 2nd Lieutenant Gamble were killed at the Battle of the Somme. Only the seated figure, our Captain Branwell, survived the war and returned to England.
What do we know of the Brontë sisters’ attitudes towards war? The childhood Brontë tales of Angria and Gondal were full of intrigue, battles and conflict. They were fierce patriots, and we know that in 1854, the year of her marriage, Charlotte Brontë was helping her father Patrick raising money for the newly launched Patriotic Fund. This was a fund set up by the government to raise money for the widows and orphans of military personnel lost during the Crimean War, raging at the time. A letter sent by Patrick Brontë to an unknown parishioner at the time is reproduced below.
It should be noted that whilst the letter is seemingly sent by Reverend Brontë, it was actually in the handwriting of his daughter Charlotte. The Crimean war was at the forefront of Charlotte’s mind at this time, as we see in this letter of 6th December 1854 to Margaret Wooler. In this letter Charlotte Brontë gives a frank appraisal of the futility of war; Charlotte’s patriotism and love of her country is undiminished, but now she sees war as ‘one of the greatest curses that can fall upon mankind.’
For all those afflicted by that curse, yesterday, today and tomorrow we shall remember them. I hope you can join me next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.
As you all surely know by now I’m passionate about all things Brontë – and I know that you are too. I also love history, especially Tudor and Stuart history, which is one reason I wrote the gunpowder plot biography The Real Guy Fawkes.
As a Fawkes biographer, a gunpowderologist, my services are often in demand at this time of year. I appeared in the Channel 5 documentary ‘The Gunpowder Plot: Countdown To Treason’ last weekend, and today I was interviewed on Spanish radio. It seems Guy’s story still resonates, and it was certainly one well known to the Brontë sisters.
Myself and historian Tracy Borman in The Gunpowder Plot: Countdown To Treason
In my new YouTube channel my latest video looks at bonfire night celebrations at the time of the Brontës, and at the appearance of Guy Fawkes in a very famous Brontë novel! You can watch it here, and if you enjoy it and want to see more please open it up in YouTube and subscribe to the channel:
You can also catch the House Of Brontë podcast version at Amazon music below or on most good podcast providers:
I hope you can join me on Sunday for my regular Brontë blog post, and if you are celebrating bonfire night tonight please don’t be like James Taylor (find out more in my video and podcast) who made a rather catastrophic error at an 1838 bonfire!
Today’s new Brontë blog post will very much be a post of two halves. In the first part we’ll be saying farewell to a member of the Brontë family who was central to the Brontë story, and in the second we’ll be saying hello to my new Brontë YouTube channel and podcast.
Aunt Branwell display case, Bronte Parsonage Museum, showing her pattens
This day in November 1842 was a sad one for Haworth and the Brontë family, for it marked the funeral of Aunt Branwell. Elizabeth Branwell was an elder sister of the Brontë siblings’ mother Maria, and during Maria’s final illness she travelled over 400 miles from Penzance to Haworth to nurse her. After Maria’s death she could have returned to Penzance but she chose to remain in the cold, drafty parsonage and became a second mother to the Brontë children. In my opinion without the love of Aunt Branwell and without the financial support of Aunt Branwell there would be none of the Brontë books we know and love today.
In late October Elizabeth fell suddenly and terribly ill, it was clear that her end was approaching and her nephew Branwell Brontë remained faithfully by her side during her final days of suffering, as he revealed in an anguished letter to his friend Francis Grundy:
Her brother-in-law Patrick Brontë had been extremely close to Elizabeth Branwell, so planning her funeral was another of the many sorrows he had to face. We know that she was buried in accordance to her will – not in Penzance but in Haworth. In her will she states that she wished to be buried: “as near as convenient to the remains of my dear sister.’ This provision was stipulated by Elizabeth Branwell at the start of her will made on 30 April 1833 before witnesses William Brown (brother of the Haworth sexton John Brown,) his son William Brown Jr., and John Tootill, in which she also asks that, ‘my funeral shall be conducted in a moderate and decent manner’.
Moderately and decently, on 3rd November 1842, the remains of Elizabeth Branwell were placed into the Brontë family vault. A plaque above the vault lists members of the Brontë family interred there, but although she rests eternally alongside them her name is not included. In attendance during the ceremony were Patrick, Anne and Branwell Brontë with the service being carried out by Reverend James Bradley. Charlotte and Emily Brontë were in Brussels at the time their Aunt fell ill, and although they raced back to England upon receiving news of her illness they arrived too late for her funeral.
Let us remember Aunt Branwell today. She was a woman who loved the Brontës deeply and unreservedly.
Elizabeth Branwell miniature
We now turn to the present day. I’m passionate about the Brontë books and the Brontë story, which is why I blog about them every week here – and will continue to do so. I’m hoping to spread my love of the Brontës even further, however, so I’ve now launched the House Of Brontë YouTube channel and podcast – and created a new page on this website to give you an easy place to access them going forward.
Both the YouTube channel and podcast will look at the Brontë family story from beginning to end, as well as featuring shorter episodes looking at the Brontës and at literature and history.
You can watch the YouTube channel here. Please subscribe to the channel and like the videos to keep up to date with my latest recordings:
You can also listen to The House Of Brontë podcast on Amazon Music here or by searching for The House Of Brontë on your usual podcast provider:
