Limbs have been amputated, teeth extracted, and persons have been operated on for hernia and the stone, without their having any knowledge whatever, of what had been done – The liquid, must not be swallowed,
Patrick returned with quiet pleasure to his former preoccupation of writing to the press. On 23 March 1847, he took up his pen in support of the Government’s plan for a system of compulsory national education; his letter, published in the Leeds Intelligencer, called for an end to the sectarian opposition to the teaching of religion, which threatened to undermine the whole scheme. If this course of opposition was pursued
it will be recorded in men’s minds and the imperishable pages of history, that a class of professing Christians, in highly favoured England, in the nineteenth century, opposed with all their might the best plan ever devised, or that could be devised, for the universal spread of divine knowledge, and useful science.36
Education had always been close to Patrick’s heart, but two months later he wrote to the Leeds Mercury in defence of a new scientific discovery which clearly fascinated him. He made marginal notes on the subject in his copy of Graham’s Modern Domestic Medicine.
As was discovered, in 1847 – Sulphuric
Aware of what a difference ether could have made during his own operation of the year before, Patrick stoutly defended its use against those who spread fears about its consequences. ‘Every friend to humanity ought to cry “all hail” to such a messenger of good tidings’, he declared enthusiastically, before adding, more soberly:
Having read both sides of the question, and judging from the opinions of some of the most learned, able, and humane of the faculty, it appears to me to be evident, that as it regards the inhalation of the vapour of ether, a great, a useful, and important discovery has been made, and one that ought to be patronized by every friend to humanity.38
On 20 September, Patrick wrote to the Leeds Intelligencer on a subject about which he had always felt strongly: the promotion of pious young men within the Church. In his letter, he supported the Bishop of Ripon’s recent initiative in appointing subdeacons to assist in performing all the clerical duties except administering the sacrament, but he pointed out how essential it was to ensure that the candidates, though well educated, were not expected to have Latin and Greek like the ordained clergy. This would be raising the standards too high and defeat the object of the exercise. It was also, he argued, equally important to ensure that the subdeacons should have an adequate salary. ‘It cannot be supposed that these could properly fulfil their spiritual duties, were they to be under the necessity of carrying on some shop-keeping or mechanical employment’, he claimed, adding that well-educated parish clerks and some schoolmasters would make ideal candidates.39
On an altogether lighter note a couple of months later, Patrick wrote a poem celebrating his curate’s victory over the washerwomen of Haworth. It had long been the custom in the township to spread wet sheets and laundry out to dry over the tombstones in the churchyard. This deeply offended Arthur Bell Nicholls’ sense of propriety and, after a long struggle, he secured their eviction. Patrick was evidently greatly amused by the furore.
In Haworth, a parish of ancient renown,
Some preach in their surplice, and others their gown,
And some with due hatred of tower and steeple,
Without surplice, or gown, hold forth to the people;
And High Church, and Low Church, and No Church at all –
Would puzzle the brains of St Peter and Paul –
The Parson, an
Of late in reforming, has grown very bold,
And in his fierce zeal, as report loudly tells,
Through legal resort, has reformed the bells –
His Curate, who follows – with all due regard –
Though Foild by the Church, has reform’d the Churchyard.
Patrick’s affection for his curate was obvious in the teasing flourish at the end of the poem.
The females all routed have fled with their clothes
To stackyards, and backyards, and where noone knows,
And loudly have sworn/
They’ll wring off his head, for his warring with women.
Whilst their husbands combine & roar out in their fury,
They’ll Lynch him at once, without trial by Jury.
But saddest of all, the fair maidens declare,
While Patrick took simple pleasure in his renewed ability to read and write, Charlotte was growing increasingly discontented as her enthusiasm for her new book waned. ‘Do you ever get dissatisfied with your own temper Nell when you are long fixed to one place, in one scene subjected to one monotonous species of annoyance?’ she asked Ellen. ‘I do; I am now in that unenviable frame of mind – my humour I think is too soon overthrown – too sore – too demonstrative and vehement –’.4l The darkness of her mood was increased by Ellen’s reports from Northamptonshire, where she was mixing unhappily in the more elevated social circles of her brother Joshua, vicar of Oundle. ‘I used to say and to think in former times that you would certainly be married –’, Charlotte told Ellen,
I am not so sanguine on that point now – It will never suit you to accept a husband you cannot love or at least respect – and it appears there are many chances against your meeting with such a one under favourable circumstances – besides from all I can hear and see Money seems to be regarded as almost the Alpha and Omega of requisites in a wife –
Moving on to consider ‘Society’, Charlotte aired all the prejudices which made her portrayal of Blanche Ingram and her peers so unconvincing in Jane Eyre.
