Five Brontë Anniversaries With Five Pictures

On the face of it the Brontës lived ordinary lives in an ordinary, if ecclesiastical, lower middle class home in the first half of the nineteenth century – and yet, of course, they achieved extraordinary things. Throughout the year we see Brontë anniversaries occurring, some are some life milestones and dramatic events, others are more mundane, but together they all help to shape our understanding and appreciation of this wonderful family.

This week has been more full of Brontëversaries (apologies for the portmanteau) than most, so in today’s new post we’re going to look at five events which happened in this week on various years, and we’re also going to look at five pictures which shed light on these events.

‘Convolvulus’ by Charlotte Bronte – because why not?

20th April 1820

Literary history was made on 20th April 1820, although the family concerned could have had no idea of what lay ahead. It was on that day that Reverend Patrick Brontë left Thornton, Bradford to start his new job as parish priest for Haworth, six miles away across the moors. The Brontës had arrived in Haworth and things would never be the same again, for them and the village.

The journey was made in six carriages and one covered wagon which held all their worldly goods – including their most precious cargo of all, three month old baby Anne Brontë. Today people come to Haworth from across the world on a literary pilgrimage, but the village they see has changed greatly from the one they knew. Of course there are no photographs from the time of the Brontë move, there was no photography at all. I like this picture from later in the century of Haworth’s steep and famous Main Street – it was called Kirkgate at the time the Brontës arrived there.

20th April 1817

This particular date holds a double anniversary for in 1817 it witnessed the birth of a woman who would become central to the Brontë story: Ellen Nussey. Ellen was born just one day before the first birthday of the person who became her best friend forever – Charlotte Brontë of course. Despite this Charlotte forgot Ellen’s birthday as she reveals in a letter of 1846:

‘You said I was to think of you on Monday – why? The 20th is not your birthday is it? I thought it was the 22nd.’

Ellen remained loyal to the Brontës to the end, even though she lived for over four decades longer than Charlotte. It was her preservation of the hundreds of letters Charlotte sent to her that means we know so much about the family today, although in Ellen’s later years this also made her vulnerable to conmen who took many of her beloved treasures from her. We have many photographs of Ellen Nussey, mostly from her later years, but I have chosen this one as it was for a long time thought to be of Charlotte Brontë and even appeared centre stage on Charlotte’s Wikipedia page – comparison to other photographs of Ellen however can leave us in no doubt who it really is.

21st April 1816

We’ve already touched on this above, but the 21st April marks the anniversary of the birth of one of the towering genii of English literature: Charlotte Brontë. If only she had lived to write more than the four novels we have, what further masterpieces would we now be enjoying?

Charlotte’s life was far from an easy one, losing her mother and then her two eldest sisters in her formative years meaning that she was forced to grow up quickly. In her adult life too she suffered disappointments in work and in love, but it was these personal challenges and tragedies which gave such powerful impetus to her writing. Her friend and fellow literary genius Elizabeth Gaskell was correct when she said that Charlotte ‘had the heart of Robert [the] Bruce within her, and failure upon failure daunted her no more than him.’

We have two portraits of Charlotte that were more of less contemporaneous (as well as the portraits made by her brother Branwell Brontë). George Richmond’s portrait was an official one for which Charlotte sat on a number of occasions, but I’ve chosen this portrait by J. H. Thompson. It was made after Charlotte’s death, but Thompson was a friend of Branwell and had met Charlotte. It is such a pretty portrait, which I feel that Charlotte would have appreciated, and kindness radiates from it, just as it did from Charlotte herself.

Charlotte Bronte by J.H. Thompson

22nd April 1828

Yes, it’s three birthday Brontëversaries in a row, as the 22nd April 1828 was the birthday of Martha Brown. Martha was daughter of Haworth sexton John Brown who lived a short hop from the parsonage. When the Brontës needed a young servant to assist the infirm Tabby Aykroyd, it was to Martha that they turned. She entered the parsonage aged 12 and remained there for over 20 years, until the passing of Reverend Patrick Brontë, the first and last of the Brontës.

Martha was not only a reliable servant and maid, she also became a friend of Charlotte Brontë and a confidante and comfort after the deaths of Branwell, Emily and Anne in rapid succession during 1848 and 1849. Martha later left Haworth to live with Charlotte’s widower Arthur Bell Nicholls and his second wife in Banagher, Ireland (although she visited her family in Yorkshire again at intervals). A Nicholls family relative later recalled Martha’s arrival in Ireland, and said that Arthur brought her across because he and she had witnessed much sorrow and a short-lived happiness together, and he wanted her to have security in her old age. Having said that, Martha was only in her mid thirties, and younger than Arthur, when she joined him across the Irish Sea. Here is a photograph of Martha Brown, and what character it captures in her!

Servant and friend Martha Brown

23rd April 1814

The 23rd of April 1814 can be said to mark the recorded beginning of the Brontë siblings, for it was the date of baptism of Maria Brontë, the first of five sisters and a brother. There is no record of her birthday, in those days before registering a birth became compulsory, so this is the first appearance we have of a girl who would have such a lasting influence on her writing siblings.

There are many tales of what a precocious talent young Maria was, and Charlotte paid tribute to her under the guise of Helen Burns in Jane Eyre. Alas, that talent did not have the chance to flourish into adulthood, and there are no images of her. What we do have, however, is this: an extremely touching needle case that Maria Brontë gave as a gift to a classmate called Margaret Dixon and which contains the only example we have of her handwriting.

Maria Bronte needlecase

Five Brontëversaries in five images and they all remind us of something very important: we see them today as names on the fronts of books, or names which appear in Brontë biographies, but they were living, breathing people facing the same emotions, challenges and triumphs as we do today. Times and fashions change, but the Brontës weren’t too different from you and I, with one difference – their incredible genius and writing talent.

I will leave you with a bonus image today for it was on this very day in 1939 that James Roosevelt, son of the American President FDR, made his own literary pilgrimage to Haworth Parsonage. This image of him with an old Haworth villager is like two world’s colliding and yet they too probably had more in common than they had differences. I hope to see you again next week for another new Brontë blog post.

Roosevelt in Haworth

Easter In The Lives And Works Of The Brontës

At last warmer mornings and sunnier days have arrived; nature’s colours are springing forth in abundance and bees begin their lazy dance from flower to flower. It seems that Easter has timed her entrance perfectly this year, and on this most traditional of celebrations (if we ignore a chocolate egg or four) it’s easy to imagine how the Brontë family must have enjoyed their paschal celebrations two centuries earlier. In today’s new post we’re going to look at Easter and the Brontës.

As we looked at in last year’s Easter post, the Brontë sisters wrote many poems perfect for this time of year, but they also featured Easter in their books too, revealing the impact it had on their lives. Here are some of those occasions:

Jane Eyre

‘“You said it was not likely they should think of being married,” said I, “but you see Mr. Rochester evidently prefers her to any of the other ladies.”

“Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her.”

“And she him,” I added; “look how she leans her head towards him as if she were conversing confidentially; I wish I could see her face; I have never had a glimpse of it yet.”

“You will see her this evening,” answered Mrs. Fairfax. “I happened to remark to Mr. Rochester how much Adèle wished to be introduced to the ladies, and he said: ‘Oh! let her come into the drawing-room after dinner; and request Miss Eyre to accompany her.’”

“Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I am sure,” I answered.

“Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, I did not think you would like appearing before so gay a party—all strangers; and he replied, in his quick way—‘Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is my particular wish; and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her in case of contumacy.’”

“I will not give him that trouble,” I answered. “I will go, if no better may be; but I don’t like it. Shall you be there, Mrs. Fairfax?”

“No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I’ll tell you how to manage so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance, which is the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go into the drawing-room while it is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose your seat in any quiet nook you like; you need not stay long after the gentlemen come in, unless you please: just let Mr. Rochester see you are there and then slip away—nobody will notice you.”

“Will these people remain long, do you think?”

“Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After the Easter recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected member for Millcote, will have to go up to town and take his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him: it surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay at Thornfield.”

It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour approach when I was to repair with my charge to the drawing-room. Adèle had been in a state of ecstasy all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the evening; and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance of the process quickly steadied her, and by the time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her pink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mittens adjusted, she looked as grave as any judge. No need to warn her not to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed, she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking care previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, and assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready. This I quickly was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, purchased for Miss Temple’s wedding, and never worn since) was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed; my sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended.’

Blanche Ingram inspires Easter jealousy in Jane

Easter at Thornfield Hall is the occasion for a grand ball, one where Rochester and Miss Ingram will court each other. We can already feel the despair this brings in Jane’s questioning, little can she dare dream that she will triumph over this society beauty.

Wuthering Heights

‘On Easter Monday, Joseph went to Gimmerton fair with some cattle; and, in the afternoon, I was busy getting up linen in the kitchen. Earnshaw sat, morose as usual, at the chimney corner, and my little mistress was beguiling an idle hour with drawing pictures on the window-panes, varying her amusement by smothered bursts of songs, and whispered ejaculations, and quick glances of annoyance and impatience in the direction of her cousin, who steadfastly smoked, and looked into the grate. At a notice that I could do with her no longer intercepting my light, she removed to the hearthstone. I bestowed little attention on her proceedings, but, presently, I heard her begin—“I’ve found out, Hareton, that I want—that I’m glad—that I should like you to be my cousin now, if you had not grown so cross to me, and so rough.”

Hareton returned no answer.

“Hareton, Hareton, Hareton! do you hear?” she continued.

“Get off wi’ ye!” he growled, with uncompromising gruffness.

“Let me take that pipe,” she said, cautiously advancing her hand and abstracting it from his mouth.

