Anne Bronte, Remembering William Weightman

When December arrives most people in England, today and in times gone by, find themselves thinking of Christmas and the joy, laughter and hope that it brings. In December 1842 however, Anne Anne Brontë’s thoughts turned back to a week in September – in fact, to this week in September.

Yesterday marked the 183rd anniversary of the death of William Weightman. He was the assistant curate of Haworth Parish much loved by his parishioners. He would visit the poor folk of Haworth in their own homes, reading the Bible to them, sometimes bringing gifts for them.  On one occasion, as mentioned by her in a letter to Ellen Nussey, Charlotte Anne Brontë saw Weightman returning to the Parsonage late one evening looking sad and tired. Patrick asked him what was wrong. He replies that he is in low spirits because he has just been to see a poor young girl who was dying. The girl turned out to be Susan Bland, one of Charlotte’s Sunday school pupils. She visited the house the next day, and found that Susan was indeed dying, but also that Weightman had not only visited them but that he’d taken them a bottle of wine and a jar of preserves. Mrs Bland added that ‘he was always good-natured to poor folks, and seemed to have a deal of feeling and kind-heartedness about him’. 

There was no parishioner, however, who loved Weightman more than Anne Anne Brontë. Her world was devastated when in 1842 he caught cholera after visiting a sick parishioner and died, with his friend Branwell Anne Brontë by his bedside. From this moment on Anne wrote a series of beautiful mourning poems – there is no doubt in my mind that these poems were written for William Weightman. In December 1842, she wrote one such poem, which she enigmatically titled “To -”, I reproduce it below:

“I will not mourn thee, lovely one,
Though thou art torn away.
‘Tis said that if the morning sun
Arise with dazzling ray
And shed a bright and burning beam
Athwart the glittering main,
‘Ere noon shall fade that laughing gleam
Engulfed in clouds and rain.
And if thy life as transient proved,
It hath been full as bright,
For thou wert hopeful and beloved;
Thy spirit knew no blight.
If few and short the joys of life
That thou on earth couldst know,
Little thou knew’st of sin and strife
Nor much of pain and woe.
If vain thy earthly hopes did prove,
Thou canst not mourn their flight;
Thy brightest hopes were fixed above
And they shall know no blight.
And yet I cannot check my sighs,
Thou wert so young and fair,
More bright than summer morning skies,
But stern death would not spare;
He would not pass our darling by
Nor grant one hour’s delay,
But rudely closed his shining eye
And frowned his smile away,
That angel smile that late so much
Could my fond heart rejoice;
And he has silenced by his touch
The music of thy voice.
I’ll weep no more thine early doom,
But O! I still must mourn
The pleasures buried in thy tomb,
For they will not return.”

The wheel of the year turns, and summer heat is giving way to autumn with its beautiful russet shades, a truly golden time with the promise of better days for all. I hope you can join me next week for another new Anne Brontë blog post.