As to Society
Mrs Nussey’s neglect of Ellen provoked a further dose of Charlotte’s vitriol: ‘Is she a frog or a fish –? She is certainly a specimen of some kind of coldblooded animal –’.42
Once returned to Brookroyd at the end of January, Ellen began to pester Charlotte with invitations to stay. Perhaps even more conscious of Ellen’s social superiority after her visit to her grand relations, Charlotte refused even to consider accepting until Ellen had taken her turn in accepting the Brontës’ hospitality at Haworth: ‘it is natural and right that I should have this wish –’, she declaimed, ‘to keep friendship in proper order the balance of good offices must be preserved – otherwise a disquieting and anxious feeling creeps in and destroys mutual comfort’. The visit would have to be deferred till the summer, however, when they could ‘be more independent of the house and of one room’. This elliptical remark was Charlotte’s way of saying that her guest would be spared the necessity of Branwell’s presence if they were not confined to the dining room by the weather. Branwell, she explained, had been conducting himself very badly of late: ‘I expect from the extravagance of his behaviour and from mysterious hints he drops –
ws of fresh debts contracted by him soon –’.43
If Branwell had his secrets, his sisters also had theirs – one which they took ‘special care’ to ensure he did not discover. Elizabeth and Mary Robinson, Anne’s former pupils at Thorp Green, had suddenly recommenced their correspondence with her after a silence of six months dating back to their father’s death.44 Why they should have stopped writing and why they began again, flooding Anne with daily letters for a fortnight ‘crammed with warm protestations of endless esteem and gratitude’, is a mystery. One can only guess that perhaps Mrs Robinson had intervened, prohibiting the correspondence while there was a danger that Branwell might return to Thorp Green to make trouble and allowing it again once he had accepted that there was no hope of his becoming her husband. It is possibly relevant, too, that the family were on the point of leaving Thorp Green for Birmingham, where they were to live at Great Barr Hall with Sir Edward Scott, a distant relative, who was soon to be Mrs Robinson’s second husband.45 There was even less risk that Branwell would pursue his former lover once she was away from the familiar territory of Thorp Green. It is even possible that Mrs Robinson herself had encouraged the resumption of their contact with Anne in an effort to counteract Branwell’s side of the story. If this was her tactic then she succeeded, for the Brontës were deeply puzzled by the letters, particularly as the girls spoke with great affection of their mother and ‘never make any allusion intimating acquaintance with her errors – It is to be hoped they are and always will remain in ignorance on that point – especially since – I think – she has bitterly repented them’.46
Ellen Nussey’s long-awaited visit to Haworth had been arranged for the third week in May. Charlotte had long ago given up her prohibition on visitors while Branwell was at home since it was clear that there was no likelihood of him leaving for the foreseeable future. Nevertheless, she felt obliged to warn Ellen what to expect.
Branwell is quieter now – and for a good reason – he has got to the end of a considerable sum of money of which he became possessed in the Spring – and consequently is obliged to restrict himself in some degree – you must expect to find him weaker in mind and the complet[e] rake in appearance – I have no apprehension of his being at all uncivil to you – on the contrary he will be as smooth as oil 47
Now that Charlotte was getting her own way and the visit was arranged, she was in high glee. Ellen would take advantage of the new railway line from Bradford to Keighley, which had opened on 16 March, to travel from Birstall by train.
if you can arrive at Keighley by about 4 o’clock in the afternoon Emily, Anne & I will all three meet you at the Station – we can take tea jovially together at the Devonshire Arms and walk home in the cool of the evening – this, with fine weather will I think be a much better arrangement than fagging through four miles in the heat of noon.48
A few days later, Charlotte wrote again. ‘I do trust nothing will now arise to prevent your coming. I shall be anxious about the weather on that day; if it rains, I shall cry’. In answer to a query from the ever punctilious Ellen, Charlotte responded ‘Come in black, blue, pink, white, or scarlet, as you like. Come shabby or smart; neither the colour nor the condition signifies; provided only the dress contain Ellen Nussey, all will be right: â bientôt.’49
Having looked forward with such excitement to Ellen’s visit for so many weeks, it was a terrible blow when it was called off only the day before she was due to arrive. Ellen’s sister Ann had also received an invitation to go from home, so Ellen had to forgo her visit. Still smarting from her disappointment and resentful of what appeared to her to be a slight to her family, Charlotte wrote a stinging letter to her friend.