Before he could attempt to recover it, it was broken, and behind the fire. He swore at her and seized another.

“Stop,” she cried, “you must listen to me first; and I can’t speak while those clouds are floating in my face.”

“Will you go to the devil!” he exclaimed, ferociously, “and let me be!”

“No,” she persisted, “I won’t: I can’t tell what to do to make you talk to me; and you are determined not to understand. When I call you stupid, I don’t mean anything: I don’t mean that I despise you. Come, you shall take notice of me, Hareton: you are my cousin, and you shall own me.”

“I shall have naught to do wi’ you and your mucky pride, and your damned mocking tricks!” he answered. “I’ll go to hell, body and soul, before I look sideways after you again. Side out o’ t’ gate, now, this minute!”

Catherine frowned, and retreated to the window-seat chewing her lip, and endeavouring, by humming an eccentric tune, to conceal a growing tendency to sob.

“You should be friends with your cousin, Mr. Hareton,” I interrupted, “since she repents of her sauciness. It would do you a great deal of good: it would make you another man to have her for a companion.”

“A companion!” he cried; “when she hates me, and does not think me fit to wipe her shoon! Nay, if it made me a king, I’d not be scorned for seeking her good-will any more.”’

Hareton and Cathy
Cathy and Hareton are at Easter loggerheads, but Heathcliff’s death will release them

Hareton and Catherine are both still clearly under the influence of their far from benign upbringings. Heathcliff, in his endless generational quest for revenge, has turned them against each other, but just like the spring flowers that reappear year after year there is no stopping fate, and by the following Easter their love will blossom and their lives will change.

Agnes Grey

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

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

Agnes, Edward and Snap walk on the beach
A surprise meeting on a beach will eventually raise Agnes’ spirits

Easter has arrived and the thoughts of Agnes, just like the thoughts of her creator Anne Brontë, are turned to God and His will. Even so, Agnes is despondent at the thought of her lost love Weston – perhaps Anne was still mourning the loss of her love Weightman? Anne could never more see William Weightman, cruelly taken in his prime by cholera, but she would design a different fate for Agnes.

So what do we see from these three depictions of Easter by Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë? They not only help to move these magnificent novels on, they also tell us about Brontë celebrations of this holiday. We see Easter as a time for reflection upon God’s will (Agnes Grey), as a time when fairs and markets were held (Wuthering Heights) and as a time when family and friends came together to rejoice and celebrate (Jane Eyre).

Maria Branwell by Tonkins
Maria Branwell in 1799, she was born this week in 1783

For an all too brief period this time of year held another reason to celebrate for the Brontë family, as just two days ago we passed the 239th anniversary of the birth of Maria Branwell, mother of the Brontës, in Penzance. She was born on 15th April 1783 in Holy Week, just five days before the Easter Sunday of that year and two days after Palm, or Passion, Sunday. Happy birthday Maria, the passion your daughters’ great genius ignites in readers will never be extinguished.

I finish now with my own message urbi et orbi: to the city (village of Haworth) and the world; whatever your religion, faith or creed, the Easter message can be a powerful one for all – at its heart is the triumph of light over darkness, and the unquenchable power of hope. Let’s keep that hope going. If the world or personal circumstances is pressing hard upon you, keep going, keep hope in your heart, and keep reading the novels you love, for lighter days will come again like wheat that springeth green. I hope to see you again next week for another new Brontë post, and I wish you all a very Happy Easter!

Easter Victorian

Emily Brontë And Her Poems On Death

Emily Brontë was a brilliant wordsmith; not only did she write possibly the greatest novel ever, Wuthering Heights, she was also a first class poet. There can be little doubt that Emily was consistently the best poet of the Brontë siblings, and she was also one of the greatest English poets of the nineteenth century – full stop. Her verse encompasses a broad range of subjects, but there is one subject she returned to again and again. In fact it’s the title of a poem that Emily composed on this day in 1845: ‘Death’.

Before we go any further I will say that this post contains some depictions of death, in Emily’s own words, that some people may find distressing. If you think they may upset you then please give this post a miss and return next week. We’ll reproduce the poem in full at the end of this post, and it’s well worth waiting for; the manuscript is still extant, and we see it dated 10th April 1845 in Emily’s own hand. You may be able to see it yourself before too long, because it was one of the poems in Emily’s poetry manuscript book which formed the highlight of the Honresfield Library collection recently saved for the nation.

Emily Bronte's poetry manuscript
Emily Bronte’s poetry manuscript which contained her poem ‘Death’

It’s a complex and yet easy to read poem, but it’s far from the only time that Emily considered the subject matter. We also have, for example, ‘A Death-Scene’ in which Emily describes in moving simplicity the final moments of a man, Edward, ending with:

‘Then his eyes began to weary,
Weighed beneath a mortal sleep;
And their orbs grew strangely dreary,
Clouded, even as they would weep.
But they wept not, but they changed not,
Never moved, and never closed;
Troubled still, and still they ranged not –
Wandered not, nor yet reposed!
So I knew that he was dying –
Stooped, and raised his languid head;
Felt no breath, and heard no sighing,
So I knew that he was dead.’

Emily Bronte or Anne
Often thought to be Emily Bronte by Branwell, but probably Anne

We also have Emily’s long, epic poem ‘The Death of A.G.A.’ which ends:

‘That death, has wronged us more than thee!
Thy passionate youth was nearly past
The opening sea seemed smooth at last
Yet vainly flowed the calmer wave
Since fate had not decreed to save –
And vain too must the sorrow be
Of those who live to mourn for thee;
But Gondal’s foes shall not complain
That thy dear blood was poured in vain!’

This poem also features the words ‘cold as the earth’ which reminds us of the start of another poem dealing with the aftermath of death, the brilliant ‘Remembrance’ with its opening lines of:

‘Cold in the earth – and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave!’

remembrance Emily Bronte

This poem is often considered one of Emily’s very best, alongside ‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’ – another poem which ponders the mystery of life, death, and what comes next. This then, especially when we also consider the mortality rate in Wuthering Heights, was a subject that clearly exercised Emily’s mind, but why, and what do her words reveal about her beliefs?

I think the most common view of Emily as a poet, and as a person, is that she was a gloomy, very serious person. Someone who lingered upon the notion of death just as John Keats did when he wrote: ‘I have been half in love with easeful Death/ Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme.’

Was Emily Brontë really like that? I don’t think so.

We hear from Ellen Nussey, as close to her as anyone outside her family, that Emily loved to play practical jokes and laugh out loud. We hear from family friend John Greenwood that Emily had a sweet voice and a lovely nature. We hear that long time servant Martha Brown loved Emily especially because ‘she was so kind’.

Chloe Pirrie To Walk Invisible
Chloe Pirrie as Emily Bronte in To Walk Invisible

One reason that Emily wrote about death is because it was a dramatic denouement to her tales of Gondal. The two poems quoted above are both poems of Gondal, the imaginary kingdom which dominated so much of Emily’s creative output. The seminal Brontë biographer Juliet Barker also places ‘Death’ as a Gondal poem, and yet it was in the Honresfield manuscript. This book contained Emily’s private verse, poems which were not set in Gondal and which were kept secret even from elder sister Charlotte until her accidental discovery of them set the Brontë publishing venture in full motion. It seems to me then that the following poem is not set in Gondal at all, but was something very personal to Emily.

Death touched the lives of all the young Brontës to an extent, although Anne’s youth perhaps saved her from too sharp a memory of the loss of her elder sisters Maria and Elizabeth, and meant that she would have had no recollection of the mother who died when she was just one. Emily was two years older, however, and she had been at the Cowan Bridge school which sealed the fates of Maria and Elizabeth.

The record of Emily Bronte’s 1848 death

Emily Brontë was approaching her seventh birthday when her two eldest sisters died of tuberculosis, but she was a brilliant, precocious child and this tragedy stayed with her forever. She pondered deeply on the nature of life and death for the rest of her life, but this wasn’t a morbid study for her because she became convinced that death was not the end.

We see this in all her poetic musings on death, and in the closing scene of her only novel. Emily believed that whilst graves contained mortal remains it was vain to weep over them because the spirit lived on. In what form she believed it to live on is open to interpretation. Certainly her poems show a belief in an everlasting spirit and in a deity, but it doesn’t necessarily align with orthodox Christian belief. Perhaps Emily, so attuned with the natural world and its constant cycle of birth, death and rebirth, believed in rebirth of the human spirit too, a belief in reincarnation that is hinted at in some of her greatest work?

As with so much of the very best literature, the reader is left to place their own interpretation on it. I leave you now with this poem written 177 years ago today, and I hope you can join me again next week for another new Brontë blog post.

‘Death! that struck when I was most confiding.
In my certain faith of joy to be –
Strike again, Time’s withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity!
Leaves, upon Time’s branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride
But, within its parent’s kindly bosom,
Flowed for ever Life’s restoring tide.
Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
For the vacant nest and silent song –
Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;
Whispering, “Winter will not linger long!”
And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,
Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray;
Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,
Lavished glory on that second May!
High it rose – no winged grief could sweep it;
Sin was scared to distance with its shine;
Love, and its own life, had power to keep it
From all wrong – from every blight but thine!
Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish;
Evening’s gentle air may still restore –
No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish –
Time, for me, must never blossom more!
Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish
Where that perished sapling used to be;
Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish
That from which it sprung – Eternity.’

Brontë Discovery! A Book Of Rhymes Is Found

This week marked a very sad anniversary in the Brontë story, the death of Charlotte Brontë on 31st March 1855. In some ways it marked the end of the Brontë sisters story, especially as Charlotte was pregnant at the time meaning that her tragic end precluded future generations of this brilliant family we all love. In other ways, however, their story is very much alive, as we saw this week with the discover of ‘A Book Of Rhymes’. We’re going to look at this discover, and this book, in today’s post.

