Author: insearchofannebronte@hotmail.com

I’ve been visiting London again this week, and as always I stayed in Bankside on the south shore of the River Thames. It’s a great location, walked by the likes of Shakespeare, Dickens, Chaucer and many others – and across the Thames via the Millennium Bridge lies the majestic St. Paul’s Cathedral designed by Sir Christopher Wren.

It’s been a breathtaking sight for over four centuries now, and whilst I stay across the river from it, the Brontë sisters stayed in the very shadow of St. Paul’s, as I hope to show in today’s post. The London location favoured by the Brontës was the Chapter Coffee House.

By the time the Brontës stayed in the coffee house (which also served as a guest house) it already had a fine literary reputation as it had served as a late eighteenth century meeting point for writers like Oliver Goldsmith, Samuel Johnson and Thomas Chatterton. There’s a more likely reason why it became the London residence of the Brontës however: its proximity to St. Paul’s.

The streets around this area show its ecclesiastical influence, with names such as Amen Corner and Ave Maria Lane. It is likely that the Chapter Coffee House was in extensive use by members of the clergy visiting St. Paul’s and that this was how it came to the attention of Reverend Patrick Brontë. Patrick visited it in 1842, with his daughters Charlotte and Emily Brontë, a year before this picture of the house was made:

At this time Patrick was accompanying his daughters en route to them entering school in Brussels. He helpfully drew a map of the area, and marked the location of the Chapter Coffee House upon it:

Charlotte returned to London in 1848, and this time it was her youngest sister Anne Brontë with her. They had journeyed to the capital in some haste after receiving a letter implying that the Bell brothers (Currer, Ellis and Acton) were one and the same person. So rapidly did they travel that they had given no thought to where they might stay when they arrived in London in the early hours of a Saturday morning. Charlotte later recalled how they ordered a horse drawn cab to take them and their luggage to the Chapter Coffee House simply because it was the only place in London she knew.

But just where is, or was, the Chapter Coffee House? It’s not there now, but the area around St. Paul’s was badly damaged during the Ritz and I believe that the Chapter Coffee House burned down during the war. I also believe that we can still see where the house once stood, and explain why in this video I made:

A transcript of the video follows here: “I’m here in St Paul’s Churchyard in search of the location of the Chapter Coffee House. The Chapter Coffee House was destroyed by fire during World War II. It’s here that Charlotte and Anne Brontë stayed in London in 1848 in a few days that changed literary history forever. So behind me is St Paul’s Cathedral and in this direction is Ave Maria Lane. Behind me is St Paul’s Alley. These were all marked on Patrick Brontë’s map and behind me through there is Paternoster Row where the Chapter Coffee House was.

Now this gap behind me was caused by the destruction during the blitz of World War II. I believe this is the very spot where the Chapter Coffee House stood and where Charlotte and Anne Brontë stayed. And now right next to it we have a coffee house, Paul’s Coffee House. I believe this is the Brontë’s home in London.”

After posting this on my Twitter account (where I tweet daily about the Brontes) I received some validation from the staff of St. Paul’s Cathedral itself:

When we walk in the shadow of St. Paul’s we walk in the footsteps of Charlotte, Emily and ANne Brontë, and I recommend it to anyone who visits London. I’m back in Yorkshire now, and hope you can join me next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.

The whole world knows that the three writing Brontë sisters (Charlotte Brontë, Emily Brontë and Anne Brontë) were authors and poets of the finest quality – geniuses whose novels are still read and adapted across the world over 200 years after their births. They were also excellent artists, along with their brother Branwell Brontë, and showed prodigious talent from an early age. In today’s Brontë blog post we are looking at the early art of Anne Brontë.

Art was something that Anne Brontë excelled at, and something she loved – and we’ll look at some evidence of this to be found in one of her novels later. Coming from a lower middle class background (their father’s position as a Church of England priest was completely respectable, but they had little money and no property of their own), there were two obvious career paths that presented themselves to the young Brontë girls: teacher or governess. 

For this reason, from an early age they would have been taught the essential skills that they would pass on to their future pupils; needlework (which we know was taught by their Aunt Branwell) and artwork would have been especially prized. A letter from Charlotte Brontë to her father Patrick sent in 1829 (when she was 13 and Anne 9) reveals how the siblings (at the time on a visit to their Uncle Fennell in the nearby parish of Crosspool) spent their time drawing and painting:

“Branwell has taken two sketches from nature, and Emily, Anne and myself, have likewise each of us drawn a piece from some views of the lakes which Mr Fennell brought with him from Westmoreland.”

We see then that the Brontës were copying artworks, and also sketching from nature. It is from this period in time that we have this drawing of a church surrounded by trees by Anne Brontë. She has kindly dated it for us, so that we can see that Anne was just eight years old when she completed this:

No doubt noticing his girls’ talents for art, and always keen to encourage their learning and creativity, Patrick Brontë arranged for his daughters to have formal art lessons from John Bradley of Keighley. Bradley was an established local artist of some talent, although he wasn’t usually an art teacher so it’s possible that Bradley taught the girls as a favour to his friend Patrick.