I can not blame you – for I know it was not your fault – but I must say I do not altogether exempt your sister Anne from reproach – I do not think she considers it of the least consequence whether little people like us of Haworth are disappointed or not, provided great nobs like the Briar Hall gentry are accommodated – this is bitter, but I feel bitter –
As to going to Brookroyd – it is absurd – I will not go near the place till you have been to Haworth –
My respects to all and sundry accompanied with a large amount of wormwood and gall – from the effusion of which you and your Mother alone are excepted –
C B
Charlotte could not quite contain her anger against Ellen herself, adding in a postscript scribbled at right angles to the rest of her page, ‘I thought I had arranged your visit tolerably comfortably for you this time – I may find it more difficult on another occasion.’50
Though Charlotte later had the grace to apologize for her sharp words, her feeling that Ellen’s visit had been cancelled because something better had been offered continued to niggle and she could not resist the occasional snide remark. Hearing that George’s fiancée, Amelia Ringrose, was proposing to stay at Brookroyd prompted a bitter rejoinder: ‘you would find her … a better household companion than me – more handy – more even-humoured, more amiable in short’ and Ann was deliberately omitted from the ‘sincere love’ and ‘best love’ that Charlotte sent her sister Mercy and Mrs Nussey.51
Branwell’s chastened mood was not entirely due to the fact that he had spent all the money Mrs Robinson had sent him in the spring. The excesses in which he had indulged had brought on ‘a fit of horror inexpressible, and violent palpitation of the heart’, which seems to indicate the onset of delirium tremens. Since then he had been obliged to take greater care of himself physically, though, as he complained to Leyland, ‘The best health will not kill acute, and not ideal, mental agony.’52
As an alternative to drink, he tried to find refuge from his misery in writing but his every effort was so coloured by his mood that, instead of taking him out of himself, writing simply reinforced his unhappiness. Like Emily and Anne, he had reverted to the imaginary world of his childhood but the obsession with his flawed hero, Northangerland, which had dominated all his Angrian writings, now returned to haunt him. With the dismal ending of all his own ambitions, Branwell could no longer summon enthusiasm for Northangerland’s machinations to achieve power; instead, it was the figure of Northangerland, defeated, debauched and disgraced, with which he identified most closely.
In searching through his old notebooks, he came across a poem he had written on 15 December 1837, on the death of Mary Percy, Northangerland’s wife. The subject had obvious affinities for Branwell. He copied the poem out, taking great care to redraft clumsily phrased lines and improve the scansion, and sent it to the Halifax Guardian. It was published on 5 June 1847, where it appeared under the title ‘The End of All’; ironically, it was to be his last work to appear in print.
In that unpitying winter’s night,
When my own wife – my Mary – died,
I, by my fire’s declining light,
Sat comfortless, and silent sighed.
While burst unchecked, grief’s bitter tide,
As I, methought, when she was gone,
Not hours, but years like this must bide,
And wake, and weep, and watch alone …
I could not bear the thoughts which rose,
Of what had been and what must be,
But still the dark night would disclose
Its sorrow-pictured prophecy:
Still saw I – miserable me,
Long – long nights else – in lonely gloom,
With time-bleached locks and trembling knee,
Walk aidless – hopeless – to my tomb.53
Rereading these lines, ten years after he had first written them, Branwell must have been startled to find himself fulfilling their uncannily prophetic vision of his own future which had then seemed so brilliant. His own life was imitating that of his creation to an extent he could not then have dreamt possible. The only glimmer of hope in the thick pall of gloom which hung over him was that, as this poem had proved, his work was still worth publishing.
The final removal of any hopes Branwell had cherished concernin
g Mrs Robinson absolutely prostrated him. He sought comfort in the oblivion of drink and abandoned all serious attempts at writing. His few remaining extant poems for the period 1847 to 1848 are simply unfinished reworkings of old material.54 Man and boy he had always been an innovator, eager to try out new forms and new ideas, his inspiration fed by his ambition to appear in print and his delight in Angria. Now his only hope of publication lay in the poems he had written as a teenager and Angria had become a morass from which he could not extricate himself.
Charlotte must have thought that she was finished as a publishable writer. Poems, which had been her brainchild, had sold only two copies and the manuscript of her novel The Professor was still doing the dreary round of the publishers’ offices. Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey had fared little better. They had been accepted for publication, but not on the terms that the sisters had wished. Emily and Anne were, in effect, to pay for their publication as a three-volume set, just as they had paid for Poems. The terms were, as Charlotte described them, ‘somewhat impoverishing to the two authors’; they were to advance fifty pounds, which would be refunded if and when their novels sold sufficient copies to cover the sum.55 It is not clear whether Thomas Cautley Newby, the publisher, had actually rejected The Professor altogether or whether Charlotte had simply refused to pay for its publication. Tenacious to the end, Charlotte prepared to send her manuscript for the seventh time to a ‘forlorn hope’, the small publishing house of Smith, Elder & Co. of 65, Cornhill, London. Having written so often, only to be rejected, she simply wrote a bald, business-like accompanying note – very different from the first one she had sent to Henry Colburn almost exactly a year before.
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