The story of the tiny Brontë books, the Brontë juvenilia, is one that has been told many times before, but it’s certainly a fascinating one. Inspired by the gift of twelve toy soldiers from Patrick Brontë to his son Branwell the siblings began to invent and act out stories, which eventually evolved into written stories and poems about the imaginary lands of Glass Town and (later) Angria. Later still, Emily and Anne Brontë composed stories of the kingdom of Gondal, an obsession which remained with Emily Brontë throughout her life.

Some of the tiny books of the Honresfield collection

These stories were captured in tiny little books which can only be read today with the use of a powerful magnifying glass. Why was the writing so tiny? It is thought this was so the toy soldiers could read them, but it also meant that their short-sighted father couldn’t. The pages were bound together between hand stitched covers made by the sisters, and alongside the stories and verse are humorous adverts and asides. Some other 19th century writers, notably Ruskin, also created tiny books in their youth, but none of their productions are touched with the humour, excitement and seeds of genius so evident in the Brontë marvels.

Marvel is perhaps a good word to use; when I tweeted about the recent discovery (which we’re coming to, patience dear reader) it caused a stir and received several thousand likes and shares. One man responded with, ‘the Brontës wrote zines!’ and I think that’s a rather nice, and very good, way to look at it. The young siblings were really doing what children ever since, children today, love to do: creating their own comics or ‘zines; and they were very good at it.

So, onto ‘A Book Of Rhymes’. The first thing we should say, seeing that a discovery has been heralded, is that it had been thought lost for over a hundred years. The news was first broke by Jennifer Schuessler of the New York Times earlier this week, and I’m thankful to that publication for the images of the book which appear below.

copyright Clark Hodgin of The New York Times

The existence of this book had been documented by Elizabeth Gaskell in her biography of her friend The Life Of Charlotte Brontë. In chapter five of this book, Gaskell talks of having ‘had a curious packet confided to me [it was given her by Ellen Nussey], containing an immense amount of manuscript, in an inconceivably small space… written principally by Charlotte, in a hand which it is almost impossible to decipher without the aid of a magnifying glass… Among these papers, there is list of her works, which I copy, as a curious proof of how early the rage for literature composition had seized upon her:’

Following in Elizabeth’s footsteps, I too now produce that list:

So there we have it, ‘A Book Of Rhymes’ containing ten poems with many an intriguing title, but if you head to our old friend Google and look for ‘Meditations while Journeying in a Canadian Forest’ or head to a museum to read ‘A Song of an Exile’ you won’t find a single word. Unlike much of the Brontë juvenilia the actual content of this book written by a 13 year old Charlotte Brontë remains untranscribed and unknown.

The last known sighting of this book was in 1916 when it sold in an auction in New York for $520 to a private collector who bid and won anonymously. As nothing was heard of it in the succeeding century it had been thought lost or destroyed (the books are very fragile, after all), until an envelope was found recently, by persons undisclosed, within a 19th century schoolbook. The envelope was marked ‘Brontë manuscript’ with the addition of ‘most valuable’ for good, and sensible, measure. Once opened a tiny hand stitched book of 16 pages was found which contained 10 poems of which the author acknowledges, ‘the following are attempts at rhyming of an inferior nature it must be acknowledged but they are nevertheless my best’. After 106 years ‘A Book Of Rhymes’ had risen like a phoenix, and what a valuable bird it is.

copyright Clark Hodgin of The New York Times

What happened next is a sign of the incredible inflationary effect that Brontë works and relics have had, and a tribute to the life that the Brontës now enjoy: the truth is that Charlotte and her sisters will never really die, for as long as this watery planet turns and as long as humans are still around to read (for however much the world changes humans will always want to read), they will be reading the works of the Brontës.

On the first page of her tiny book, 13 year old Charlotte has penned, ‘A Book Of Rhymes by Charlotte Brontë, sold by nobody and printed by herself’. They were not to remain ‘sold by nobody’. As we have seen, they were sold in New York in 1916 for $520 – that equated to approximately £109 at the time. There is a record of it being sold in England just two years earlier, as reported here by The Yorkshire Post (it’s a pity that Yorkshire’s leading newspaper couldn’t spell Haworth correctly, but that’s another matter):

Yorkshire Post, 20th June 1914

We learn now that this tiny book, along with many others, had been in the treasured collection of Charlotte’s widower Arthur Bell Nicholls in Ireland. They have been auctioned after his death, and singled out for especial notice in the article is ‘A Book Of Rhymes’. It has been bought by a Mr Maggs for £34. For whatever reason, this Mr Maggs did not give the book to the Brontë Society as many purchasers did, but instead put it up for sale again two years later in the Unite States, where he quickly tripled his money.

It has to be pointed out that even these sums were not the insignificant amounts they may seem. If we eschew purely inflationary calculations and instead turn to measuringworth.com to get a true representation of how much the sums were worth we find that $520 or £109 in 1916 is worth between 34 and 67 thousand pounds today. Nevertheless, the Brontë magic has made that figure seem a pittance.

The book is now in the experienced hands of James Cummins Booksellers of Manhattan and will be put up for sale at the New York International Antiquarian Book Fair on April 21st ( a previous year’s fair is at the head of this page). It’s asking price is a cool 1.25 million dollars – just over £953,000 at today’s exchange rate. It’s time to dip into our pockets again – after all for that price we can have this magnificent piece of Brontë history or ten litres of petrol.

In all seriousness what has made this particular book, a slim volume compared to much of the Brontë juvenilia, so incredibly valuable? The rules of supply and demand are playing their part. Unlike items in the Honresfield Library sale the contents of these pages remain completely unknown – and people are desperate to know what is on those tiny pages covered with minuscule writing.

copyright Clark Hodgin of The New York Times

What happens next? The book fair is only three weeks away, there is no time for institutions to raise funds and can we expect Leonard Blavatnik to make yet another brilliant, generous gesture so soon after he helped secure the Honresfield collection for the nation? At this stage it seems likely it will once again pass to an anonymous, private bidder – the best we can hope for is that they then place scans or transcriptions of the work into the public domain. That could all change however; hope springs eternal, and I hope to speak to James Cummins Booksellers on this issue, so watch this space!

In the meantime, I hope you are enjoying a happy, healthy start to April. I will see you again next week for another new Brontë blog post.

Mothers And Motherhood In The Brontë Novels

Here in the United Kingdom we’re celebrating mother’s day. At first Mothering Sunday wasn’t about maternal parents at all, it was a day when domestic servants were given a day off to return to their mother parish. Today, of course, it’s a celebration of wonderful mothers so it seems a perfect day to look at mothers, and the absence of mothers, in Brontë novels.

A Victorian 'Mother's Day' card
A Victorian ‘Mother’s Day’ card

The first thing that jumps out at us when considering protagonists’ mothers in these great books is that they are completely absent in the novels of Charlotte Brontë. From Jane Eyre to Lucy Snowe and Shirley Keeldar there’s not a mother to be found. William Crimsworth, the eponymous Professor, is also an orphan at the start of Charlotte’s posthumously published novel.

Why should this be? We shall see that both Anne and Emily Brontë included mothers and motherhood in their novels, so could it be that the memory of an actual mother was too painful for Charlotte to set down in ink? As a one year old baby and a three year old infant at the time of their mother’s death Anne and Emily would have had little recollection of Maria, but the blow to five year old Charlotte in 1821 must have been one that remained with her forever. In her novels, therefore, we see the protagonists being raised by uncles and aunts of varying degrees of benevolence, just as Charlotte and her siblings were raised by their Aunt Branwell. Do we get a portrait of Elizabeth Branwell in Charlotte’s novels? We’ll return to that later, but first let’s look at mothers in the novels of Anne and Emily after a SPOILER ALERT: If you haven’t yet read any of the books below you may want to avoid that particular section!

Wuthering Heights

Emily’s epic novel is all encompassing when it comes to family relationships and human emotions, which is probably why some people (myself included) think it’s the greatest book ever written. At the start of Nelly’s recollection we find the Earnshaw family as a happy family unit, one into which Mr Earnshaw brings an orphan he has found on a journey to Liverpool: the orphan is of course Heathcliff. This brings about a cataclysmic chain of events which has its roots in the blossoming love between Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff. My own opinion is that Heathcliff is actually the illegitimate son of Earnshaw; why else would he bring him back across the Pennines and raise him as his own son (we can similarly surmise that Adele is Rochester’s illegitimate daughter, such events were far from rare in the moneyed classes of the time).

In this light, the relationship between Catherine and Heathcliff takes on a rather darker hue than the one it already has. Catherine briefly becomes a mother, but she is not to experience the joys and tribulations of motherhood. By then Catherine Linton she dies after giving birth to Cathy, and another chapter in Heathcliff’s quest for revenge is born.

Catherine and Heathcliff
Catherine and Heathcliff at Penistone Crag

Catherine had received a divine punishment, but why? Was it because she had not been faithful to Heathcliff, or because she had fallen in love (unknowingly) with her half-brother? Emily Brontë gave us another reason, and it was rooted in the folklore she loved. From her Aunt Branwell, Emily would have heard tales of the Cornwall which had been home to her aunt and mother. On the outskirts of Penzance is an ancient ringed stone called the Men-an-Tol. Local legend says that if a woman crawls backwards through the stone by moonlight she will fall pregnant within a year. There’s a similar legend on the outskirts itself relating to an ancient outcrop called Ponden Kirk. It is said that if two lovers wander through its opening, known as the fairy cave, together they must marry in a year and the woman will have a child – if they do not marry within a year, the woman will die and her spirit will be confined in the kirk forever. In the novel, Catherine and Heathcliff went through this very same opening on the moors (called Penistone Crag in the book); they did not marry, and so Catherine has to die. She acknowledges as much to Nelly as she approaches her moment of duality, the moment that will bring new life and end her own:

‘This bed is the fairy cave under Penistone Crag, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our heifers; pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool. That’s what you’ll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I’m not wandering, you’re mistaken, or I should believe you really were that withered hag, and I should think I was under Penistone Crag.’

