July 26, 2025 • 32 mins
Delve into the fascinating life of Charlotte Brontë, the eldest among the renowned Brontë sisters, recognized as pillars of English literature. Her most celebrated work, Jane Eyre, stands as an everlasting classic. Just two years post her demise, her close friend Elizabeth Gaskell penned down her biography. This compelling biography invites you to discover more about the extraordinary Charlotte Brontë. Please note that Volume 2 of this work is also available as a separate recording.
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Speaker 1 (00:01):
Volume one, section thirteen, of the Life of Charlotte Bronte.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. The Life of Charlotte Bronte by
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, Volume one, section thirteen, Chapter nine. The
(00:28):
year eighteen forty found all the Brontys living at home
except Anne. As I have already intimated, for some reason
with which I am unacquainted, the plan of sending Branwell
to study at the Royal Academy had been relinquished. Probably
it was found on inquiry that the expenses of such
a life were greater than his father's slender finances could afford,
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even with the help which Charlotte's labors at Miss W's
gave by providing for Anne's board and education. I gather
from what I have heard that Brownell must have been
severely disappointed when the plan fell through. His talents were
certainly very brilliant, and of this he was fully conscious
and fervently desired by their use, either in writing or drawing,
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to make himself a name. At the same time, he
would probably have found his strong love of pleasure and
to regular habits a great impediment in his path to fame.
But these blemishes in his character were only additional reasons
why he yearned after a London life, in which he
imagined he could obtain every stimulant to his already vigorous intellect,
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while at the same time he would have a license
of action to be found only in crowded cities. Thus
his whole nature was attracted towards the metropolis, and many
an hour must he have spent poring over the maps
of London. To judge from an anecdote which has been
told me, some traveler for a London house of business
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came to Haworth for a night, and, according to the
unfortunate habit of the place, the brilliant Patrick was sent
forth to the Inn to beguile the evening by his
intellectual conversation and his flashes of wit. They began to
talk of London, of the habits and ways of life there,
of the places of amusement and branwoe. Formed a Londoner
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of one or two short cuts from point to point,
up narrow lanes or back streets, and it was only
towards the end of the evening that the traveler discovered
from his companion's voluntary confession that he had never set
foot in London at all. At this time, the young
man seemed to have his fate in his own hands.
He was full of noble impulses as well as of
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extraordinary gifts, not accustomed to resist temptation, it is true,
from any higher motive than strong family affection, but showing
so much power of attachment to all about him, that
they took pleasure in believing that after a time he
would right himself, and that they should have pried and
delight in the use he would then make of his
splendid talents. His aunt as especially, made him her great favorite.
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There are always peculiar trials in the life of an
only boy in a family of girls. He is expected
to act a part in life, to do while they
are only to be, and the necessity of their giving
way to him in some things is too often exaggerated
into their giving way to him and all, and thus
rendering him utterly selfish. In the family about whom I
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am writing, while the rest were almost ascetic in their habits,
Branwell was allowed to grow up self indulgence. But in
an early youth his power of attracting and attaching people
was so great that few came in contact with him
who were not so much dazzled by him as to
be desirous of gratifying whatever wishes he expressed. Of course,
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he was careful enough not to reveal anything before his
father and sisters of the pleasures he indulged in. But
his tone of thought and conversation became gradually coarser, and
for a time his sisters tried to persuade themselves that
such coarseness was a part of manliness, and su blind
themselves by love to the fact that Branwell was worse
than other young men at present, though he had they
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were aware fallen into some errors, the exact nature of
which they avoided knowing. Still, he was their hope and
their darling, their pride, who should sometimes bring great glory
to the name of Bronte. He and his sister Charlotte
were both slight and small of stature, while the other
two were of taller and larger make. I have seen
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Brannell's profile. It is what would be generally esteemed very handsome.
The forehead is massive, the eyes well set and the
expression of it fine and intellectual. The nose too is good,
but there are some coarse lines about the mouth, and
the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and thick,
indicating self indulgence, while the slightly retreating chin conveys an
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idea of weakness of will. His hair and complexion were sandy.
