This weekend we mark an anniversary that brought to an end the Brontë line, an end to the house of Brontë lineage. Patrick Brontë died on June 7th 1861 in Haworth, where he had served as Church of England curate for over 40 years. It was in some ways his great tragedy that he lived so long, as he had outlived his wife and all six of his children. When he died, his son-in-law Arthur Bell Nicholls was by Patrick’s side, the widower of his third daughter Charlotte Brontë.
It marked a time of great mourning in Haworth, and on the day of Patrick’s funeral the shops closed early and flags flew at half mast. Arthur, ever a man to wear his emotions on his sleeve, was led away after the funeral in tears. There can be little doubt that Patrick had a huge and positive influence on his daughters, and yet even today there are some who seek to denigrate his character. In today’s post we’ll look at how Patrick Brontë faced up to bullies, and of how his action came to be reproduced in one of his daughter Charlotte’s great novels.
We’ll begin with a dramatic scene from Charlotte Brontë’s Shirley, a book I particularly love as many of its characters and places were drawn, thinly veiled, from real life. In this scene Reverend Helstone is leading a Whitsun march which encounters trouble when it runs into, quite literally, a similar march from a dissenting church:
“He pointed with his staff to the end of the lane before them. Lo and behold! another, an opposition, procession was there entering, headed also by men in black, and followed also, as they could now hear, by music.
“Is it our double?” asked Shirley, “our manifold wraith? Here is a card turned up.”
“If you wanted a battle, you are likely to get one—at least of looks,” whispered Caroline, laughing.
“They shall not pass us!” cried the curates unanimously; “we’ll not give way!”
“Give way!” retorted Helstone sternly, turning round; “who talks of giving way? You, boys, mind what you are about. The ladies, I know, will be firm. I can trust them. There is not a churchwoman here but will stand her ground against these folks, for the honour of the Establishment.—What does Miss Keeldar say?”
“She asks what is it.”
“The Dissenting and Methodist schools, the Baptists, Independents, and Wesleyans, joined in unholy alliance, and turning purposely into this lane with the intention of obstructing our march and driving us back.”
“Bad manners!” said Shirley, “and I hate bad manners. Of course, they must have a lesson.”
“A lesson in politeness,” suggested Mr. Hall, who was ever for peace; “not an example of rudeness.”
Old Helstone moved on. Quickening his step, he marched some yards in advance of his company. He had nearly reached the other sable leaders, when he who appeared to act as the hostile commander-in-chief—a large, greasy man, with black hair combed flat on his forehead—called a halt. The procession paused. He drew forth a hymn book, gave out a verse, set a tune, and they all struck up the most dolorous of canticles.
Helstone signed to his bands. They clashed out with all the power of brass. He desired them to play “Rule, Britannia!” and ordered the children to join in vocally, which they did with enthusiastic spirit. The enemy was sung and stormed down, his psalm quelled. As far as noise went, he was conquered.
“Now, follow me!” exclaimed Helstone; “not at a run, but at a firm, smart pace. Be steady, every child and woman of you. Keep together. Hold on by each other’s skirts, if necessary.”
And he strode on with such a determined and deliberate gait, and was, besides, so well seconded by his scholars and teachers, who did exactly as he told them, neither running nor faltering, but marching with cool, solid impetus—the curates, too, being compelled to do the same, as they were between two fires, Helstone and Miss Keeldar, both of whom watched any deviation with lynx-eyed vigilance, and were ready, the one with his cane, the other with her parasol, to rebuke the slightest breach of orders, the least independent or irregular demonstration—that the body of Dissenters were first amazed, then alarmed, then borne down and pressed back, and at last forced to turn tail and leave the outlet from Royd Lane free. Boultby suffered in the onslaught, but Helstone and Malone, between them, held him up, and brought him through the business, whole in limb, though sorely tried in wind.
The fat Dissenter who had given out the hymn was left sitting in the ditch. He was a spirit merchant by trade, a leader of the Nonconformists, and, it was said, drank more water in that one afternoon than he had swallowed for a twelvemonth before.”
In the 1890s a man named W .W. Yates set about writing a biography of Patrick Brontë, during the course of which he interviewed many people who had known Patrick. One such person was a Mr Senior, now an old man but once a youngster in a Dewsbury Sunday School run by Reverend Brontë in the days before he married and had a family. It was Mr Senior who gave this account, one which was also corroborated by a James Newsome who had also been on the march:
Senior also gave more information on the bully, saying he was: “belonged to Gawthorpe, a hamlet in the township of Ossett, and was a notorious cockfighter and boxer, and much addicted to drinking. Some of the men he was with on the memorable day were persons of like character.”
Senior commented too on the character of Patrick Brontë: “He was resolute about being obeyed, but was very kind, and we always liked him.”
A simple but important tribute to Patrick Brontë from one who had known him, and the outpouring of affection in Haworth after his death showed the depth of gratitude the villagers, not always the easiest to please at that time, held for him. Without Patrick, without his support for his daughters’ learning, there would be no Brontë story as we know it today. I hope you can join me next week for another new Brontë blog post.
Great post. Thank you. Really enjoyed reading it.