‘The idea of seeing the sea,’ she says, ‘of being near it — watching its changes by sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and noon-day — in calm, perhaps in storm — fills and satisfies my mind. I shall be discontented at nothing. And then I am not to be with a set of people with whom I have nothing in common — who would be nuisances and bores.’
The visit of Charlotte to the sea-side seems to have been put off again and again, by often-recurring obstacles. The irresolution of her family in regard to the Liverpool project, and the manifest unwillingness that she should leave home on a visit anywhere else, put off, from time to time, the pleasure she had anticipated for herself; but at last she decided to go. Her box was packed and everything prepared, but no conveyance could be procured. Mr. Brontë objected to her going by coach, and walking part of the way to meet her friend, and her aunt exclaimed against ‘the weather, and the roads, and the four winds of heaven,’ so Charlotte almost gave up hope. She told her friend that the elders of the house had never cordially acquiesced in the measure, and that opposition was growing more open, though her father would willingly have indulged her. Even he, however, wished her to remain at home. Charlotte was ‘provoked’ that her aunt had deferred opposition until arrangements had been made. In the end ‘E’ was asked to pay a visit to the parsonage.
Owing to the circumstances indicated, Charlotte’s visit to the sea-coast was put off until the following September, when an opportunity occurred favourable to the project, which does not seem to have been entirely abandoned; and she and her friend visited Easton where they spent a fortnight. Here for the first time Charlotte beheld the sea.
Afterwards she wrote, ‘Have you forgotten the sea by this time, E.? Is it grown dim in your mind? Or can you still see it, dark, blue and green and foam-white, and hear it roaring roughly when the wind is high, or rushing softly when it is calm?’ The Liverpool journey appears to have been finally abandoned.
It was in a letter, written about this time that Mrs. Gaskell found the first mention of a succession of curates who henceforth revolved round Haworth Parsonage. Three years earlier Mr. Brontë had sought aid from the ‘Additional Curates’ Society,’ or some similar institution, and was provided at once with assistance. The increasing duties of his chapelry had rendered this step necessary. It would seem also that a curate was appointed to Stanbury, while another became master of the National or Grammar School. These gentlemen were not infrequent in their visits to the parsonage, and they varied the life of its inmates, sometimes one way and sometimes another. This circumstance, at the same time, provided Charlotte Brontë with those living studies which she did not fail afterwards to remember in her delineation of the three curates in ‘Shirley.’ Emily, on the other hand, invariably avoided these gentlemen.
The arrival of the curates at Haworth was the occasion of increased activity in the affairs of the chapelry; and, the church-rate question being uppermost at this juncture, the new-comers entered into a crusade against the Dissenters who had refused to pay church-rates. Charlotte wrote a long letter in which she spoke of a violent public meeting held at Haworth about the affair, and of two sermons against dissent — one by Mr. W. a ‘noble, eloquent, high-church, apostolical-succession discourse, in which he banged the Dissenters most fearlessly and unflinchingly;’ the other by Mr. C., a ‘keener, cleverer, bolder, and more heart-stirring harangue,’ than Charlotte, perhaps, had ever heard from the Haworth pulpit. She, however, did not entirely agree with either of these gentlemen, and thought, if she had been a Dissenter, she would have ‘taken the first opportunity of kicking or of horse-whipping both.’