These lessons helped the Brontës’ art flourish, so that by the age of just 16 years old Anne Brontë had produced this sublime image entitled ‘Man With A Dog Before A Villa.’:

We know that Anne continued to draw and paint throughout her all too short life, and I think it’s safe to say that she did that not only by necessity during her years as a governess, but also because she greatly enjoyed creating works of art. After all, in her second novel The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall what career does Anne choose for her heroine Helen to pursue? She is a professional artist as we see from the opening of chapter five when Gilbert and Rose make their first visit to Wildfell Hall’s new tenant:

‘It was about the close of the month, that, yielding at length to the urgent importunities of Rose, I accompanied her in a visit to Wildfell Hall. To our surprise, we were ushered into a room where the first object that met the eye was a painter’s easel, with a table beside it covered with rolls of canvas, bottles of oil and varnish, palette, brushes, paints, &c. Leaning against the wall were several sketches in various stages of progression, and a few finished paintings—mostly of landscapes and figures.

“I must make you welcome to my studio,” said Mrs. Graham; “there is no fire in the sitting-room to-day, and it is rather too cold to show you into a place with an empty grate.”

And disengaging a couple of chairs from the artistical lumber that usurped them, she bid us be seated, and resumed her place beside the easel—not facing it exactly, but now and then glancing at the picture upon it while she conversed, and giving it an occasional touch with her brush, as if she found it impossible to wean her attention entirely from her occupation to fix it upon her guests. It was a view of Wildfell Hall, as seen at early morning from the field below, rising in dark relief against a sky of clear silvery blue, with a few red streaks on the horizon, faithfully drawn and coloured, and very elegantly and artistically handled.

“I see your heart is in your work, Mrs. Graham,” observed I: “I must beg you to go on with it; for if you suffer our presence to interrupt you, we shall be constrained to regard ourselves as unwelcome intruders.”

“Oh, no!” replied she, throwing her brush on to the table, as if startled into politeness. “I am not so beset with visitors but that I can readily spare a few minutes to the few that do favour me with their company.”

“You have almost completed your painting,” said I, approaching to observe it more closely, and surveying it with a greater degree of admiration and delight than I cared to express. “A few more touches in the foreground will finish it, I should think. But why have you called it Fernley Manor, Cumberland, instead of Wildfell Hall, ——shire?” I asked, alluding to the name she had traced in small characters at the bottom of the canvas.

But immediately I was sensible of having committed an act of impertinence in so doing; for she coloured and hesitated; but after a moment’s pause, with a kind of desperate frankness, she replied:—

“Because I have friends—acquaintances at least—in the world, from whom I desire my present abode to be concealed; and as they might see the picture, and might possibly recognise the style in spite of the false initials I have put in the corner, I take the precaution to give a false name to the place also, in order to put them on a wrong scent, if they should attempt to trace me out by it.”

“Then you don’t intend to keep the picture?” said I, anxious to say anything to change the subject.

“No; I cannot afford to paint for my own amusement.”

“Mamma sends all her pictures to London,” said Arthur; “and somebody sells them for her there, and sends us the money.”’

When we look at the novels, poetry and art of the Brontë sisters we cannot help but be in awe of their talent and genius, and Anne deserves to be considered just as much of a genius as her sisters Charlotte and Anne. I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post.

The Brontës hold a fascination for people the world over thanks to the unique combination of their magnificent literature and their fascinating, at times tragic, lives. Charlotte Brontë was still alive when the first literary pilgrims began making their way to Haworth, and in the many decades since the interest has only grown – and so has the value of anything associated with the Brontës. In today’s post we’re going to look at some of the astonishing bargains that Brontë lovers were able to pick up in the last century.

In my recent visit to the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth I saw many items which were new to their display because they had once formed part of the private Honresfield Library Collection. There had been fears that its treasures would be lost to the nation forever, but thanks to public support and some very generous donors led by Sir Len Blavatnik the collection was bought and then gifted back to the nation. The cost of this collection? A cool £15 million, but just a century ago similar treasures could be picked up at a series of auctions for rather less; they could also be found in rather unusual circumstances, as this 1933 report from the Sunderland Daily Echo shows:

There are still undoubtedly Brontë treasures hidden away yet to be discovered, so if you ever buy an old book do give it a good examination. The bulk of Brontë items on display around the world today, however, have a known provenance. Many came from Haworth Parsonage itself and were among lots auctioned off after the deaths of Charlotte and then Patrick Brontë. Others have passed down from collections that once belonged to Charlotte’s widower Arthur Bell Nicholls, her best friend Ellen Nussey and from the long standing parsonage servant Martha Brown. Still others, rather more sadly, have their origins in the many letters and items that were tricked out of Ellen Nussey by unscrupulous conmen and then sold to wealthy Brontë collectors in America and beyond. One such letter was coming up for auction in 1937, as we see from the following Yorkshire Post report:

It’s interesting to see that five years earlier in 1932, there had been an auction of Charlotte Brontë’s childhood ephemera and “a batch of her schoolgirl stories and verses, written on small scraps of paper.” These sold for £1884. Today we would recognise them as one of her tiny books, and attach a value approaching six figures or more.