Agnes Grey

Unlike other Brontë heroes and heroines it is the father who Agnes loses early in the novel, and her mother remains a strong, loving, supportive mother throughout. This may be because of the strong bond that Anne had formed with Elizabeth Branwell; they shared a room, and Anne was acknowledged as her aunt’s favourite – in effect, Aunt Branwell had become a mother to Anne Brontë.

Agnes’s mother comes from a wealthy background, just as Anne’s mother and aunt had, and after the tribulations of life as a governess for Agnes she later returns to her mother’s side and they form a school together. Finally, of course, Agnes Grey, or Agnes Weston as she now is, herself becomes a mother, which we are told at the very climax of the novel:

‘Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; their education, for the time being, is chiefly committed to me; and they shall want no good thing that a mother’s care can give. Our modest income is amply sufficient for our requirements: and by practising the economy we learnt in harder times, and never attempting to imitate our richer neighbours, we manage not only to enjoy comfort and contentment ourselves, but to have every year something to lay by for our children, and something to give to those who need it. And now I think I have said sufficient.’

Agnes, Edward and Snap walk on the beach

The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall

Anne Brontë was a brilliant novelist, and both her books present images of the ideal of motherhood as Anne saw it. In Agnes Grey we see motherhood as perhaps Anne herself dreamed of living it one day: raising her children with love and compassion in a happy family unit. In The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall we see a very different portrait of motherhood.

Helen, the tenant of the title, has endured a loveless and abusive marriage, but she is determined to protect her son Arthur at any cost. She takes the momentous decision to leave her husband, change her name, and make her own way in life through her artistic endeavours.

Helen and Arthur
Helen and Arthur in the BBC’s brilliant Tenant adaptation

To many readers this would have been a scandalous decision, and yet it became a runaway success which resonated with readers. Anne wasn’t bound by religious and social conventions of the time, she was saying that Helen was a perfect example of motherhood: someone who put love of her child above all other things, and who would protect them at any cost. Helen also delivers a powerful manifesto of how to raise a son, to the horror of those who hear it:

‘“I will lead him by the hand, Mr. Markham, till he has strength to go alone; and I will clear as many stones from his path as I can, and teach him to avoid the rest – or walk firmly over them, as you say;—for when I have done my utmost, in the way of clearance, there will still be plenty left to exercise all the agility, steadiness, and circumspection he will ever have. – It is all very well to talk about noble resistance, and trials of virtue; but for fifty – or five hundred men that have yielded to temptation, show me one that has had virtue to resist. And why should I take it for granted that my son will be one in a thousand? – and not rather prepare for the worst, and suppose he will be like his – like the rest of mankind, unless I take care to prevent it?… Well, then, it must be that you think they are both weak and prone to err, and the slightest error, the merest shadow of pollution, will ruin the one, while the character of the other will be strengthened and embellished – his education properly finished by a little practical acquaintance with forbidden things. Such experience, to him (to use a trite simile), will be like the storm to the oak, which, though it may scatter the leaves, and snap the smaller branches, serves but to rivet the roots, and to harden and condense the fibres of the tree. You would have us encourage our sons to prove all things by their own experience, while our daughters must not even profit by the experience of others. Now I would have both so to benefit by the experience of others, and the precepts of a higher authority, that they should know beforehand to refuse the evil and choose the good, and require no experimental proofs to teach them the evil of transgression. I would not send a poor girl into the world, unarmed against her foes, and ignorant of the snares that beset her path; nor would I watch and guard her, till, deprived of self-respect and self-reliance, she lost the power or the will to watch and guard herself; – and as for my son – if I thought he would grow up to be what you call a man of the world – one that has ‘seen life,’ and glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as to sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of society – I would rather that he died to-morrow! – rather a thousand times!” she earnestly repeated, pressing her darling to her side and kissing his forehead with intense affection.’

After a long series of trials, Helen finally finds the contentment and happiness she deserves.

Shirley

At the start of this post I claimed that none of Charlotte’s protagonists had a mother, but to be fair that isn’t completely true. Shirley Keeldar may be the titular heroine, but Caroline Helstone (who is in many ways based upon Anne Brontë) is the real heroine in the novel and appears in it to a much greater extent.

At the opening it appears that Caroline too is an orphan, but as she lies seemingly on her deathbed we receive the moving revelation that Mrs Pryor is actually her mother:

‘”I believe grief is, and always has been, my worst ailment. I sometimes think if an abundant gush of happiness came on me I could revive yet.”

“Do you wish to live?”

“I have no object in life.”

“You love me, Caroline?”

“Very much – very truly – inexpressibly sometimes. Just now I feel as if I could almost grow to your heart.

“I will return directly, dear,” remarked Mrs. Pryor, as she laid Caroline down.

Quitting her, she glided to the door, softly turned the key in the lock, ascertained that it was fast, and came back. She bent over her. She threw back the curtain to admit the moonlight more freely. She gazed intently on her face.

“Then, if you love me,” said she, speaking quickly, with an altered voice; “if you feel as if, to use your own words, you could ‘grow to my heart,’ it will be neither shock nor pain for you to know that that heart is the source whence yours was filled; that from my veins issued the tide which flows in yours; that you are mine – my daughter – my own child.”

“Mrs. Pryor – ”

“My own child!”

“That is – that means – you have adopted me?”

“It means that, if I have given you nothing else, I at least gave you life; that I bore you, nursed you; that I am your true mother. No other woman can claim the title; it is mine.”

“But Mrs. James Helstone – but my father’s wife, whom I do not remember ever to have seen, she is my mother?”

“She is your mother. James Helstone was my husband. I say you are mine. I have proved it. I thought perhaps you were all his, which would have been a cruel dispensation for me. I find it is not so. God permitted me to be the parent of my child’s mind. It belongs to me; it is my property—my right. These features are James’s own. He had a fine face when he was young, and not altered by error. Papa, my darling, gave you your blue eyes and soft brown hair; he gave you the oval of your face and the regularity of your lineaments – the outside he conferred; but the heart and the brain are mine. The germs are from me, and they are improved, they are developed to excellence. I esteem and approve my child as highly as I do most fondly love her.”

“Is what I hear true? Is it no dream?”

“I wish it were as true that the substance and colour of health were restored to your cheek.”

“My own mother! is she one I can be so fond of as I can of you? People generally did not like her – so I have been given to understand.”

“They told you that? Well, your mother now tells you that, not having the gift to please people generally, for their approbation she does not care. Her thoughts are centred in her child. Does that child welcome or reject her?”

“But if you are my mother, the world is all changed to me. Surely I can live. I should like to recover -”

“You must recover. You drew life and strength from my breast when you were a tiny, fair infant, over whose blue eyes I used to weep, fearing I beheld in your very beauty the sign of qualities that had entered my heart like iron, and pierced through my soul like a sword. Daughter! we have been long parted; I return now to cherish you again.”

She held her to her bosom; she cradled her in her arms; she rocked her softly, as if lulling a young child to sleep.

“My mother – my own mother!”’

Caroline and Mrs Pryor by Edmund Dulac
Caroline and Mrs Pryor by Edmund Dulac

This section of the novel was written after the tragic death of Anne Brontë. Charlotte gives Mrs Pryor as mother to Caroline just as Aunt Branwell had been a mother to Anne: this is Charlotte’s portrait of Aunt Branwell, and in it we see the love and respect she had for her. Aunt Branwell was often ridiculed (by Mary Taylor for example) for the outdated black dress that she habitually wore, but she gave freely of her own money to help her nieces and nephews rather than spending it on herself. In Shirley we see Charlotte acknowledging this as she describes similar actions by Mrs Pryor:

‘”Mamma, I am determined you shall not wear that old gown any more. Its fashion is not becoming; it is too strait in the skirt. You shall put on your black silk every afternoon. In that you look nice; it suits you. And you shall have a black satin dress for Sundays – a real satin, not a satinet or any of the shams. And, mamma, when you get the new one, mind you must wear it.”

“My dear, I thought of the black silk serving me as a best dress for many years yet, and I wished to buy you several things.”

“Nonsense, mamma. My uncle gives me cash to get what I want. You know he is generous enough; and I have set my heart on seeing you in a black satin. Get it soon, and let it be made by a dressmaker of my recommending. Let me choose the pattern. You always want to disguise yourself like a grandmother. You would persuade one that you are old and ugly. Not at all! On the contrary, when well dressed and cheerful you are very comely indeed; your smile is so pleasant, your teeth are so white, your hair is still such a pretty light colour. And then you speak like a young lady, with such a clear, fine tone, and you sing better than any young lady I ever heard. Why do you wear such dresses and bonnets, mamma, such as nobody else ever wears?”

“Does it annoy you, Caroline?”

“Very much; it vexes me even. People say you are miserly; and yet you are not, for you give liberally to the poor and to religious societies – though your gifts are conveyed so secretly and quietly that they are known to few except the receivers.”’

