The Wilson lobby, led by Miss Andrews, a teacher who had also temporarily been superintendent of the school during the Brontë period, denied there had ever been a scarcity of food. ‘The daily dinner consisted of meat, vegetables, and pudding, in abundance; the children were permitted and expected to ask for whatever they desired, and they were never limited.’42 As Charlotte’s husband and staunch defender pointed out, however,
what about the cooking that spoiled these provisions; boiled the puddings in unclean water; compounded the Saturday’s nauseous mess from the fragments accumulated in a dirty larder during the week; and too often sent up the porridge, not merely burnt, but with offensive fragments of other substances discoverable in it!43
Yet another Cowan Bridge girl of the Brontë period sent a horrific account to substantiate the accusations, pointing out that ‘on first reading “Jane Eyre” several years ago I recognized immediately the picture there drawn and was far from considering it in any way exaggerated, in fact I thought at the time, and still think, the matter rather understated than otherwise’. She then went on to say:
The housekeeper was very dirty with the cooking and very unkind to the girls generally. I have frequently seen grease swim [m] ing on the milk and water we had for breakfast, in consequence of its having been boiled in a greasy copper and I perfectly remember having once been sent for a cup of tea for a teacher who was ill in bed, and no teaspoon being at hand the housekeeper stirred the tea with her finger she being engaged in cutting raw meat at the time. If space would allow I could give you scores of such instances as these which fell under my own observation and which after nearly twenty five years have elapsed dwell unpleasantly in my memory. Our food was almost always badly cooked, and besides that we certainly had not enough of it whatever may be said to the contrary.44
Charlotte herself had seen the doctor, who was soon to become Wilson’s brother-in-law, actually spit out a portion of food he had tasted. Even Miss Andrews had to confess that when the doctor was called in during the spring of 1825 to attend the girls smitten with ‘low fever’, he had spoken ‘rather scornfully’ of a baked rice pudding. Her protest that ‘as the ingredients of this dish were chiefly rice, sugar, and milk, its effects could hardly have been so serious as have been affirmed’ suggests that the teachers may not have been sympathetic to the girls’ complaints about the food.45
If the skimmed milk used at the school was sour, it would have been difficult to detect until tasted, because it does not curdle or smell bad. There was no excuse for the dirty cooking utensils, however, or the slovenliness of the housekeeper. Unfortunately, Cowan Bridge does not appear to have been an isolated case; complaints about the food at Woodhouse Grove have a familiar ring about them. As late as the 1850s, one schoolboy complained:
Breakfast consisted of a thick slice of dry bread and about half a pint of skimmed milk, occasionally sour, and sometimes slightly warmed in winter. At dinner we generally had two courses; and supper, at six o’clock, was an exact repetition of breakfast … my stomach rebels at this moment at the thought of the rice, it was either boiled very dry (into ‘snowballs’) and then anointed with a thin unguent composed of treacle and warm water, or else baked in huge black tins in which it looked as if it had been ‘trodden under foot of men’. You had to eat it all up, or Mrs Farrar would probably give you a box on the ear, and stand over you till you did. I have many a time gone away from the table with food in my handkerchief to throw away, because, had I been forced to eat it, I should have been ill.46
As everyone, including Charlotte and Mrs Gaskell, was careful to point out, the filthy cook at Cowan Bridge was eventually dismissed and replaced by a clean and efficient woman, who produced a marked improvement in the food.