We now turn to the Bradford Daily Telegraph of December 16th 1916. Across the sea in France and Flanders, World War One is raging – and the newspaper carries pictures of local men killed or wounded in action. The Battle Of The Somme has recently ended, but smaller tragedies continue across the Western Front. Meanwhile, away from the trenches and tear gas, away from the death and dull despair, away from the senseless savagery and selfless sacrifices the wider world continues much as before – including an auction of Brontë items reported on below:

This large collection of items were from the estates of Mary Anna Bell Nicholls, who had recently died and who had been the second wife of Arthur Bell Nicholls, and from the estate of Brontë collector J. H. Dixon. Among the incredible bargains to be had that day were a ring containing Charlotte Brontë’s hair which she had gifted to her husband – yours for £35. For £39 you could have one of Charlotte’s Brussels notebooks in which she had written a series of short stories. A letter sent by Charlotte to Ellen Nussey on the first day of her honeymoon fetched £44, and with it came a lock of Charlotte Brontë’s hair.

Perhaps the most moving of all the lots that came up for auction that day was the comb used by Emily Brontë on the day of her death – the middle is burnt out after it fell from Emily’s hands onto the fire. Remarkably, there were no bids at all for that item and it was withdrawn unsold. 

These small items, added together, tell of a remarkable life, and it’s one that still fascinates us today. As the exponential increase in the value of Brontë letters and items shows, that fascination shows no sign of stopping. Thankfully you don’t need to be a millionaire to see many of them, simply head to the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth. I hope to see you next week for another new Brontë blog post.

The Brontë Parsonage Museum has to be one of the world’s greatest literary museums. It houses a vast collection of Brontë writings, artifacts and memorabilia, so much so that only a fraction can be displayed at any one time, with the remainder held in a secure storage facility secreted away in the heart of West Yorkshire. Every year they introduce new items to display, centred around a new theme. This year’s theme is entitled “The Brontës’ Web Of Childhood” and we’ll take a look at it in today’s new Brontë blog post.

The theme for 2024 is an apt one, as it was the seeds of creation sown during the Brontë childhoods that led to the outpouring of genius in their adult lives, and when we walk around the parsonage today we can easily remember that we are tracing the exact same steps once trodden by young Charlotte, Branwell, Emily and Anne Brontë.

I was fortunate enough to visit the parsonage this year, and even more fortunate to be visiting with my wonderful fiancee Yvette, author of the Restorative Creativity series of books, who hadn’t been to the parsonage for a number of years. One thing that particularly impressed me was that throughout the building were a series of cards imagining a scenario in that room from the Brontës’ childhood years. This also tied in neatly with a storytelling exhibition in what is known as The Servants’ Room, featuring a recorded audio performance by the museum’s new storyteller-in-residence Sophia Hatfield. 

There were some items I’ve never seen before, alongside some much loved old favourites. Here then are just some of the items you can see on display if you step into the web of childhood this year:

This was a wonderful exhibition, although there did seem to be less of Anne Brontë on display than ever before – in this 175th anniversary year of her death even her blood stained handkerchief is no longer displayed. I recommend it to all who can wend their way to Haworth however, there’s so much to see and enjoy – and from 20th to 22nd September the Brontë Festival of Women’s Writing returns.

Make the most of this sunny, dry weather while you can and I hope to see you next week for another new Brontë blog post.

This week marked some important anniversaries in the Brontë story – the 30th July was the anniversary of the birth of Emily Brontë (and, exactly 140 years later) of Kate Bush who will always be linked to her thanks to a certain song. Today marks another date to remember, as it was on this day in 1928 that the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth first opened its doors to the public. That’s why I headed to Haworth this week, and why today’s post looks at the Brontë Parsonage Museum – past and present.

To start with, let’s fire up our time machines and head back to the 4th August 1928. If you were in Haworth on this day you would have been met with huge crowds stretching up Church Lane and down the cobbled Main Street – people were in their finery, so bowler and cloche hats were in abundance. What was drawing them there? The official opening of the Brontë Museum in what had, until then, been an active parsonage building belonging to the Church of England. This picture taken on that day captures the crowd perfectly:

If we had been there that day we would have seen two of the great benefactors of the museum on the podium facing the large assembly of well-wishers: Sir James Roberts and Sir Edward Brotherton. Both are working class northerners who had become successful industrialists, and had used their wealth to share their love of the Brontës with the public. Sir James was born in Haworth, in the same week that Branwell Brontë died, and he still had vivid memories of Patrick Brontë, of Arthur Bell Nicholls and Martha Brown. It is Sir James who bought the parsonage building from the Church of England and immediately gifted it to the Brontë Society, allowing them to open it to the public. Sir Edward had built up a vast collection of Brontë memorabilia, alongside other literary gems, and he has gifted a large part of it to this new museum and to Leeds University – where it is now housed in the magnificent Brotherton Library.