Elizabeth Branwell by James Tonkin
Charlotte paid tribute to Elizabeth Branwell (above) as Mrs Pryor

We see mothers of all kinds in the Brontë novels, but above all else we see love. Whether you are a mother, have a mother, or especially if you are missing your mother today, I send you my love and gratitude for all the good things you have done in your life, all the happiness you have spread – perhaps without even realising it. Have a great day, and I will see you again next week for another new Brontë blog post.

March: A Time Of Change In The Brontë Novels

March, as is befitting to its name, is marching on rapidly. This is a time of year when change is most visible. We can witness the year in a day; mornings begun with frost and ice merge into warm, sun filled days before a cold dusk descends once more. Above all others, perhaps, it is a liminal month, one betwixt and between the challenges of winter and the hope of spring.

Living on the very border of nature, the Brontës saw this month of change in all its majesty enacted upon the moors which flowed from the parsonage on three sides. It was also apparent to them that this month often marks a change in people, in their circumstances, and these changes found their way into their brilliant books. In today’s new post we’re going to look at March in the novels of the Brontë sisters.

March brings change to Haworth’s moors

Jane Eyre

‘It had been a mild, serene spring day – one of those days which, towards the end of March or the beginning of April, rise shining over the earth as heralds of summer. It was drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm, and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open.

“It gets late,” said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state. “I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned; for it is past six now. I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on the road: one can see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote.” She went to the window. “Here he is!” said she. “Well, John” (leaning out), “any news?”

“They’re coming, ma’am,” was the answer. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Adèle flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side, so that, screened by the curtain, I could see without being seen.

The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but at last wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two open carriages. Fluttering veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cavaliers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming through them, shone rich raven ringlets.

“Miss Ingram!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she hurried to her post below.’

Jane is now settled into life as a governess at Thornfield Hall, but this March day is bringing the first of two changes which will test her resilience to the limit. The arrival of Miss Ingram brings the first pang of jealousy to Jane’s heart, and perhaps the first realisation that she truly loves Rochester. The second change and challenge, of course, would come later on her supposed wedding day.

Adèle dancing in Jane Eyre
Adèle dancing in Jane Eyre; she at least was delighted to see Miss Ingram

Wuthering Heights

‘Time wore on at the Grange in its former pleasant way till Miss Cathy reached sixteen. On the anniversary of her birth we never manifested any signs of rejoicing, because it was also the anniversary of my late mistress’s death. Her father invariably spent that day alone in the library; and walked, at dusk, as far as Gimmerton kirkyard, where he would frequently prolong his stay beyond midnight. Therefore Catherine was thrown on her own resources for amusement. This twentieth of March was a beautiful spring day, and when her father had retired, my young lady came down dressed for going out, and said she asked to have a ramble on the edge of the moor with me: Mr. Linton had given her leave, if we went only a short distance and were back within the hour.

“So make haste, Ellen!” she cried. “I know where I wish to go; where a colony of moor-game are settled: I want to see whether they have made their nests yet.”

“That must be a good distance up,” I answered; “they don’t breed on the edge of the moor.”

“No, it’s not,” she said. “I’ve gone very near with papa.”

I put on my bonnet and sallied out, thinking nothing more of the matter. She bounded before me, and returned to my side, and was off again like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty of entertainment in listening to the larks singing far and near, and enjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet and my delight, with her golden ringlets flying loose behind, and her bright cheek, as soft and pure in its bloom as a wild rose, and her eyes radiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creature, and an angel, in those days. It’s a pity she could not be content.

“Well,” said I, “where are your moor-game, Miss Cathy? We should be at them: the Grange park-fence is a great way off now.”

“Oh, a little further – only a little further, Ellen,” was her answer, continually. “Climb to that hillock, pass that bank, and by the time you reach the other side I shall have raised the birds.”

But there were so many hillocks and banks to climb and pass, that, at length, I began to be weary, and told her we must halt, and retrace our steps. I shouted to her, as she had outstripped me a long way; she either did not hear or did not regard, for she still sprang on, and I was compelled to follow. Finally, she dived into a hollow; and before I came in sight of her again, she was two miles nearer Wuthering Heights than her own home; and I beheld a couple of persons arrest her, one of whom I felt convinced was Mr. Heathcliff himself.’

Linton and Cathy have a less than happy marriage
Linton and Cathy have a less than happy marriage

Emily Brontë chose today, the 20th of March, to mark the point at which young Cathy’s life would be changed forever. It is on this day that she meets Heathcliff, on this day that she is caught inevitably in his web of intrigue. This is the day at which her fate will be sealed and she will soon find herself a prisoner of Heathcliff and wife of his insipid son Linton. It’s surely no coincidence that Emily chose to name this specific date, the eve of the spring equinox when day and night are of equal strength, a time traditionally associated with change and a breaking with the past.

Agnes Grey

‘One such occasion I particularly well remember; it was a lovely afternoon about the close of March; Mr. Green and his sisters had sent their carriage back empty, in order to enjoy the bright sunshine and balmy air in a sociable walk home along with their visitors, Captain Somebody and Lieutenant Somebody-else (a couple of military fops), and the Misses Murray, who, of course, contrived to join them. Such a party was highly agreeable to Rosalie; but not finding it equally suitable to my taste, I presently fell back, and began to botanise and entomologise along the green banks and budding hedges, till the company was considerably in advance of me, and I could hear the sweet song of the happy lark; then my spirit of misanthropy began to melt away beneath the soft, pure air and genial sunshine; but sad thoughts of early childhood, and yearnings for departed joys, or for a brighter future lot, arose instead. As my eyes wandered over the steep banks covered with young grass and green-leaved plants, and surmounted by budding hedges, I longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall the woody dales or green hill-sides of home: the brown moorlands, of course, were out of the question. Such a discovery would make my eyes gush out with water, no doubt; but that was one of my greatest enjoyments now. At length I descried, high up between the twisted roots of an oak, three lovely primroses, peeping so sweetly from their hiding-place that the tears already started at the sight; but they grew so high above me, that I tried in vain to gather one or two, to dream over and to carry with me: I could not reach them unless I climbed the bank, which I was deterred from doing by hearing a footstep at that moment behind me, and was, therefore, about to turn away, when I was startled by the words, “Allow me to gather them for you, Miss Grey,” spoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice. Immediately the flowers were gathered, and in my hand. It was Mr. Weston, of course—who else would trouble himself to do so much for me?

“I thanked him; whether warmly or coldly, I cannot tell: but certain I am that I did not express half the gratitude I felt. It was foolish, perhaps, to feel any gratitude at all; but it seemed to me, at that moment, as if this were a remarkable instance of his good-nature: an act of kindness, which I could not repay, but never should forget: so utterly unaccustomed was I to receive such civilities, so little prepared to expect them from anyone within fifty miles of Horton Lodge. Yet this did not prevent me from feeling a little uncomfortable in his presence; and I proceeded to follow my pupils at a much quicker pace than before; though, perhaps, if Mr. Weston had taken the hint, and let me pass without another word, I might have repeated it an hour after: but he did not. A somewhat rapid walk for me was but an ordinary pace for him.

“Your young ladies have left you alone,” said he.

“Yes, they are occupied with more agreeable company.”

“Then don’t trouble yourself to overtake them.” I slackened my pace; but next moment regretted having done so: my companion did not speak; and I had nothing in the world to say, and feared he might be in the same predicament. At length, however, he broke the pause by asking, with a certain quiet abruptness peculiar to himself, if I liked flowers.

“Yes; very much,” I answered, “wild-flowers especially.”

“I like wild-flowers,” said he; “others I don’t care about, because I have no particular associations connected with them—except one or two. What are your favourite flowers?”

“Primroses, bluebells, and heath-blossoms.”’

Primroses were special flowers for Agnes and Anne

March for Agnes brings an encounter which utilises the symbolism of the month to the full. It shows the strengthening of the, as yet unacknowledged, love between Agnes and Weston and at the heart of this effortlessly romantic encounter is a love of wild flowers. For the Murray girls the things that matter most are society and riches, but the simple joys of nature are far greater treasures for the young governess and the assistant curate.

As so often in this novel, Anne Brontë uses the character of Agnes to express her own opinions and feelings. We know for certain that they both loved primroses and bluebells, for example, for in Anne’s poem ‘Memory’ she writes:

‘I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
That I might simply fancy there
One little flower – a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature’s chief beauties spring from thee;
Oh, still thy tribute bring
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
The glory of the spring.
Still in the wallflower’s fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight bluebell,
My childhood’s darling flower.’

The Tenant Of Wildfell Hall

‘“I suppose it is no use asking you to fix a day for your return?” said I.

“Why, no; I hardly can, under the circumstances; but be assured, love, I shall not be long away.”

“I don’t wish to keep you a prisoner at home,” I replied; “I should not grumble at your staying whole months away—if you can be happy so long without me – provided I knew you were safe; but I don’t like the idea of your being there among your friends, as you call them.”

“Pooh, pooh, you silly girl! Do you think I can’t take care of myself?”

“You didn’t last time. But THIS time, Arthur,” I added, earnestly, “show me that you can, and teach me that I need not fear to trust you!”

He promised fair, but in such a manner as we seek to soothe a child. And did he keep his promise? No; and henceforth I can never trust his word. Bitter, bitter confession! Tears blind me while I write. It was early in March that he went, and he did not return till July. This time he did not trouble himself to make excuses as before, and his letters were less frequent, and shorter and less affectionate, especially after the first few weeks: they came slower and slower, and more terse and careless every time. But still, when I omitted writing, he complained of my neglect. When I wrote sternly and coldly, as I confess I frequently did at the last, he blamed my harshness, and said it was enough to scare him from his home: when I tried mild persuasion, he was a little more gentle in his replies, and promised to return; but I had learnt, at last, to disregard his promises.’