He had enough of Irish blood in him to make
his manners frank and genial, with a kind of natural
gallantry about them. In a fragment of one of his
manuscripts which I have read, there is a justness and
felicity of expression which is very striking. It is the
beginning of a tale, and the actors in it are
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drawn with much of the grace of characteristic portrait painting
and perfectly pure and simple language, which distinguishes so many
of Addison's papers in the Spectator. The fragment is too
short to afford the means of judging whether he had
much dramatic talent, as the persons of the story are
not thrown into conversation, but altogether the elegance and composure
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of style are such as one would not have expected
from this vehement and ill fated young man. He had
a stronger desire for literary fame burning in his hearts
than even that which occasionally flashed up in his sisters.
He tried various outlets for his talents. He wrote and
sent poe poems to Wordsworth and Coleridge, who both expressed
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kind and laudatory opinions, and he frequently contributed verses to
the Leeds Mercury. In eighteen forty he was living at home,
employing himself in occasional composition of various kinds, and waiting
till some occupation for which he might be fitted without
any expensive course of preliminary training, should turn up. Waiting
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not impatiently, for he saw society of one kind, probably
what he called life at the Black Bull, and at
home he was yet the cherished favorite. Miss Branwell was
unaware of the fermentation of unoccupied talent going on around her.
She was not her niece's confidante. Perhaps no one so
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much older could have been. But their father, from whom
they derived not a little of their adventurous spirit, was
silently cognizant of much of which she took no note.
Next to her nephew, the docile, pensive Anne was her
favorite of her she had taken charge from her infancy.
She was always patient and tractable, and would submit quietly
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to occasional oppression, even when she felt it keenly. Not
so her two elder sisters. They made their opinions known
when roused by any injustice. At such times Emily would
express herself as strongly as Charlotte, although perhaps less frequently.
But in general, notwithstanding that Miss Branwell might be occasionally unreasonable,
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she and her nieces went on smoothly enough. And though
they might now and then be annoyed by petty tyranny,
she still inspired them with sincere respect and not a
little affection. They were moreover grateful to her for many
habits she had enforced upon them, and which in time
had become second nature. Order method, neatness in everything, of
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perfect knowledge of all kinds of household work, and exact punctuality,
and obedience to the las of time and place, of
which no one but themselves, I have heard Charlotte say,
could sell the value in after life. With their impulsive natures,
it was positive repose to have learned implicit obedience to
external laws. People in Haworth have assured me that according
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to the hour of the day, nay, the very minutes,
could they have told what the inhabitants of the parsonage
were about. At certain times the girls would be sewing
in their aunt's bedroom, the chamber which in former days
before they had outstripped her in their learning, had served
them as a schoolroom. At certain early hours they had
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their meals. From six to eight, Miss Branwell read aloud
to mister Bronte. At punctual eight the household assembled to
evening prayers in his study, and by nine he, the ants,
and Tabby were all in bed, the girls free to
pace up and down like restless wild animals in the parlor,
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talking over plans and projects and thoughts of what was
to be their future life. At the time of which
I write, the favorite idea was that of keeping a school.
They thought that by a little contrivance and a very
little additional building, a small number of pupils four or
six might be accommodated in the parsonage. As teaching seemed
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the only profession opened to them, and as it appeared
that Emily at least could not live away from home,
while the others also suffered much from the same cause.
This plan of school keeping presented itself as most desirable,
but it involved some outlay, and to this their aunt
was a verse. Yet there was no one to whom
they could apply for a loan of the requisite means,
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except Miss Branwell, who had made a small store out
of her savings, which she intended for her nephew and
nieces eventually, but which she did not like to risk. Still,
this plan of school keeping remained uppermost, and in the
evenings of this winter of eighteen thirty nine to forty,
the alterations that would be necessary in the house, and
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the best way of convincing their aunts of the wisdom
of their project, formed the principal subject of their conversation.
This anxiety weighed upon their minds rather heavily during the
months of dark and dreary weather. Nor were external events
among the circle of their friends of a cheerful character.
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In January eighteen forty, Charlotte heard of the death of
a young girl who had been a pupil of hers
and a schoolfellow of Anne's at the time when the
sisters were together at roe Head, and had attached herself
very strongly to the latter, who in return bestowed upon
her much quiet affection. It was a sad day when
the intelligence of this young creature's death arrives. Charlotte wrote thus,
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on January twelfth, eighteen forty, your letter, which I received
this morning, was one of painful interest. And see it
seems is dead. When I saw her last, she was
a young, beautiful and happy girl. And now life's fitful
fever is over with her, and she sleeps well. I
(11:12):
shall never see her again. It is a sorrowful thought,
for she was a warm hearted, affectionate being, and I
cared for her whenever I seek for her. Now in
this world she cannot be found, no more than a
flower or a leaf which withered twenty years ago. A
bereavement of this kind gives when a glimpse of the
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feeling those must have who have seen all drop around them,
friends after friends, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone.
But tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine.
During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in writing
a story. Some fragments of the manuscript yet remain, but
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it is in too small a hand to be read
without great fatigue to the eyes, and one cares the
less to read it. As she herself condemned it in
the preface to the Professor by saying that in this
story she had got over such taste as she might
once have had for the ornamental and redundant in composition.
The beginning, too, as she acknowledges, was on a scale
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commensurate with one of Richardson's novels of seven or eight volumes.
I gather some of these particulars from a copy of
a letter, apparently in reply to one from Wordsworth, to
whom she had sent the commencement of the story some
time in the summer of eighteen forty. Authors are generally
very tenacious of their productions. But I am not so
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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
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is very edifying and profitable to create a world out
of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants who
are so many melkezedeks and have no father nor mother
but your own imagination. I am sorry I did not
exist fifty or sixty years ago when the Lady's Magazine
was flourishing like a green bay tree. In that case,
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I make no doubt my aspirations after literary fame would
have met with due encouragement, and I should have had
the pleasure of introducing Missrs Percy and West into the
very 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 and
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reading them by stealth with a most exquisite pleasure. You
give a correct description of the patient grizzles of those days.
My aunt was one of them, and to this day
she thought 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
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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, and
as to my handwriting or the lady like touches in
my style and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion
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from that I may employ an amanuensis. Seriously, sir, I
am very much obliged to you for your kind and
candid letter. I almost wonder you took the trouble to
read and notice the novelette of an anonymous scribe who
had not even the manners to tell you whether he
was a man or a woman, or whether his c
(14:51):
t meant Charles Timms or Charlotte Tompkins. There are two
or three things noticeable in the letter from which these
extracts are taken. The first is the initials with which
she had evidently signed the former one, to which she
alludes about this time to her more familiar correspondence, she
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occasionally calls herself Charles Thunder, making a kind of pseudonym
for herself out of her Christian name and the meaning
of her Greek surname. In the next place, there is
a touch of assured smartness, very different from the simple, womanly,
dignified letter which she had written to southe under nearly
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similar circumstances three years before. I imagine the cause of
this difference to be twofold Southe, in his reply to
her first letter, had appealed to the higher parts of
her nature in calling her to consider whether literature was
or was not the best course for a woman to pursue.
(15:55):
But the person to whom she addressed this one had
evidently confined himself to purely literary criticisms, Beside which her
sense of humor was tickled by the perplexity which her
correspondent felt as to whether he was addressing a man
or a woman. She rather wished to encourage the former idea,
and in consequence possibly assumed something of the flippancy which
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very probably existed in her brother's style of conversation from
whom she would derive her notions of young manhood. Not likely,
as far as refinement was concerned, to be improved by
the other specimens she had seen, such as a curate
whom she afterwards represented in Surely these curates were full
of strong High Church feeling belligerent by nature. It was
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well for their professional character that they had, as clergymen
sufficient scope for the exercise of their warlike propensities. Mister Bronte,
with all his warm regard for church and state, had
a great respect for mental freedom. And though he was
the last man in the world to conceal his opinions,
he lived in perfect amity with all the respectable part
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of those who differed from him. Not so the Curates
descent was schism, and schism was condemned in the Bible.
In default of turban Sarcians, they entered on a crusade
against Methodists in Broadcloth, and the consequence was that the
Methodists and Baptist refused to pay the church rates. Miss
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Bronte thus describes the state of the things at this time.
Little Haworth has been all in a bustle about church rates.
Since you were here, we had a stirring meeting in
the school room. Papa took the chair, and mister C
and mister W acted as his supporters, one on each side.
There was violent opposition which that mister C's Irish blood
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in a ferment. And if Papa had not kept him quiet,
partly by persuasion and partly by compulsion, he would have
given the dissenters their kale through the reek, a Scottish
proverb which I'll explain to you another time. He and
mister W both bottled up their wrath for the time,
but it was only to explode with redoubled force at
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a future period. We had two sermons on descent and
its consequences preached last Sunday, one in the afternoon by
mister W, and one in the evening by mister C.