The school register supports Mrs Gaskell’s claim that ill health was commonplace among the girls during the early years of the school, resulting in many being sent home. Of the fifty-three pupils there at the same time as the Brontës, one died at Cowan Bridge and eleven left school in ill health; six of them died soon after reaching home. There clearly was a particular problem in the first nine months of 1825, when twenty girls (including the four Brontës) were withdrawn from the school, nine of them in ill health.47 Wilson therefore lost more than a third of his pupils in only the second year of the Clergy Daughters’ School’s existence. Nor did the general state of health even start to improve until 1832 – the year the school relocated to Casterton – by which time another two, if not three girls had actually died at Cowan Bridge and a further fifteen had left school in ill health, six of them to die.48 Though it may seem horrendous today that any child should die of fever at school, in defence of Cowan Bridge it should be noted that epidemics and consequent fatalities were an unfortunate but ordinary fact of nineteenth-century boarding school life. Woodhouse Grove lost eleven boys in a period of about ten years and there were similarly fatal epidemics at Rugby, Rossall and other public schools of the day.49
All in all, therefore, the Brontës were unfortunate to be at the Clergy Daughters’ School during its difficult early years. On the other hand, even then the school was no worse than many of its renowned and much-praised contemporaries and in certain instances it was actually better. Apart from the significant problem of the dirty housekeeper, there was an insistence on personal cleanliness, neatness and discipline which was not only necessary for the smooth and healthy running of the school but also inculcated the sort of personal habits that would commend themselves to the Brontës in later years.50 There is no doubt that Charlotte endured great hardship there: her fastidious nature was revolted by the unavoidable evils of communal school life, she rebelled against the loss of freedom and she resented the feeling that she was a ‘charity-child’. What she could not forgive, however, was the fact that her two older sisters died as a direct result, as she saw it, of their own experience at the school.
Maria and Elizabeth Brontë arrived at the Clergy Daughters’ School on 21 July 1824. They should have gone earlier, but because they were still delicate from having had whooping cough and measles in the spring, their entry was delayed. Patrick himself escorted his daughters the forty-five miles from Haworth to Cowan Bridge; they travelled by the daily coach from Leeds, which conveniently stopped at Keighley. He stayed overnight and dined at the same table as his children so that he was able to see for himself how the school was run; he was evidently satisfied as he returned home without comment.51 Had there been the slightest hint of anything unusual or wrong he would undoubtedly have complained, as he was not the sort of person to allow such things to pass.
The girls were assessed by the superintendent, Miss Andrews, and their details entered into the school register. It was noted, for instance, that both were being paid for by Patrick himself, not by one of the charitable societies or by their godmothers. They had both been vaccinated and Maria had also had chicken pox. Their ‘Acquirements on Entering’ seem unimpressive. (It should be explained that ‘ciphering’ meant arithmetic, ‘working’ meant plain sewing and ‘accomplishments’ meant French, music and drawing.) Against Maria, aged ten, it was recorded:
Reads tolerably – Writes pretty well – Ciphers a little – Works very badly – Knows a little of Grammar, very little of Geography & History. Has made some progress in reading French but knows nothing of the language grammatically
Elizabeth, aged nine, fared even worse: ‘Reads little – Writes pretty well – Ciphers none – Works very badly. Knows nothing of Grammar, Geography, History or Accomplishments’.52 The apparently damning reports, which are often cited as evidence of Patrick’s failure to educate his daughters, are actually almost identical to every other entry in the register, regardless of age or background.53 There was obviously a motive to understate achievements on entry so that the school could take the credit for greater improvements. Many girls, even some of the oldest entrants who were in their late teens, did no better than the Brontës: Maria was exceptional in being able to read French at the age of ten, even if she could
not parse it.