Huntingdon Rupert Graves
March annually saw the exit of Huntingdon to the despair of Helen

If March for Agnes Grey marked a time of hope springing forth, the month sees hope crushed for Helen Huntingdon. Arthur has strayed before, but it is this March exit that sees her trust and faith in her husband finally extinguished.

Villette

‘The next day was the first of March, and when I awoke, rose, and opened my curtain, I saw the risen sun struggling through fog. Above my head, above the house-tops, co-elevate almost with the clouds, I saw a solemn, orbed mass, dark blue and dim – THE DOME. While I looked, my inner self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose; I had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at last about to taste life. In that morning my soul grew as fast as Jonah’s gourd.

“I did well to come,” I said, proceeding to dress with speed and care. “I like the spirit of this great London which I feel around me. Who but a coward would pass his whole life in hamlets; and for ever abandon his faculties to the eating rust of obscurity?”

Being dressed, I went down; not travel-worn and exhausted, but tidy and refreshed. When the waiter came in with my breakfast, I managed to accost him sedately, yet cheerfully; we had ten minutes’ discourse, in the course of which we became usefully known to each other.

He was a grey-haired, elderly man; and, it seemed, had lived in his present place twenty years. Having ascertained this, I was sure he must remember my two uncles, Charles and Wilmot, who, fifteen, years ago, were frequent visitors here. I mentioned their names; he recalled them perfectly, and with respect. Having intimated my connection, my position in his eyes was henceforth clear, and on a right footing. He said I was like my uncle Charles: I suppose he spoke truth, because Mrs. Barrett was accustomed to say the same thing. A ready and obliging courtesy now replaced his former uncomfortably doubtful manner; henceforth I need no longer be at a loss for a civil answer to a sensible question.

The street on which my little sitting-room window looked was narrow, perfectly quiet, and not dirty: the few passengers were just such as one sees in provincial towns: here was nothing formidable; I felt sure I might venture out alone.

Having breakfasted, out I went. Elation and pleasure were in my heart: to walk alone in London seemed of itself an adventure. Presently I found myself in Paternoster Row – classic ground this. I entered a bookseller’s shop, kept by one Jones: I bought a little book – a piece of extravagance I could ill afford; but I thought I would one day give or send it to Mrs. Barrett. Mr. Jones, a dried-in man of business, stood behind his desk: he seemed one of the greatest, and I one of the happiest of beings.’

Paternoster Row
Paternoster Row, London (now gone), home of Aylott and Jones

Just as March marks a turning point in the year, the start of a journey into spring and then summer, so too Lucy Snowe’s life takes on new life in this month. On the very first day she has left her old life behind and arrived in London, from whence she will travel to the Belgian city of Villette – in reality the Brussels which Charlotte Brontë knew so well.

Lucy’s journey was well known to Charlotte, for it mirrors the one that she herself took in 1842. It is interesting too to see that Charlotte takes time to name one particular shop: the bookseller’s shop owned by Jones, the dried-in man of business. Perhaps this is an account of a very real person: Mr Jones of Aylott & Jones, the publisher of the first Brontë book Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell? Aylott & Jones were indeed based on Paternoster Row. This passage is a vital clue which indicates that Charlotte and Anne Brontë did visit this publisher during their fateful visit to London in 1848, even though it’s not mentioned in any of Charlotte’s letters.

We can sum up March in the Brontë novels in one word: change. The change of hope to despair and despair to hope, of loneliness to love. The Brontës knew that above all other months, March was the one which changed the year like no other. In the traditional saying it comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, and the Latin for lamb is agnes. I hope that the progression of this month is suitably lamb-like for you all, there is a promise of sunnier, gentler times ahead. I must march on, but I will see you next week for another new Brontë blog post.

Two Brontë Anniversaries And A Love Of Cats

This week has seen two special Brontë anniversaries, and one special event for myself – one that I’m sure the Brontës would have approved of for one simple reason: it’s related to cats. The Brontës loved animals of all kinds (although Charlotte had a phobia about wild animals) so in today’s post we’re going to look at the Brontës and cats.

Before we head over to look at our four-legged friends let’s take a brief look at the two Brontë anniversaries I mentioned a moment ago. In fact, they both fell on the same date (in different years) and they both relate to the genesis of the Brontës as writers.

It was on the 12th of March 1829 that Charlotte Brontë wrote The History Of The Year. In it, a 12 year old Charlotte gave us a glimpse into the lives of the Brontës of Haworth Parsonage, and a fascinating glimpse it is too. Despite her young age, and a spelling error or two typical of youthful writing, it is full of hope and pathos, of dreams and losses. In short, it gives us a glimpse into the everyday life of the Brontë siblings at this time like nothing else.

The short account opens with the news that once an old geography book had been presented to Charlotte’s sister Maria. Charlotte has the book open in front of her as she writes, but it soon becomes clear that Maria is no longer there to read it herself: ‘Anne, my youngest sister, Maria was my eldest.’ That sad word ‘was’ references the fact that Maria, along with Elizabeth Brontë, had died four years earlier.

By the close of the account of the year 1829 we read that the Brontë siblings, especially Charlotte and Emily, are now creating their own stories and we hear details of the plays that they were writing and enacting. It captures the moment when the young Brontës had ventured into the world of creativity, of writing, and we get a clue as to the progress of that endeavour exactly eight years later. It was on the 12th of March 1837 that the then 20 year old Charlotte received a letter from poet laureate Robert Southey. He stated categorically that the literature cannot and should not be the business of women, as their role in life was to be wives and mothers.

Southey was horrifically wrong, if a product of his age, and thankfully Charlotte, Emily and Anne would prove him spectacularly wrong. Nevertheless we see that in the eight years since Charlotte and Emily had commenced their secret ‘bed plays’ and had dreamt up stories about islands for their toy soldiers to populate, Charlotte is now writing poetry of such quality that even the stuffy poet laureate is replying to her about them. He had in fact, despite ruining the praise with his comments later in the letter, said, ‘You evidently possess & in no inconsiderable degree what Wordsworth calls “the faculty of verse”.’

By 1837 therefore Charlotte Brontë, followed closely by her younger sisters, was well on the path to literary success. Through all their trials and tribulations they found solace in each other and support from family, as well as love from another source: their pets. This brings me, rather clunkily perhaps, to my own special event. After many years of being a self-employed writer I have now re-entered the world of being an employee. I’ll still be writing and Brontë-ing, but I’ll also be working full time in a dream job that was too good to turn down: for The Sheffield Cats Shelter!

More on the wonderful Sheffield Cats Shelter later, but first let’s look at cats in the Brontë lives and works. We know that the Brontës had at least two cats (there may have been more that we just don’t have records of). Emily Brontë drew their ginger and white cat Tiger, although he is rather camouflaged against the flanks of her big mastiff Keeper. Keeper of course was renowned for his ferocity, so it’s lovely to see him sleeping gently beside Tiger the cat.

Keeper, Flossy and Tiger
A picture of three Bronte pets by Emily – Keeper, Tiger and Flossy

A striped cat was also the subject of Branwell Brontë’s earliest extant drawing – sketched in 1828, just one year before Charlotte recorded in her ‘history’! It seems likely that this was an earlier Brontë pet cat whose name is now unknown.

It’s clear that the Brontës loved all their pets, but according to close family friend Ellen Nussey there was one in particular that was loved by the Brontë children: their black cat named Tom. Here is Ellen’s account:

‘Black ‘Tom’, the tabby, was everybody’s favourite. It received such gentle treatment it seemed to have lost cat’s nature, and subsided into luxurious amiability and contentment. The Brontës’ love of dumb creatures made them very sensitive of the treatment bestowed upon them. For any one to offend in this respect was with them an infallible bad sign, and a blot on the disposition.’

Tom was much loved, and a love of cats can be found throughout the Brontë work, including in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. Jane arrives at Thornfield Hall and is introduced to Mrs Fairfax:

‘A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an arm-chair high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in widow’s cap, black silk gown, and snowy muslin apron; exactly like what I had fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately and milder looking. She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely at her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-ideal of domestic comfort.’

For Charlotte, then, we see that at the heart of domestic perfection, the beautiful ideal, there has to be a cat. One Brontë in particular cherished a love of cats throughout her life: our own beloved Anne Brontë.

Haworth cat
This much loved Haworth cat can often be seen there.

Anne’s début novel Agnes Grey contains frequent autobiographical hints, and it also reveals many of Anne’s own beliefs and opinions. Early in the novel Agnes, after the death of her father, has to leave home and seek out life as a governess; there is one parting which is particularly painful for our young heroine:

‘I rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast, received the fond embraces of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the cat – to the great scandal of Sally, the maid – shook hands with her, mounted the gig, drew the veil over my face, and then, but not til then, burst into a flood of tears.’

Branwell Bronte cat
Branwell drew this cat when he was just 11!

Spoiler alert ahead: Agnes eventually finds love with the saintly Reverend Weston (based on William Weightman) and one ineffable sign of his goodness is his love of cats, as parishioner Nancy related to Agnes:

‘“So I sat me down anent him. He was quite a stranger, you know, Miss Grey, and even younger nor Maister Hatfield, I believe; and I had thought him not so pleasant-looking as him, and rather a bit crossish, at first, to look at; but he spake so civil like – and when th’ cat, poor thing, jumped on to his knee, he only stroked her, and gave a bit of a smile: so I thought that was a good sign.”

Agnes, Edward and Snap walk on the beach
Agnes Grey is filled with love for cats.