Other notable people who thrilled the crowd were Mr and Mrs Branwell and Captain Arthur Branwell, the cousins once and twice removed of the Brontës and last surviving members of the Branwell family of Penzance who had provided the Brontë motherline. Another man presented to the crowd is Mr Holland, grandson of Charlotte Brontë’s friend and biographer Elizabeth Gaskell. 

Perhaps the most moving and spontaneous aspect of the ceremony comes when Lady Roberts, wife of Sir James, was presented with a bouquet of white moorland heather by a local child. She stooped to kiss the child, and the whole audience applauded. The event was reported fulsomely by newspapers from as far away as Hastings in Kent, whose Observer newspaper gave this account:

‘The first time, we are told, never comes back, and the present writer will not soon forget his sensations on seeing for the first time, and so suddenly, the home of the Brontës. The experience was, at once, strange – and familiar. It was familiar because – in pictures, photographs, even on postcards, Haworth Parsonage is known to most of us. It was strange, because there is always something of strangeness on seeing for the first time a face, a scene, or an historic building, the pictured presentation of which is familiar to us. And, in the case of the Haworth Parsonage, the sense of strangeness was heightened by the fact that the old Brontë home struck one as more grimly grey-black, more bleakly-haggard, and more ghost-haunted, even than one had expected…

Before some of us had breakfasted, on the morning of August 4th, visitors all parts of the country, all parts of the Kingdom, all parts of the Empire – for one lady had come specially from Rhodesia, and one heard of folk who had journeyed from Canada, America, and the Antipodes – were pouring in by train, by car, by charabanc, motorcycle, push cycle, and not a few of the poorer classes, on foot. Haworth was, in fact, en fête, its streets fluttering with flags, and with Union Jacks floating from flagstaffs, or run out of windows of the more important buildings. At 2.45, Colonel Sir Edward Brotherton, who was to preside at the ceremony, arrived. Like Sir James and Lady Roberts, Sir Edward Brotherton has done great things for patriotic causes, raising at his own expense a battalion of the 15th West Yorkshire regiment during the War. His being in the chair was, thus, more than appropriate, for August 4th was an “historic” occasion, apart from the Brontë celebration.

The arrival of Sir Edward at 2.45 was followed at 2.55 by that of Sir James and Lady Roberts, who were received by Sir Edward, supported by the Lord Mayor of Bradford, and a very distinguished company. Within the gates of the Parsonage, and far without those gates, some thousands of persons were gathered. After Sir James had handed the title deeds of the Parsonage to Sir Edward, and the latter had eloquently, and gracefully made acknowledgement, little Catherine Butler Wood (daughter of the accomplished scholar and author, who is editor of the Brontë Society publications) presented Lady Roberts with a bouquet of white moorland heather. When Lady Roberts, in her gentle and gracious way, stooped to kiss the child (as did Sir James), this little “human touch” called forth enthusiastic hurras, and even cheers. The applause was no less enthusiastic when Sir Edward Brotherton claimed that the Brontë Society now had a museum which would bear comparison with those established in honour of Victor Hugo, Walter Scott and Robert Burns.

Next Sir Edward invited Lady Roberts to open the Parsonage, which she did with a golden key presented by the architect, Mr W. A. Ledgard, who, later, made a speech which, next to that of Sir Edward Brotherton and Sir James Roberts, was by far the most memorable oration from anyone present. Lord Haldane, who intended to be present at the ceremony, but was prevented by illness [a former Lord Chancellor, Haldane died suddenly two weeks later], sent a written and very striking tribute to the Brontës, which was read by Canon Egerton Leigh. Then came the vote of thanks to Sir James and Lady Roberts, which after it had been proposed, seconded, and supported, was enthusiastically and unanimously carried. Other speakers were Dr. J. B. Baillie and Dr. J. Hambley Rowe, both prominent members of the Brontë Society, but one regretted that so eminent an authority on the Brontës as Mr. Jonas Bradley, could not be persuaded to say a few words. The interest of the occasion was, however, not a little heightened by the announcement that Captain Arthur Branwell, and Mr. and Mrs. Branwell, relatives of the Brontë family, as well as Mr. Holland, grandson of Mrs. Gaskell, were present, and were invited by Sir James to ascend the platform, to say a few words…

Sir James said: “It is my first, and particularly pleasant, duty to place in the hands of Sir Edward Brotherton, the honoured president of the Brontë Society, the title deeds of the property of the Haworth Parsonage, which from today becomes, as the Brontë Parsonage Museum, the permanent home of the memorials of the Brontë family. My pleasure is enhanced by the fact that in performing this duty I am returning to the well-remembered scenes of my childhood and youth and to-day is an occasion when, standing on the verge of fourscore years, these early memories are vividly reproduced.