It is interesting to note that Patrick had a clear notion of his daughters’ capabilities and future prospects. Maria, ‘a girl of fine imagination and extraordinary talents’, as even the teacher who is supposed to have persecuted her readily admitted, was to be educated for a governess. She therefore received lessons in French and drawing, for which Patrick had to pay an extra three pounds a year. Elizabeth, who possessed ‘sound common sense’ but was not as intellectual as her sisters, was clearly earmarked by Patrick to be the family housekeeper; she was the only one of his daughters not to be instructed in the ‘accomplishments’.54
Life at the school at this time was probably not unpleasant. Both Maria and Elizabeth were used to being away from home, having already experienced the rigours of boarding school at Crofton Hall. There were only sixteen other girls there to begin with and, of these, at least two were already acquaintances, if not actual friends. Margaret Plummer, who had been at the school since 21 February, was the fourteen-year-old daughter of the Reverend Thomas Plummer, headmaster of the Free Grammar School at Keighley, who sometimes officiated for Patrick. She must have become a friend, as Maria gave her a needlecase she had made herself, suitably inscribed. Ten-year-old Harriet Jenkins, who had been there since 4 March, was the daughter of the Reverend David Jenkins, Patrick’s fellow curate at Dewsbury, who had undertaken duty for him so often at Hartshead.55
On 10 August, just under three weeks after their own arrival, Maria and Elizabeth had a welcome visit from their father when he brought Charlotte, who was now well enough to join her sisters at the school. Patrick again stayed the night and dined with his daughters. At the end of September there was another visitor, Elizabeth Firth, now Mrs James Clarke Franks, who was on her wedding tour; she gave each of the girls 2s. 6d. before leaving.56
For Charlotte, the change in her circumstances was traumatic. It was the first time she had ever been away from home and she had no prospect of returning there for nearly a year: the only holidays were the customary five weeks in the summer. She could not even keep in regular contact with her father and the younger members of the family because letter writing was confined to once a quarter.57 Even though her elder sisters were there it must have seemed like a perpetual banishment from the home and the family which meant so much to her. Her own entry in the school register noted that she had been vaccinated and that she had had whooping cough. Her acquirements on entering were listed as: ‘Reads tolerably – Writes indifferently – Ciphers a little and works neatly. Knows nothing of Grammar, Geography, History or Accomplishments’. To this was added an unusual and perceptive note: ‘Altogether clever of her age but knows nothing systematically’. Like her eldest sister, she was entered for the higher level of education which would train her to be a governess.58
Despite her own later recollection of herself as having a very quiet career, being ‘plodding and industrious’, and ‘very grave’, the entrance register assessment is backed up by Miss Andrews, who described her as
a very bright, clever, and happy little girl, a general favorite; to the best of my recollection she was never under disgrace, however slight; punishment she certainly did not experience while she was at Cowan Bridge.59
While their older sisters were settling into their new environment and, according to Miss Andrews, doing well,60 the three younger Brontë children were still at home in the care of Aunt Branwell and Nancy and Sarah Garrs. Branwell was now seven, Emily just six and Anne four. They must have missed Maria, Elizabeth and Charlotte taking the lead in their study and play, but this was not the first time they had had to manage without the two eldest girls. Their ordinary routine was enlivened by two exciting incidents.
On Tuesday, 31 August 1824, Haworth was honoured by a rare visit from Edward Harcourt, the Archbishop of York. The reason for his visit was somewhat grim: he had come to consecrate a new piece of ground which was to be added to the then overflowing churchyard. An immense concourse of people gathered to watch the ceremony and, despite the fact that Harcourt had backed the vicar of Bradford against the trustees over Patrick’s and Samuel Redhead’s appointment to Haworth, ‘the strictest order and decorum prevailed’. The three Brontë children must have had prime positions for viewing the ceremony and afterwards, to add to their excitement, the archbishop and some of his fellow clergy came back to the parsonage to ‘partake of good English fare’ prepared by a no doubt flustered Nancy Garrs.61 To see in the flesh, in their own home, one of the two premier spiritual lords of the land, about whom they read constantly in the newspapers, must have been a great thrill for the impressionable children.