In the winter of 1839-40, Charlotte employed her leisure in the composition of a story which she had commenced on a scale commensurate with one of Richardson’s novels of seven or eight volumes. Mrs. Gaskell saw some fragments of the manuscript, written in a very small hand: but she was less solicitous to decipher it, as Charlotte had herself condemned it in the preface to ‘The Professor.’ Branwell, to whom she submitted it, seems to have understood, at the time, that in its florid style of composition she was working in opposition to her genius, and he told her she was making a mistake. It appears not unlikely that Branwell was himself similarly engaged on prose writing when he gave her this opinion. A few months later, however, Charlotte resolved to send the commencement of her tale to Wordsworth, and that an unfavourable judgment was the result, for which she was not altogether unprepared, may be gathered from the following letter she addressed to the poet: —
‘Authors are generally very tenacious of their productions, but I am not so much attached to this but that I can give it up without much distress. No doubt if I had gone on I should have made quite a Richardsonian concern of it…. I had materials in my head for half-a-dozen volumes…. Of course it is with considerable regret I relinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched. It is very edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants who are so many Melchisedecs, and have no father or mother but your own imagination…. I am sorry I did not exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the “Ladies’ Magazine” was flourishing like a green bay-tree. In that case, I make no doubt, my aspirations after literary fame would have met with due encouragement, and I should have had the pleasure of introducing Messrs. Percy and West into the best society, and recording all their sayings and doings in double-columned, close-printed pages…. I recollect, when I was a child, getting hold of some antiquated volumes, reading them by stealth with the most exquisite pleasure. You give a correct description of the patient Grisels of these days. My aunt was one of them, and to this day she thinks the tales of the “Ladies’ Magazine” infinitely superior to any trash of modern literature. So do I; for I read them in childhood, and childhood has a very strong faculty of admiration, but a very weak one of criticism…. I am pleased that you cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney’s clerk or a novel-reading dressmaker. I will not help you at all in the discovery….’
In the midst of their literary endeavours, their efforts were not relaxed to obtain new places. Charlotte was obliged by circumstances to give up her subscriptions to the Jews, and she determined to force herself to take a situation, if one could be found, though she says, ‘I hate and abhor the very thoughts of governess-ship.’ An alternative which the sisters talked over in these holidays was the opening of a school at Haworth, for which an enlargement of the parsonage would be required.
Branwell was more successful in his pursuit of employment than Charlotte, having procured the place of a tutor; and he was to commence his duties with the new year. Charlotte says of this event, ‘One thing, however, will make the daily routine more unvaried than ever. Branwell, who used to enliven us, is to leave us in a few days, and enter the situation of a private tutor in the neighbourhood of Ulverston. How he will like to settle remains yet to be seen. At present he is full of hope and resolution. I, who know his variable nature, and his strong turn for active life, dare not be too sanguine.’
Branwell seems to have paid a farewell visit to the ‘Lodge of the Three Graces’ on the Christmas Day of this year, when he acted as organist. This is the only occasion on which he is recorded as having attended at the meetings of the Lodge in 1839, and it is the last on which his name appears in the minute book of the Haworth masonic body.
CHAPTER XVI.
BRANWELL AT BROUGHTON-IN-FURNESS.
The District of Black Comb — Branwell’s Sonnet — Wordsworth and Hartley Coleridge — Branwell’s Letter to the ‘Old Knave of Trumps’ — Its Publication by Miss Robinson in her ‘Emily Brontë’ — Branwell’s familiar Acquaintance with the People of Haworth — He could Paint their Characters with Accuracy — His Knowledge of the Human Passions — Emily’s Isolation.
Branwell, being as desirous of employment as his sisters, had sought for, and obtained, a situation as tutor in the family of Mr. Postlethwaite, of Broughton-in-Furness. He entered upon his new duties on the 1st of January, 1840.
Now that he found himsel
f resident near the English lake district, consecrated as it is by so many poetic memories, and dear to him as the home of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey he naturally felt an intense interest in all that surrounded him; and, when he was not engaged in teaching the sons of his employer, he took occasion to visit such places as had any attraction for him. On one of his pedestrian excursions, he had stepped into a wayside inn, and was seated musing before the parlour fire, when a young gentleman entered the room. Branwell turned round, and recognized at once a friend of the name of Ayrton, whose acquaintance he had formed in Leeds. The surprise and delight at this unexpected meeting was mutual; and Branwell’s friend, who was driving about the country, requested his company for some distance on the journey, for the purpose of prolonging the interview, and of continuing the conversation that had been begun. The young tutor drove some ten miles with his friend, utterly regardless of the long return walk to Ulverston.