Later on, Weston comes to the dramatic rescue of this very same cat:

‘But this time I was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself; for Matilda was preparing for a long ride, and Rosalie was dressing for a dinner-party at Lady Ashby’s: so I took the opportunity of repairing to the widow’s cottage, where I found her in some anxiety about her cat, which had been absent all day. I comforted her with as many anecdotes of that animal’s roving propensities as I could recollect. “I’m feared o’ th’ gamekeepers,” said she: “that’s all ’at I think on. If th’ young gentlemen had been at home, I should a’ thought they’d been setting their dogs at her, an’ worried her, poor thing, as they did many a poor thing’s cat; but I haven’t that to be feared on now.” Nancy’s eyes were better, but still far from well: she had been trying to make a Sunday shirt for her son, but told me she could only bear to do a little bit at it now and then, so that it progressed but slowly, though the poor lad wanted it sadly. So I proposed to help her a little, after I had read to her, for I had plenty of time that evening, and need not return till dusk. She thankfully accepted the offer.

“An’ you’ll be a bit o’ company for me too, Miss,” said she; “I like as I feel lonesome without my cat.” But when I had finished reading, and done the half of a seam, with Nancy’s capacious brass thimble fitted on to my finger by means of a roll of paper, I was disturbed by the entrance of Mr. Weston, with the identical cat in his arms. I now saw that he could smile, and very pleasantly too.

“I’ve done you a piece of good service, Nancy,” he began: then seeing me, he acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should have been invisible to Hatfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. “I’ve delivered your cat,” he continued, “from the hands, or rather the gun, of Mr. Murray’s gamekeeper.”

“God bless you, sir!” cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for joy as she received her favourite from his arms.

“Take care of it,” said he, “and don’t let it go near the rabbit-warren, for the gamekeeper swears he’ll shoot it if he sees it there again: he would have done so to-day, if I had not been in time to stop him.”’

Weston was a cat lover and a cat rescuer, and in the eyes of Agnes, and the author Anne, there was no surer way of assessing a person’s worth. Talking of cat rescues that’s at the heart of what The Sheffield Cats Shelter does, which is why it really is a dream job for me (especially as I’m also in the company of beautiful cats and kittens all day).

Jiggy is just one of the beautiful cats who can be adopted from The Sheffield Cats Shelter!

The Sheffield Cats Shelter has a long history of being there for the cats of South Yorkshire. In fact, it’s 125 years old this year! The first shelter was opened in 1897 by the local cat-loving philanthropist Jane Barker (rather ironic that the woman whose legacy for cats is so huge should be called Barker, but then I suppose that Meower just isn’t a surname!). The shelter has since moved location a couple of times, but through world wars, social change and pandemics it has never stopped helping cats and kitties in need!

Today the shelter takes in cats in need of a loving new home, for a plethora of reasons, and we strive to find the perfect person to foster or adopt them. It’s a joyous moment when we see a cat start a new life with a new owner: a new life full of love and happiness for both of them. To continue to help cats for the next 125 years, and beyond, we need the help of the public. If you’re in the Sheffield area and can donate cat food, toys or goodies then our Travis Place shelter will be hugely grateful for them; alternatively monetary donations will always make a positive difference. You can find out more at the Sheffield Cats Shelter donations page, and I’m also placing a link on the side bar of this website. I know that there is so much happening in the world today, and so much pressure on our finances, but here is a brilliant cause where every single pound really does make a big difference. I’d be very grateful, our cats and kittens will certainly be very grateful, and I like to think that the Brontës would approve too!

I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post, and may your week ahead be a purr-fect one!

In Remembrance Of The Brontë Pillar Portrait

In today’s new Brontë blog post we’re going to look at two rather different artistic endeavours which both had their anniversaries this week. Firstly we have the anniversary of a very special Brontë portrait, and we’ll round things off by looking at the anniversary of a very special Brontë poem.

One of the questions that Brontë lovers find themselves asking over and over again is, ‘just what did the Brontës look like?’. We don’t have nearly enough portraits of the Brontës (although we have some splendid images of Anne Brontë drawn by Charlotte), and the question of possible photographs remains a very contentious, not to say divisive, one. There is one picture above all, however, that remains the definitive image of the Brontës. It may not be the best, but it is the one which has captured the public consciousness, yet until 108 years ago this week it had been thought lost forever. Here it is:

Bronte sisters portrait

This, of course, is what has become known as the ‘pillar portrait’, although the National Portrait Gallery prefers to call it ‘The Brontë Sisters by Patrick Branwell Brontë.’It was painted in around 1834 and measures 90 centimetres by 75 centimetres (35 and a half inches by 29 and a half inches in old money. From left to right we see Anne Brontë next to Emily Brontë (close as always) followed by a mysterious pillar with Charlotte Brontë on the right.

If we take 1834 to be the date of its composition that would make Anne 14, Emily around 16 and Charlotte probably 18 at the time it was painted. The detail in the picture may not be too intricate, but it gives us an idea of what these three legendary siblings looked like in their teen years, and it was produced by another sibling: brother Branwell.

It’s commonly thought of course that the figure which seems to be painted out by a pillar is Branwell himself, and that he covered himself because he was unhappy at his attempt at a self-portrait. In this reading, Branwell has painted himself out of the Brontë picture just as his challenging life would later paint himself out of the Brontë literary story. That may well be true, but there is an alternative possibility. From the positioning of the sisters it looks as if the artist was facing them as he painted, so could it be that the mystery figure was someone else present at the time: could it be his father, Patrick Brontë? If we look at the faint image of a man it seems to be wearing something around his neck, something resembling the snood-like ‘Wellington’ which Reverend Brontë was mocked for wearing habitually. Perhaps the image is Branwell, but perhaps it’s his father who was painted out at a later date? We shall never know, or maybe we shall for the white paint of the pillar is fading and year by year the image behind it is coming back to the forefront.

Young Patrick Brontë
A young Patrick Brontë wearing, as ever, his Wellington neck scarf.

The world was thrilled to see this painting when it was unveiled on the 5th of March 1914, for the picture had been thought lost forever. In fact, it had been in the possession of Charlotte’s widower Arthur Bell Nicholls, but after his death and the death of his second wife Mary his family sold the painting into the public domain.

The painting may not be Branwell’s best work, but to me it has a captivating charm and is undeserving of some of the criticism often thrown its way. It has lines across it however and is in far from good condition, and that’s because Arthur had kept it folded up on top of his wardrobe in Banagher, Ireland.

It’s often been said that it was because Arthur had disliked Branwell Brontë, but we can dispel that myth. In 1955 Arthur’s niece, by then an old woman herself, recalled: ‘The portraits of his sisters by Branwell, that now hang in the National Gallery, Arthur Nicholls disliked – he though they were “such ugly representations of the girls.”

Branwell Bronte medallion by Joseph Leyland
This Branwell Bronte medallion hung on Arthur’s wall

So we see that Arthur simply disliked the painting he’d inherited, not the artist. In fact the evidence suggests that Arthur had been fond of Branwell, for all his difficulties, for he displayed the large medallion of Branwell, sculpted by Joseph Leyland, on his living room wall.

The National Gallery must have been happy at the plaudits that their 1914 acquisition garnered, for a very different reception had greeted a Brontë painting they’d displayed eight years earlier in 1906. They had proudly hung the image above a caption stating it had been painted by Paul Heger in Brussels in 1850. As many people pointed out to the gallery, Charlotte had long since left Belgium by that time and the portrait looked nothing like her: they had bought and displayed a poor fake, and it was soon removed.

The fake Charlotte portrait reported in The Sphere, 27th October 1906

The pillar portrait will always be important for it shows the three writing Brontë sisters together as a family unit, but its merits will always divide opinion. It’s since been used on a plethora of merchandise and appeared in many different forms; I myself made a pancake version of it for Pancake Day on Tuesday, but it’s not for sale and can’t be placed on a wardrobe as I subsequently ate it.

My pancake take on the pillar portrait – apologies to Branwell.

One thing the unites critical opinion is Emily Bronte’s brilliant poem ‘Remembrance’ written on the 3rd of March 1845. Seminal twentieth century literary critic Professor F. R. Leavis gave it the highest praise of all when he wrote:

‘There is, too, Emily Brontë, who has hardly yet had full justice as a poet; I will record, without offering it as a checked and deliberate critical judgement, that her Cold in the earth is the finest poem in the nineteenth-century part of the Oxford Book of English Verse.’

“Cold in the earth” are the opening words of ‘Remembrance’, Emily’s powerful poem of love and loss drawn, as ever, from her incredible imagination. I leave you with it now, and hope that you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post.

remembrance Emily Bronte

The Brontës And War

We can always turn to the Brontës and classic novels in troubled or uncertain times. Let’s be thankful for that, for the world has certainly thrown us all a curve ball since last Sunday’s Brontë blog post. In Yorkshire, or wherever you are reading this, it’s easy to feel isolated from all that’s going on, but the people of Ukraine are facing a very real struggle at this moment from which I sincerely hope they prevail. In today’s post we’re going to look at the Brontës and war.

Britain had a very recent history of warfare at the time that the Brontë siblings were born and grew up, for we had just emerged from the Napoleonic Wars. Indeed, the pivotal Battle of Waterloo took place less than a year before the birth of Charlotte Brontë and after the birth of her elder sisters Maria and Elizabeth. The Brontës grew up with the threat of war diminished, but the country remained on its guard and the newspapers and magazines the Brontës loved to read were full of tales of war and heroism.