I was born in this parish in the same week in which the unhappy Branwell Brontë died: an event followed at intervals of distressing brevity by the deaths of Emily and Anne. Haworth has seen more than a few progressive changes since those far off times. Her people have moved into closer touch with a wider world life, and a good many of her children have achieved success in commercial and other pursuits. Were this occasion less important, and less impressive, I could revive many quaint recollections of Haworth folk, and Haworth ways, as I remember them in those mid-Victorian days – a people and manners now immortalised by the writings of those whose memories we are met to honour.

It is to me a somewhat melancholy reflection that I am one of the fast narrowing circle of Haworth veterans who remember the Parsonage family. I heard Mr. Brontë preach in the pathetic blindness of his old age. Mr. Nicholls frequently visited the schoolhouse we as children ate the mid-day meal in the interval of our elementary studies, while Martha Brown, the faithful servant to whom Mr. Brontë gave the money box, the contents of which she was “to keep ready for a time of need,” is still to me a well-remembered figure…

I remember Mr. Brontë as a man most tolerant to divergencies of religious conviction. Above all these memorabilia there rises before me the frail and unforgettable figure of Charlotte Brontë, who more than once stopped to speak a kindly word to the little lad who now stands a patriarch before you. I remember her funeral one Easter-tide, and some six years afterwards that of her father. These early associations, still very dear to me, were followed in after years by exceeding delight in those creations of imaginative genius which Charlotte and her sisters have left to us. Read, and many times re-read, they have often delighted the leisure hour and released the mind from the embarrassing and strenuous labours of a protracted and industrial career…

I am no authority in literary criticism but I do think, and I have always thought, that the realistic art of the Brontës makes unique appeal, and interprets itself with peculiar vividness to those whose nativity was amongst the scenes they have so graphically portrayed. I humbly stand in the ranks of the unnumbered and world-wide multitude who have found not only delight but inspiration from these sisters, who, encumbered with many adversities, rose to such great and shining heights of endeavour and discovered to the world their extraordinary literary powers. Those gifts, matured within these walls, and under the wide horizon of the Haworth Moor, have made of our little moorland village a shrine to which pilgrims from many lands wend every year their way”…

Out of these solitudes, far removed, from the vigorous and inspiring lives of the cities, there shone forth the luminous genius of three illustrious women. The presentation of these title deeds is to me an act of homage, alike to their genius, and to the nobility of their courageous lives.’

A beautiful account, and the Brontë Parsonage Museum is just as breathtaking today. I was there on Friday, and it now owes special thanks to another great benefactor. There are some exhibits that I have never seen on display before – and some of them come thanks to the beneficence of Sir Leonard Blavatnik, who saved many Brontë items for the nation recently when they were at risk of being auctioned and never seen again.

Next week I will bring you a report of this year’s new Brontë exhibition, ‘Web Of Childhood’, but for now I present some of the pictures I took this week of some of the ground floor rooms within the parsonage.

I hope to see you again next week for another new Brontë blog post, and I hope you have a sunny happy week, wherever you are.

On this day in 1818 in Thornton, Bradford was born a girl who changed the course of literary history forever. She would grow into a very shy woman, one who would stand still and silent if a stranger appeared, yet all who were lucky enough to get to know her knew they were in the presence of someone very special indeed. I couldn’t let this day pass without paying tribute to the birthday girl. It is, of course, Emily Brontë.

Emily Jane Brontë was the fifth of six Brontë siblings, and she became incredibly close to her youngest sister Anne. Great friend of the family Ellen Nussey later recalled how Emily and Anne were like twins, and told how they walked the parsonage and the moors with their arms interlocked. It is also Ellen who paid this great tribute to Emily: “I have at this time before me the history of a mighty and passionate soul, whom every adventure that makes for the sorrow or gladness of man would seem to have passed by with averted head. It is of Emily Brontë I speak, than whom the first 50 years of this century produced no woman of greater or more incontestable genius.”

The image above contains that and other tributes paid to Emily by those who had known and love her. She struggled to communicate face to face, but she had no difficulty in communicating on the page, and little difficulty with any other challenge she faced. Emily Brontë excelled at everything she turned her hand to. She was baker of the finest bread in Haworth, she picked up and mastered languages like we can pick up a pencil, she was a fabulous artist, a wonderful poet and although she wrote only one novel it was, in my opinion, the greatest novel ever written: Wuthering Heights.

The influence and adoration of this novel will never diminish – as shown by the enduring popularity of the song ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Kate Bush. Kate shares a birthday with Emily Brontë, so happy 66th birthday Kate – born 140 years to the day after Emily.