All the dissenters were invited to come and hear, and
they actually shut up their chapels and came in a body.
Of course, the church was crowded. Mister W delivered a noble,
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eloquent high church apostolical succession discourse, in which he banged
the dissenters most fearlessly and unflinchingly. I thought they had
got enough for one while, but it was nothing to
the dose that was thrust down their throats in the evening,
a keener, cleverer, bolder, and more heart stirring harangue than
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that which mister C delivered from Hawarth pulpit last Sunday evening.
I never heard. He did not rant, he did not cant,
He did not whine, he did not sniggle. He just
got up and spoke with the boldness of a man
who was impressed with the truth of what he was saying,
who has no fear of his enemies and no dread
of consequences. His sermon lasted an hour, yet I was
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sorry when it was done. I do not say that
I agree either with him or with mister W, either
in all or in half their opinions. I consider them bigoted, intolerant,
and wholly unjustifiable on the ground of common sense. My
conscience will not let me be either a Pusiite or
a hookist, mays. If I were a dissenter, I would
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have taken the first opportunity of kicking or of horsewhipping
both the gentlemen for their stern, bitter attack on my
religion and its teachers. But in spite of all this,
I admired the noble integrity which could dictate so fearless
an opposition against so strong an antagonist. P s. Mister
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W has given another lecture at the Kighly Mechanics Institution,
and Papa has also given a lecture. Both are spoken
of very highly in the newspapers, and it is mentioned
as a matter of wonder that such displays of intellect
should emanate from the village of Haworth, situated among the
bogs and mountains, and until very lately supposed to be
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in a state of semi barbarism. Such are the words
of the newspaper. To fill up the account of this
outwardly eventless year, I may add a few more extracts
from the letters entrusted to me May fifteenth, eighteen forty.
Do not be over persuaded to marry a man you
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can never respect. I do not say love, because I
think if you can respect a person before marriage, moderate
love at least will come after. And as to intense passion,
I am convinced that that is no desirable feeling. In
the first place, it seldom or never meets with the acquittal,
And in the second place, if it did, the feeling
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would be only temporary. It would last the honeymoon, and
then perhaps give place to disgust or indifference worse perhaps
than disgust. Certainly this would be the case on the
man's parts and on the woman's. God help her if
she is left to love passionately and alone. I am
tolerably well convinced that I shall never marry at all.
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Reason tells me so. And I am not so utterly
the slave of feeling, but that I can occasionally hear
her voice. June second, eighteen forty. M is not yet
come to Haworth, but she is to come on the
condition that I first go and stay a few days there.
If all be well, I shall go next Wednesday, I
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may say, at G until Friday or Saturday. In the
early part of the following week. I shall pass with
you if you will have me, which last sentence indeed
is nonsense, for as I shall be glad to see you,
so I know you will be glad to see me.
This arrangement will not allow much time, but it is
the only practical one which, considering all the circumstances I
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can affect. Do not urge me to stay more than
two or three days, because I shall be obliged to
refuse you. I intend to walk to Kylie there to
take the coach as far as B, then to get
someone to carry my box, and to walk the rest
of the way to G. If I manage this, I
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think I shall contrive very well. I shall reach B
by about five o'clock, and then I shall have the
cool of the evening for the walk. I have communicated
the whole arrangement to M. I desire exceedingly to see
both her and you goodbye. C B c B C
(22:55):
B c B. If you have any better plan to suggest,
I am open to conviction, provided your plan is practicable.
August twentieth, eighteen forty have you seen anything of Miss
H lately? I wish they or somebody else would get
me a situation. I have answered advertisements without number, but
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my applications have met with no success. I have got
another bale of French books from g containing upwards of
forty volumes. I have read about half. They are, like
the rest, clever, wicked, sophistical, and immoral. The best of
it is they give one a thorough idea of France
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and Paris, and are the best substitute for French conversation
that I have met with. I positively have nothing more
to say to you, for I am in a stupid humor.