Branwell delighted in the writings of the ‘Lake Poets,’ and was much influenced by Southey’s prose works. He read the ‘Life of Nelson,’ and was himself moved to write a poem illustrative of the life of that great naval hero. He also read the ‘Colloquies on Society,’ and others of Southey’s works. But it was Wordsworth who at this moment, was the object of Branwell’s chief admiration. He revelled in that poet’s fine description of the view from the top of Black Comb, and, perhaps, knew the lines written by his ‘deity of the mind’ on a stone on the side of the mountain, and probably had himself looked from its summit. But Branwell certainly knew Black Comb from afar. Five miles away he could see it; and he celebrated it in the following sonnet:
BLACK COMB.
‘Far off, and half revealed, ‘mid shade and light,
Black Comb half smiles, half frowns; his mighty form
Scarce bending into peace — more formed to fight
A thousand years of struggles with a storm
Than bask one hour, subdued by sunshine warm,
To bright and breezeless rest; yet even his height
Towers not o’er this world’s sympathies, he smiles —
While many a human heart to pleasures’ wiles
Can bear to bend, and still forget to rise —
As though he, huge and heath-clad, on our sight,
Again rejoices in his stormy skies.
Man loses vigour in unstable joys.
Thus tempests find Black Comb invincible,
While we are lost, who should know life so well!’
It was doubtless while Branwell was living at Ulverston that he obtained the favourable opinion of Wordsworth on some poems which he submitted for criticism. Probably he found opportunity to visit the writer whose works he ‘loved most in our literature,’ and it would be on some similar excursion that he obtained an encouraging expression of opinion from Hartley Coleridge. The author of ‘The Northern Worthies’ was not unknown to the circle at ‘The George,’ at Bradford, and was acquainted with Branwell Brontë and Leyland.
The master of the ‘Lodge of the Three Graces,’ at Haworth, did not, however, long permit Branwell to forget his old acquaintance there; for this worthy soon addressed to him a communication which provoked a reply that Branwell dated from Broughton-in-Furness on the 13th of the March following his arrival. This unfortunate response, in which Branwell addressed the masonic sexton of Haworth, with sarcastic humour, as ‘Old Knave of Trumps,’ is the one which Miss Robinson has been so ill advised as to publish in her ‘Emily Brontë;’ and which has done not a little to draw down on the head of Branwell the full and unmitigated volume of Mr. Swinburne’s vocabulary of abuse. And, in fact, if this letter could be taken as the proper and natural expression of an abject profligate, altogether shameless and unredeemed, he could find a defender neither here nor elsewhere. But there are good reasons for hoping that it was otherwise. We have seen that Branwell had been led to join the rude village society of Haworth, where, on account of his brilliance, and of his position as the incumbent’s son, he was not a little looked up to. It was natural, then, that he should be led, foolishly enough, to endeavour to stand well with the friends he had selected, and his knowledge of character was sufficiently good to enable him to know what kind of letter would best suit the tastes and inclinations of many of his companions of the ‘Lodge of the Three Graces.’ He assumed in fact, that bravado of vice, that air of diablerie, which was thought by many people, in those days, and is so yet by not a few, to be the best proof of manhood, because it betokened a knowledge of the world. Yet, at the end of the letter, — the passage is not given by Miss Robinson — Branwell appears to take it as a matter of course that the sexton will not show it, and he begs him, for ‘Heaven’s sake,’ to blot out the lines scored in red. Branwell knew the ‘Old Knave of Trumps’ well, and he was certain that his letter would cause no little amusement among his immediate friends to whom the sexton was sure to read it. He was ashamed of certain passages in it, which is evidence enough that it was not the outcome of a depraved and shameless nature, but rather the expression of the acted character of a vicious and blasé worldling. And it is, moreover, inconceivable that a young man, who was of the sensitive nature betokened by the contemporary poems we have published, could, at the same time, have been a hardened and cynical profligate. Indeed, it is evident that the objectionable allusions were not of his origination, but were called forth by the remarks of others, for whom Branwell does not fail to show his contempt.
It has, however, been the misfortune of Branwell Brontë, that a letter which he wrote in folly, for the eyes of personal friends alone, has been published to the world as the token and evidence of his infamy. One use, at any rate, flows from the publication of it, for it shows us the quick and vivid grasp of character, and the incisive mode of composition which now began, in his more vigorous moods, to distinguish its author. The letter is as follows: —
‘Broughton-in-Furness,
‘March 13, 1840.