And happy 206th birthday Emily Brontë – her brilliant work has enriched my life so much, I will never stop being grateful for this shy, towering genius. I hope you can join me on Sunday for my next Brontë blog post, and I leave you now with one of Emily’s most celebrated poems in her own handwriting:

I’m currently planning my own honeymoon for next year, so perhaps I should take inspiration from Charlotte Brontë? On this day in 1854 Charlotte Brontë Nicholls, as she now styled herself, was in Dublin at the end of her month-long honeymoon in Ireland – home of her father Patrick and of her new husband Arthur Bell Nicholls.

In today’s new post we look at two letters Charlotte sent on this day as she prepared to return home, and at how life changed once she was back in Haworth Parsonage. The first of these letters was sent to loyal servant, and friend, Martha Brown:

The second letter was sent on the same day, 28th July 1854, to Charlotte’s great friend and sole bridesmaid Ellen Nussey:

This must have been a tiring month for Charlotte, but it is clearly one that the new bride enjoyed greatly. Each stop on her Irish tour brought delights, and sometimes challenges. In Killarney, for example, she and Arthur had been riding horses through the spectacular ‘Gap of Dunloe’. In Charlotte’s own words, “A sudden glimpse of a very grim phantom came on us in the Gap.” Charlotte’s horse reared up and threw her from the horse. She lay helpless as it “seemed to go mad – reared – plunged”. Arthur managed to lead the horse away and fortuitously Charlotte had avoided the horses hooves when she could so easily have been killed.

In Kilkee (shown at the top of this post), Charlotte and Arthur enjoyed the bracing sea air at the growing resort. Charlotte is still remembered at the resort alongside another, rather different, visitor to Kilkee: Che Guevara. 

Throughout all of this honeymoon Charlotte has had her home, and father, firmly on her mind, but what would life be like once she returned to the Parsonage she had called home since she moved there aged 34 years earlier? We get a report in another letter sent from Charlotte to Ellen, this time on 9th August, 8 days after her arrival back in Haworth:

“Since I came home I have not had an unemployed moment; my life is changed indeed – to be wanted continually – to be constantly called for and occupied seems so strange: yet it is a marvellously good thing. As yet I don’t quite understand how some wives grow so selfish. As far as my experience of matrimony goes – I think it tends to draw you out of, and away from yourself.”

If you are on holiday now, or even on honeymoon, I wish you a very pleasant one. Summer seems to have returned to Yorkshire, a perfect opportunity to relax in the sun with a good book. I hope to see you next week for another new Brontë blog post.

This week marks an important anniversary in the Brontë story, for it was on July 19th 1833 that Ellen Nussey made her first visit to Haworth Parsonage. Why is this so important? Well, Ellen was there at important moments throughout the Brontë lives, from Anne’s death to Charlotte’s marriage, and it’s thanks to Ellen that we know so much about the Brontë family. In today’s post we’re going to look at Ellen’s account of that first visit, a time when the very best fab four came together, a group who called themselves ‘The Quartette.’

After the death of Charlotte Brontë in 1855, the last of the six Brontë siblings, Ellen rapidly became famous for her Brontë connection. Literary pilgrims from across the UK and beyond made their way to Ellen’s humble home in search of information about this incredible family – and often they would leave with a Brontë fragment or even a letter. One such visitor, American artist Frederic Yates, even painted this wonderful oil painting of Ellen in old age.

In 1871 Scribner’s Magazine asked Ellen to provide her “Reminiscences Of Charlotte Brontë.” Ellen did not disappoint, and demonstrated that she herself had a wonderful way with words. Amidst this long article Ellen gave a fulsome, and at times very moving, description of her first visit to Haworth, so I reproduce it below:

 

Just think, exactly 191 years ago today that loving, fun filled quartette could have been making their way across the moors to the meeting of the waters – it’s now better known as the Brontë Falls. It’s important to remember that, amidst their literary triumphs and personal tragedies, the Brontës had happy, carefree moments too. If only they could have been granted more of them.

I hope to meet you all again next Sunday, not at the waters but right here for another new Brontë blog post.

Thanks to all who came to see me discuss Anne Brontë at the Bradford Literature Festival last Sunday – it was great to see how many Anne fans there are out there, and it was lovely, as always, to hear people say how much they enjoy this blog! It’s a real labour of love for me, so I’m glad that people enjoy reading it just as much as I enjoy writing it.

I apologise in advance to some of you for the subject matter of today’s post. I’m a football fan and Euro fever has me in its grasp as I look forward to the big final tonight! I promise there will be no 4-4-2 or VAR discussions to follow, but we are going to look at three lions on a shirt, er I mean three lions in Brontë writing.

Jane Eyre

“No – no – Jane; you must not go. No – I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence – the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself – I must have you. The world may laugh – may call me absurd, selfish – but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.”

“Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so.”

“Yes – but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair – to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you: do you think so? Come – tell me.”

“I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better.”

“But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young – you must marry one day.”

“I don’t care about being married.”

“You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make you care – but – a sightless block!”