You must excuse this letter not being quite as long
as your own. I have written to you soon that
you might not look after the postman in vain. Preserve
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this writing as a curiosity in calligraphy. I think it
is exquisite, all brilliant black blots and utterly illegible letters. Caliban,
the wind bloweth where it listeth thou hear'st the sound thereof,
but canst not tell whence it came, nor whether it
goeth that I believe is scripture, though in what chapter
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or book, or whether it be correctly quoted, I can't
possibly say. However, it behoves me to write a letter
to a young woman of the name of e with
whom I was once acquainted in life's morning march, when
my spirit was young. This young woman wished me to
write to her some time since, though I have nothing
to say, I e'en put it off day by day,
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till at last, fearing that she will curse me by
her gods, I feel constrained to sit down and tack
a few lines together, which ye may call a letter
or not, as she pleases. Know if the young woman
expects sense in this production, she will find herself miserably disappointed.
I shall dress her a dish of Salma Ginzi. I
shall cook a hash, compound a stew, toss up an omelet,
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souffle a la francia, and send it her with my respects.
The wind which is very high up in our hills
of Judea, though I suppose down in the philistine flats
of Bee Parish, it is nothing to speak of, has
produced the same effects on the contents of my knowledge
box that a quay of Usqueba does upon those of
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most other bipeds. I see everything Colaire de Rose, and
am strongly inclined to dance a jig if I knew how,
I think I must partake of the nature of a
pig or an ass, both which animals are strongly affected
by a high wind. From what quarter the wind blows
I cannot tell, for I never could in my life.
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But I should very much like to know how the
great brewing tub of Bridlington Bay works, and what sort
of yeasty froth rises just now on the waves. A
woman of the name of missus b, it seems, wants
a teacher. I wish you would have me, and I
have written miss w to tell her so verily. It
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is a delightful thing to live here at home, at
full liberty, to do just what one pleases. But I
recollect some scrubby old fable about grasshoppers and ants by
a scrubby old knave, I clept Aesop. The grasshoppers sang
all the summer and starved all the winter. A distant
relation of mine. One Patrick Branwell has set off to
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seek his fortune in the wild, wondering adventurous, romantic knight
errant like capacity of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railroad.
Leeds and Manchester. Where are they cities in the wilderness
like Tadmore, Elias, Palmyra? Are they not? There is one
little trait respecting mister w which lately came to my knowledge,
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which he gives a glimpse of the better side of
his character. Last Saturday night he had been sitting an
hour in the parlor with Papa, And as he went away,
I heard Papa say to him, what is the matter
with you? You seem in very low spirits to night? Oh,
I don't know. I've been to see a poor young
girl who I'm afraid is dying. Indeed, what is her name?
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Susan Bland, the daughter of John Bland, the superintendent. Now
Susan Bland is my oldest and best scholar in the
Sunday School. And when I heard that, I thought I
would go as soon as I could to see her.
I did go on Monday afternoon and found her on
her way to that born. Whence no traveler returns after
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sitting with her some time, I happened to ask her
mother if she thought a little port wine would do
her good. She replied that the doctor had recommended it,
and that when mister W was last there, he had
brought them a bottle of wine and jar of preserves.
She added that he was always good natured to poor folks,
and seem to have a deal of feeling and kind
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heartedness about him. No doubt there are defects in his character,
but there are also good qualities. God bless him. I
wonder who, with his advantages, would be without his faults.
I know many of his faulty actions, many of his
weaker points. Yet where I am, he shall always find
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rather a defender than an accuser. To be sure, my
opinion will go but a very little way to decide
his character. What of that people should do right as
far as their ability extends. You are not to suppose
from all this that mister W and I are on
very amiable terms. We are not at all. We are distant,
cold and reserved. We seldom speak, and when we do
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it is only to exchange the most trivial and commonplace remarks.
The misses d alluded to in this letter as in
want of a governess, entered into a correspondence with Miss Bronte,
and expressed herself much pleased with the letters she received
from her, with the style and candor of the application
in which Charlotte had taken care to tell her that
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if she wanted a showy elegance or fashionable person, her
correspondent was not fitted for such a situation. But missus
b required her governess to give instructions in music and singing,
for which Charlotte was not qualified, and accordingly the negotiation
fell through. But Miss Bronty was not one to sit
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down in despair after disappointment. Much as she disliked the
life of a private governess, it was her duty to
relieve her father of the burden of her support, and
this was the only way open to her, So she
set to advertising and inquiring with fresh vigor. In the meantime,
a little occurrence took place described in one of her letters,
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which I shall give as it shows her instinctive aversion
to a particular class of men, whose vices, somehow supposed,
she looked upon with indulgence. The extract tells all that
need be known for the purpose I have in view
of the miserable pair to whom it relates. You remember
mister and missus Blank. Missus Blank came here the other
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day with a most melancholy tale of her wretched husband's drunken, extravagant,
profligate habits. She asked Papa's advice. There was nothing, she said,
but ruined before them. They owed debts which they could
never pay. She expected mister Blank's instant dismissal from his curacy.