‘Old Knave of Trumps,
‘Don’t think I have forgotten you, though I have delayed so long in writing to you. It was my purpose to send you a yarn as soon as I could find materials to spin one with, and it is only just now that I have had time to turn myself round and know where I am. If you saw me now, you would not know me, and you would laugh to hear the character the people give me. Oh, the falsehood and hypocrisy of this world! I am fixed in a little retired town by the sea-shore, among wild woody hills that rise round me — huge, rocky, and capped with clouds. My employer is a retired county magistrate, a large landowner, and of a right hearty and generous disposition. His wife is a quiet, silent, and amiable woman, and his sons are two fine, spirited lads. My landlord is a respectable surgeon, and six days out of seven is as drunk as a lord! His wife is a bustling, chattering, kind-hearted soul; and his daughter! — oh! death and damnation! Well, what am I? That is, what do they think I am? A most calm, sedate, sober, abstemious, patient, mild-hearted, virtuous, gentlemanly philosopher, — the picture of good works, and the treasure-house of righteous thoughts. Cards are shuffled under the table-cloth, glasses are thrust into the cupboard, if I enter the room. I take neither spirits, wine, nor malt liquors. I dress in black, and smile like a saint or martyr. Everybody says, “What a good young gentleman is Mr. Postlethwaite’s tutor!” This is fact, as I am a living soul, and right comfortably do I laugh at them. I mean to continue in their good opinion. I took a half year’s farewell of old friend whisky at Kendal on the night after I left. There was a party of gentlemen at the Royal Hotel, and I joined them. We ordered in supper and whisky-toddy as “hot as hell!” They thought I was a physician, and put me in the chair. I gave sundry toasts, that were washed down at the same time, till the room spun round and the candles danced in our eyes. One of the guests was a respectable old gentleman with powdered head, rosy cheeks, fat paunch, and ringed fingers. He gave “The Ladies,” … after which he brayed off with a speech; and in two minutes, in the middle of a grand sentence, he stopped, wiped his head, looked wildly round, sta
mmered, coughed, stopped again, and called for his slippers. The waiter helped him to bed. Next a tall Irish squire and a native of the land of Israel began to quarrel about their countries; and, in the warmth of argument, discharged their glasses, each at his neighbour’s throat instead of his own. I recommended bleeding, purging, and blistering; but they administered each other a real “Jem Warder,” so I flung my tumbler on the floor, too, and swore I’d join “Old Ireland!” A regular rumpus ensued, but we were tamed at last. I found myself in bed next morning, with a bottle of porter, a glass, and a corkscrew beside me. Since then I have not tasted anything stronger than milk-and-water, nor, I hope, shall, till I return at Midsummer; when we will see about it. I am getting as fat as Prince William at Springhead, and as godly as his friend, Parson Winterbotham. My hand shakes no longer. I ride to the banker’s at Ulverston with Mr. Postlethwaite, and sit drinking tea and talking scandal with old ladies. As to the young ones! I have one sitting by me just now — fair-faced, blue-eyed, dark-haired, sweet eighteen — she little thinks the devil is so near her!
‘I was delighted to see thy note, old squire, but I do not understand one sentence — you will perhaps know what I mean…. How are all about you? I long to hear and see them again. How is the “Devil’s Thumb,” whom men call — — — — , and the “Devil in Mourning,” whom they call — — — — ? How are — — — — , and — — — — , and the Doctor; and him who will be used as the tongs of hell — he whose eyes Satan looks out of, as from windows — I mean — — — — , esquire? How are little — — — — , — — “Longshanks,” — — — — , and the rest of them? Are they married, buried, devilled, and damned? When I come I’ll give them a good squeeze of the hand; till then I am too godly for them to think of. That bow-legged devil used to ask me impertinent questions which I answered him in kind. Beelzebub will make of him a walking-stick! Keep to thy teetotalism, old squire, till I return; it will mend thy old body…. Does “Little Nosey” think I have forgotten him? No, by Jupiter! nor his clock either. I’ll send him a remembrancer some of these days! But I must talk to some one prettier than thee; so good-night, old boy, and
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