He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.

“It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,” said I, parting his thick and long uncut locks; “for I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a ‘faux air’ of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles’ feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds’ claws or not, I have not yet noticed.”

“On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,” he said, drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. “It is a mere stump – a ghastly sight! Don’t you think so, Jane?”

“It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes – and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you.”

“I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrised visage.”

“Did you? Don’t tell me so – lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up.

The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall

Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of dark grey stone, venerable and picturesque to look at, but doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and little latticed panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered situation, – only shielded from the war of wind and weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it lay a few desolate fields, and then the brown heath-clad summit of the hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and entered by an iron gate, with large balls of grey granite – similar to those which decorated the roof and gables – surmounting the gate-posts) was a garden, – once stocked with such hard plants and flowers as could best brook the soil and climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure the gardener’s torturing shears, and most readily assume the shapes he chose to give them, – now, having been left so many years untilled and untrimmed, abandoned to the weeds and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the rain and the drought, it presented a very singular appearance indeed. The close green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk, were two-thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond all reasonable bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the scraper, had lost its neck and half its body: the castellated towers of laurel in the middle of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one side of the gateway, and the lion that guarded the other, were sprouted into such fantastic shapes as resembled nothing either in heaven or earth, or in the waters under the earth; but, to my young imagination, they presented all of them a goblinish appearance, that harmonised well with the ghostly legions and dark traditions our old nurse had told us respecting the haunted hall and its departed occupants.

I had succeeded in killing a hawk and two crows when I came within sight of the mansion; and then, relinquishing further depredations, I sauntered on, to have a look at the old place, and see what changes had been wrought in it by its new inhabitant. I did not like to go quite to the front and stare in at the gate; but I paused beside the garden wall, and looked, and saw no change – except in one wing, where the broken windows and dilapidated roof had evidently been repaired, and where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from the stack of chimneys.

While I thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark gables, sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies, in which old associations and the fair young hermit, now within those walls, bore a nearly equal part, I heard a slight rustling and scrambling just within the garden; and, glancing in the direction whence the sound proceeded, I beheld a tiny hand elevated above the wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and then another little hand was raised to take a firmer hold, and then appeared a small white forehead, surmounted with wreaths of light brown hair, with a pair of deep blue eyes beneath, and the upper portion of a diminutive ivory nose.

The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on beholding Sancho, my beautiful black and white setter, that was coursing about the field with its muzzle to the ground. The little creature raised its face and called aloud to the dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and wagged his tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little boy, apparently about five years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall, and called again and again; but finding this of no avail, apparently made up his mind, like Mahomet, to go to the mountain, since the mountain would not come to him, and attempted to get over; but a crabbed old cherry-tree, that grew hard by, caught him by the frock in one of its crooked scraggy arms that stretched over the wall. In attempting to disengage himself his foot slipped, and down he tumbled – but not to the earth; – the tree still kept him suspended. There was a silent struggle, and then a piercing shriek; – but, in an instant, I had dropped my gun on the grass, and caught the little fellow in my arms.

I wiped his eyes with his frock, told him he was all right and called Sancho to pacify him. He was just putting a little hand on the dog’s neck and beginning to smile through his tears, when I heard behind me a click of the iron gate, and a rustle of female garments, and lo! Mrs. Graham darted upon me – her neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in the wind.

“Give me the child!” she said, in a voice scarce louder than a whisper, but with a tone of startling vehemence, and, seizing the boy, she snatched him from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch, and then stood with one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his shoulder, fixing upon me her large, luminous dark eyes – pale, breathless, quivering with agitation.

Charlotte Brontë, Letter to Francis Bennoch

So there we have three lions in the Brontë writing. In one we see a disfigured Rochester find hope, then love, with Jane Eyre; in the next we see Gilbert meeting Helen, the eponymous tenant of Wildfell Hall, for the first time, and get a first clue as to her story. Finally, we see the ever humble Charlotte say that, at 37, she is too old for praise – too old to be a lion.

It (a national football trophy) could be coming home for the mens’ team tonight for the first time in 58 years, but let’s not forget that it came home for the lionesses just two years ago when they won Euro 22 for England’s women. Ellen Nussey, loyal friend of the Brontës, called herself a lioness in her very final interview in 1897:

In connection with her correspondence with Charlotte, Miss Nussey said she had often been badly treated, and I quite agreed with her when she informed me of the circumstances. This led me to tell her I had heard something of the kind before, and that I had felt diffident about seeking an interview, but that at last I had yielded, the suggestion being that I should ‘beard the lioness in her den.’ She laughed heartily, and exclaimed, ‘That’s exactly what I am, a lioness. I have to be, because of the way I have been treated.’ To me she was all kindness, and the interview throughout seemed to be mutually satisfactory. We parted, but she called me again to the house door, and then with a nervous air said, ‘Remember! All who have anything to do with the Brontës have had great trouble.’