The second event was even more memorable and certainly more spectacular. Two days after the archbishop’s visit, on Thursday, 2 September, at about six o’clock in the evening, the bog four miles up on the moor behind the parsonage at Crow Hill burst, causing a landslip and flooding. Patrick described what happened in a sermon he preached ten days later in Haworth Church:
As the day was exceedingly fine, I had sent my little children, who were indisposed, accompanied by the servants, to take an airing on the common, and as they stayed rather longer than I expected, I went to an upper chamber to look out for their return. The heavens over the moors were blackening fast. I heard muttering of distant thunder, and saw the frequent flashing of the lightning. Though, ten minutes before, there was scarcely a breath of air stirring; the gale freshened rapidly, and carried along with it clouds of dust and stubble; and, by this time, some large drops of rain, clearly announced an approaching heavy shower. My little family had escaped to a place of shelter, but I did not know it. I consequently watched every movement of the coming tempest with a painful degree of interest. The house was perfectly still. Under these circumstances, I heard a deep, distant explosion, something resembling, yet something differing from thunder, and I perceived a gentle tremour in the chamber in which I was standing, and in the glass of the window just before me, which, at the time, made an extra-ordinary impression on my mind; and which, I have no manner of doubt now, was the effect of an Earthquake at the place of eruption.62
The picture of the anxious father looking out for his children because they were late and then fearing dreadfully for their safety as he watched the storm develop should forever dispel any suggestion that Patrick was a cold and uncaring parent. What he did not say, but was later reported by Sarah Garrs’ family, was that when he realized that his children were in actual danger, he set out in search of them. They had been caught in the full horror of the storm, ‘and they were frightened, and hid themselves under Sarah’s cloak, and Mr Brontë went in search of them and found them in a Porch … terrified, and so was he till he found them’.63 He then discovered just how close he had come to losing them. A seven-foot-high torrent of mud, peat and water had swept down the valley from Crow Hill towards Ponden. Fortunately, it was seen in time and someone gave the alarm, ‘and thereby saved the lives of some children, who would otherwise have been swept away’.64
Once he had his beloved children safely back at home, Patrick had time to think over his experience. As an Evangelical, he was certain that the world would one day end in the apocalyptic style of the Revelation of St John. There was a general belief at the time, particularly in Evangelical circles, that the end of the world was imminent and Patrick’s immediate response was probably that it was happening at that moment. When it became clear that it was not, he then realized that this was a solemn warning,
to turn sinners from the error of their ways, and as solemn forerunners of that last and greatest day, when the earth shall be burnt up – and the heavens shall pass away with a great noise – and the universal frame of nature shall tremble, and break, and dissolve.65
In his intense excitement, Patrick wrote to both the Leeds Intelligencer and the Leeds Mercury giving an account of the bog-burst, which he attributed to an earthquake, and ‘improving’ the event by pointing out its moral.66 The day after the bog-burst, he had been up to Crow Hill to view the damage. One
solid stone bridge had been swept away, two others had been breached, four or five mills had had their workings entirely clogged up, fields of corn, hedges and walls had been flattened in the deluge and some houses had been swamped. Two huge areas of moorland bog had sunk without trace, swept down along the valleys by the volume of water absorbed in the undrained peat in the heavy rainfall of the previous days. The effects were felt as far away as Leeds: 200 stone of perch and trout were taken out of the River Aire at Horsforth, poisoned, or rather suffocated, by the volume of peat, mud and detritus flowing from the bog-burst. Virtually the entire woollen industry in the area ground to a halt for several days as it was impossible to use the water because it was so filthy.67
Patrick’s letters caused further consternation – not for the spiritual thoughts he had hoped to inspire, but for the more prosaic reason that, if an earthquake had caused an underground reservoir to open up, then the woollen trade might be permanently affected. A team of investigators from the Leeds Mercury joined the supposed 10,000 sightseers who came from all over Yorkshire to view the dramatic sight. They concluded that the bog-burst was the result of a water spout, not an earthquake.68
Patrick obstinately refused to change his opinion. The day the Leeds Mercury published its report, Patrick wrote another letter in great haste to the paper, defending his claim that it was an earthquake. The electrical discharge of the lightning, combined with the intense heat of the day, had caused the eruption, he believed.69 The next day he delivered a powerful sermon to his parishioners on an appropriate text from the ninety-seventh psalm: ‘His lightnings enlightened the world; the earth saw, and trembled. The hills melted like wax at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the Lord of the whole earth.’ He explained the physical causes of earthquakes and some of the reasons why God sent them. Finally, he declared:
Brontës Page 21