Map of Angria drawn by Branwell Bronte
Map of Angria, a war torn kingdom, drawn by a young Branwell Bronte

Young minds then, just like young minds today, were easily fired by such tales, and it led to a pivotal moment in the Brontë story and the story of English literature. We’ve looked before at how Patrick Brontë’s 1826 gift of twelve toy soldiers to his son Branwell led to a series of games based around ‘the twelve’ and then on to stories and tiny books about them. The Brontë imagination was in top gear, and the rest is history. Here’s how a young Charlotte Brontë remembered the event:

“Papa bought Branwell some wooden soldiers at Leeds. When Papa came home it was night, and we were in bed, so next morning Branwell came to our door with a box of soldiers. Emily and I jumped out of bed, and I snatched up one and exclaimed: ‘This is the Duke of Wellington! This shall be the Duke!’ when I had said this Emily likewise took one up and said it should be hers; when Anne came down, she said one should be hers. Mine was the prettiest of the whole, and the tallest, and the most perfect in every part. Emily’s was a grave-looking fellow, and we called him ‘Gravey’. Anne’s was a queer little thing, much like herself, and we called him ‘Waiting-boy’. Branwell chose his, and called him Buonaparte.”

Charlotte hero worshipped the great military leader, and later Prime Minister, the Duke of Wellington, and thanks to the machinations of her publisher George Smith she finally met him in June 1850 after which she excitedly wrote to Ellen Nussey calling him, “a real grand old man.”

Charlotte Bronte’s hero The Duke of Wellington by Sir Thomas Lawrence

The Brontës’ fascination with all things military was also inspired, no doubt, by their father’s own leanings. He was a patriotic man who took great pride and interest in Britain’s military activities; so much so that Charlotte’s friend Ellen once said of him:

“Mr Brontë’s tastes led him to delight in the perusal of battle-scenes, and in following the artifice of war, had he entered on military service instead of ecclesiastical he would probably have had a very distinguished career.”

War, and especially the cessation of it, also touched greatly upon the life of another great friend of Charlotte Brontë: Mary Taylor (whose 205th birthday was yesterday the 26th February, by the by). Charlotte met Mary and Ellen at Roe Head school near Mirfield, but Mary was from a far more comfortable background than the curate’s daughter from Haworth. The Taylors lived at the large and attractive Red House in Gomersal, and their finances seemed to be so sound that they even had their own bank. The source of the Taylor riches was cloth, and one particular variety of it, for Mary’s father Joshua (immortalised by Charlotte as Hiram Yorke in Shirley) had a hugely lucrative contract to manufacture the red fabric used to make uniforms for the British army. Unfortunately as peace descended, at least temporarily across Europe, the demand for this cloth collapsed and Joshua Taylor died bankrupt in 1840.

The Brontë juvenilia, in particular, is full of stories of intrigue, betrayal and war. From Glasstown to Angria and then onto Gondal, the domain of Emily and Anne Bronte’s earliest writing, the influence of those toy soldiers and the tales they inspired can still be seen.

Wellington iron
This iron miniature of the Duke of Wellington was owned by Charlotte Bronte

For Emily Brontë especially Gondal was not confined to childhood, it was a lifelong passion, so we see war-inspired poetry throughout her life. In 1837 Emily wrote this typically boisterous poem of Gondalian conflict, ‘Song by Julius Angora’:

‘Awake! awake! how loud the stormy morning
Calls up to life the nations resting round;
Arise! arise! is it the voice of mourning
That breaks our slumber with so wild a sound?
The voice of mourning? Listen to its pealing;
That shout of triumph drowns the sigh of woe.
Each tortured heart forgets its wonted feeling;
Each faded cheek resumes its long-lost glow.
Our souls are full of gladness; God has given
Our arms to victory, our foes to death;
The crimson ensign waves its sheet in heaven,
The sea-green Standard lies in dust beneath.
Patriots, no stain is on your country’s glory;
Soldiers, preserve that glory bright and free.
Let Almedore, in peace, and battle gory,
Be still a nobler name for victory!’

The Battle of Waterloo by William Sadler
The Battle of Waterloo by William Sadler

By 1843, however, Emily’s ‘On The Fall Of Zalona’ shows a very different side of war, with lines including:

‘What do those brazen tongues proclaim?
What joyous fête begun –
What offerings to our country’s fame –
What noble victory won?
Go, ask that solitary sire
Laid in his house alone;
His silent hearth without a fire –
His sons and daughters gone – Go, ask those children in the street
Beside their mother’s door;
Waiting to hear the lingering feet
That they shall hear no more.
Ask those pale soldiers round the gates
With famine-kindled eye –
They’ll say, “Zalona celebrates
The day that she must die!”…
Heaven help us in this awful hour!
For now might faith decay –
Now might we doubt God’s guardian power
And curse, instead of pray.’

Charlotte Brontë too turned away from her earlier jingoistic view of war. By 1853 Britain was at war once more, this time fighting Russia in the Crimean War. Charlotte and Patrick both helped to raise funds for the Patriotic Fund, which gave money to wounded soldiers and to the families of dead soldiers. In the postscript of a letter to Margaret Wooler dated 6th December 1854, in the aftermath of the charge of the Light Brigade (which heads this post) Charlotte gives this moving account of her attitude to war, and why it has changed:

Let us hope for better news from Ukraine soon. In the meantime, we can find solace in the books we love so much. I hope you’ve been enjoying the daily Brontëdles, and I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post.

A Mournful Letter From Charlotte Brontë

One reason that the novels of Charlotte Brontë, and those of her sisters Emily and Anne Brontë, still resonate today is that they cover something timeless: human emotions. Fashions change, technology changes, the way we spend our work and leisure time changes, the way we talk changes, but throughout the millennia of humanity the driving force of our emotions has remained the same. Charlotte’s novels covers the complete gamut of emotions brilliantly, so that they move a reader today just as much as they did in the mid-nineteenth century. Charlotte could describe these emotional highs and lows so brilliantly because she had experienced them herself, and it’s one particular aspect of this, and one particular letter, which we’re going to look at in today’s post.

Charlotte discovers Emily's poems
Charlotte Bronte, played here by Finn Atkins in To Walk Invisible, was a master at portraying emotions.

Some people wonder how the Brontës wrote such powerful work when their own lives, on the surface, were quite reserved and insular. Charlotte herself gave a clue when she described Emily Bronte’s innate ability to get to the heart of people, their lives and emotions:

‘My sister’s disposition was not naturally gregarious; circumstances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion; except to go to church or take a walk on the hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though her feeling for the people round was benevolent, intercourse with them she never sought; nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced. And yet she knew them.’

The Brontës had a complete mastery of writing about the human condition, with all its ups and downs, and Charlotte in particular had experienced these peaks and troughs in her own life. From the early losses of her mother and sisters Maria and Elizabeth, through the pain of unrequited love for Monsieur Heger, to the eventual triumph of her genius, and her marriage to Arthur Bell Nicholls. All too often, however, her life carried a melancholy tinge. Throughout her life Charlotte Brontë suffered from depression, and was often laid low by what she called bilious attacks, an attack on her mental and physical health that could leave her confined to bed for days at a time. As we have seen frequently on this blog, Charlotte was a brilliant letter writer, and in these letters she often talks frankly of her depression. This is the case in this moving yet mournful letter written to her best friend Ellen Nussey on this day, 20th February, 1845:

 

Charlotte has been visiting Hunsworth, a mill and house owned by the Taylor family. It was to Hunsworth that the Taylors decamped from the Red House of Gomersal after the death of cloth magnate Joshua Taylor. By 1845 it was therefore the home of Mary Taylor, Charlotte’s closest friend after Ellen.

Even the company of Mary Taylor, a brilliant woman who went on to achieve great things in her life, could not allay the black dog on this occasion. Charlotte is beset by worries: worries about her father’s failing eyesight, worries about Ellen’s family, particularly her brother George Nussey who has recently been placed in a York asylum – a worry which has strengthened because a delay in Ellen’s response to an earlier letter has led Charlotte to fear the worst about a man she was fond of. Worries about what she will do with her life now that she has returned to Haworth from Brussels, and an overpowering loneliness at the thought of the man, Constantin Heger, she had left behind there. It is that makes Charlotte so anxious to read French newspapers; simply reading the language spoken by Heger reminds her of the man who had once spoken it to her.

Hunsworth Mill
Hunsworth Mill was portrayed as Hollows Mill in Shirley

Charlotte attributes her increasingly frequent bouts of melancholy to her age, a theme she returns to in other letters as she approached the age of 30 – a figure which to Charlotte seemed to mark the end of youth and the onset of old age. She had always thought that by thirty a person should have achieved something in life or at least be on the path to something, yet she found herself as adrift and uncertain of her future as ever. She could not know, of course, that her greatest achievements and successes were still waiting for her and growing closer by the day.

Whether in her letters or her books, Charlotte Brontë was a brilliant writer; it is thanks to her superb skills that we feel empathy for herself, in her letters, and with her characters in her books. Quite simply, Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë were masters of understanding and reporting the human condition, and masters of words. Talking of which…

Important News For Wordle Lovers

Wordle is everywhere. If you don’t yet know and love it, it’s a simple yet challenging game where you have to guess a five letter word in six attempts or fewer – one of the things which makes it so great is that everyone across the world has the same word to solve.

I love Wordle so I’ve decided to launch my very own Brontë-inspired wordle: a Brontëdle! We now have a dedicated Brontëdle page and there will be a new Brontë themed wordle for you to guess every day. The simple rules are explained more fully on the page where you’ll also find today’s all new Brontëdle. As with everything on this website, it will always be advert free and free of charge. Please feel free to bookmark it and tell any wordle-loving friends about it.

I hope you enjoy the Brontëdles, and I hope you enjoyed today’s post. Charlotte Brontë had to fight against her depression and bilious attacks throughout her adult life, and yet she emerged triumphant. I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post.