I promise there will be no football next week and lots of Brontës, but tonight, whatever our nationality and whatever we think of sport, let’s get behind Gareth Southgate and the gang. After all, he lives in Swinsty Hall in Yorkshire just 20 miles from Haworth – which surely makes him an honourary Brontë fan for one night. Whatever the result for England against Spain I hope to see you next week for another new Brontë blog post.

My latest Brontë blog post is a day earlier than usual, so don’t worry – you haven’t slept in and missed the England football match, Wimbledon tennis or Michael McIntyre’s ‘The Wheel’. I’m writing and posting on Saturday this week because on Sunday I’m appearing at the Bradford Literature Festival, at 1pm at the grand Midland Hotel – a location once known to Branwell Brontë.

You can buy tickets by clicking on this link, and it would be lovely to see you there. It’s a question and answer session, and no doubt we’ll also have time to mention Charlotte, Emily and other Brontë-related subjects. The main subject however, is Anne Brontë and her first novel Agnes Grey, and the parallels between Anne’s fiction and her life. We will look at a few brief examples in today’s post.

Agnes Grey was the debut novel of Anne Brontë – published in December 1847 (alongside her beloved sister Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights), it is believed that Anne may have been referring to an early iteration of the book in her diary paper of July 1845, in which she wrote: “I have begun the third volume of passages in the life of an individual. I wish I had finished it.” If this is an indeed an early draft, then it would make it the earliest of the Brontë novels now in print.

The book as it is today is in three distinct sections, so it would suit a three volume treatment as mentioned in the diary paper, although it is a short book. It is very clearly, in my opinion, autobiographical in nature in many instances. When I was re-reading the book whilst writing my Anne biography In Search Of Anne Brontë, I got a cheap edition and highlighted passages which seemed to be at least partly autobiographical in nature (please note that I don’t generally approve of writing in books, or of turning page corners down); I found sixty such passages. Looking back through the self same edition this week I find that I’m not quite as confident on some of the highlighted passages, but that there are other sections I didn’t highlight which seem to me be based on Anne’s life and experiences.

We don’t have to look far for instances of autobiographical information; on the very first page Agnes, the eponymous narrator, tell us: “My father was a clergyman of the north of England.” If we take ‘of’ to mean living in, rather than born in, then this also describes Anne Brontë herself of course.

In that same opening chapter, Agnes describes how her mother had come from much wealthier stock, and how she is one of six children. Both of these match the Brontë facts precisely. Agnes decides to become a governess, but because she is the youngest sibling her parents do not think her capable of looking after others – she will always be the baby of the family to them. We can easily imagine that Anne faced the same problems when she two announced her decision to become a governess.

This book is not only full of autobiographical signposts, it also paints a vivid portrait of life as a governess. Agnes has two positions, in the first she has children who are unruly and whose parents treat her with disdain. In the second, the children are much less vicious, but Agnes is dismayed at the way their mother is preparing them for society weddings without considering love.

These two episodes seem very closely related to Anne’s time as governess to the Ingham family of Blake Hall and the Robinson family of Thorp Green Hall. Indeed, I believe writing the first section may have been a cathartic experience for Anne as it allowed her to get revenge, on paper, on the horrors that she had experienced as governess to the Inghams. Agnes lasts a matter of months as governess to the Bloomfields; in real life Anne was dismissed mere months after becoming governess to the Ingham family – her position deemed untenable after the parents entered the schoolroom and found that Anne had tied one of her charges to a table leg so she could write poetry in peace.

The most moving element of the novel to me is the ever so sweet romance between Agnes and Edward Weston, the assistant curate near Horton Lodge, based upon Thorp Green Hall. I have no doubt that Weston is a near facsimile, in character and actions, of William Weightman – Anne’s eternal love who was ripped from life far too soon.

Weightman’s death had destroyed Anne’s dreams – she could have enjoyed a mutual love with him, have married him – after all what could be more natural for an assistant curate than to marry the daughter of the more senior clergyman he assisted? Real life killed the dream Anne dreamed, but she resurrected it on paper and gave herself the happy ending she had always wanted. 

I will be talking about this and much more tomorrow at the Bradford Literature Festival. If you can’t make it, do pick up a copy of Agnes Grey – it’s a fabulous read. I’m firmly in the camp of the great Irish novelist George Moore who said of it: “Agnes Grey is the most perfect prose narrative in English literature… a narrative simple and beautiful as a muslin dress… We know that we are reading a masterpiece. Nothing short of genius could have set them before us so plainly and yet with restraint.”

Anne herself is quite candid about the nature of her novel right at its beginning: “All true histories contain instruction… shielded by my own obscurity, and by the lapse of years, and a few fictitious names, I do not fear to venture; and will candidly lay before the public what I would not disclose to the most intimate friend.”

We can all be grateful that Anne did exactly that. I’m off now to watch the England match, er I mean to prepare for my talk, but I hope to see you next Sunday for another new Brontë blog post.