She knew from bitter experience that his vices were utterly hopeless.
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He treated her and her child savagely with much more
to the same effect, Papa advised her to leave him
forever and go home if she had a home to
go to. She said this was what she had long
resolved to do, and she would leave him directly. As
soon as mister b dismissed him. She expressed great disgust
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and contempt towards him, and did not affect to have
the shadow of regard in any way. I do not
wonder at this, but I do wonder she would ever
marry a man towards whom her feelings must always have
been pretty much the same as they are now. I
am morally certain no decent woman could experience anything but
aversion towards such a man as mister Blank. Before I
(31:28):
knew or suspected his character, and when I rather wondered
at his versatile talents, I felt it in an uncontrollable degree.
I hated to talk with him, hated to look at him.
Though as I was not certain that there was substantial
reason for such a dislike, and thought it absurd to
trust to mere instinct, I both concealed and repressed the
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feelings as much as I could, and on all occasions
treated him with as much civility as I was mistress of.
I was struck with Mary's expression of a similar feeling.
At first sight. She said, when we left him, that
is a hideous man, Charlotte, I thought he is indeed.
(32:09):
End of section thirteen. Recording by Katie Riley, March two
thousand nine,
Volume one, section thirteen, of the Life of Charlotte Bronte.
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the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. The Life of Charlotte Bronte by
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell, Volume one, section thirteen, Chapter nine. The
(00:28):
year eighteen forty found all the Brontys living at home
except Anne. As I have already intimated, for some reason
with which I am unacquainted, the plan of sending Branwell
to study at the Royal Academy had been relinquished. Probably
it was found on inquiry that the expenses of such
a life were greater than his father's slender finances could afford,
(00:51):
even with the help which Charlotte's labors at Miss W's
gave by providing for Anne's board and education. I gather
from what I have heard that Brownell must have been
severely disappointed when the plan fell through. His talents were
certainly very brilliant, and of this he was fully conscious
and fervently desired by their use, either in writing or drawing,
(01:13):
to make himself a name. At the same time, he
would probably have found his strong love of pleasure and
to regular habits a great impediment in his path to fame.
But these blemishes in his character were only additional reasons
why he yearned after a London life, in which he
imagined he could obtain every stimulant to his already vigorous intellect,
(01:34):
while at the same time he would have a license
of action to be found only in crowded cities. Thus
his whole nature was attracted towards the metropolis, and many
an hour must he have spent poring over the maps
of London. To judge from an anecdote which has been
told me, some traveler for a London house of business
(01:55):
came to Haworth for a night, and, according to the
unfortunate habit of the place, the brilliant Patrick was sent
forth to the Inn to beguile the evening by his
intellectual conversation and his flashes of wit. They began to
talk of London, of the habits and ways of life there,
of the places of amusement and branwoe. Formed a Londoner
(02:16):
of one or two short cuts from point to point,
up narrow lanes or back streets, and it was only
towards the end of the evening that the traveler discovered
from his companion's voluntary confession that he had never set
foot in London at all. At this time, the young
man seemed to have his fate in his own hands.
He was full of noble impulses as well as of
(02:38):
extraordinary gifts, not accustomed to resist temptation, it is true,
from any higher motive than strong family affection, but showing
so much power of attachment to all about him, that
they took pleasure in believing that after a time he
would right himself, and that they should have pried and
delight in the use he would then make of his
splendid talents. His aunt as especially, made him her great favorite.
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There are always peculiar trials in the life of an
only boy in a family of girls. He is expected
to act a part in life, to do while they
are only to be, and the necessity of their giving
way to him in some things is too often exaggerated
into their giving way to him and all, and thus
rendering him utterly selfish. In the family about whom I
(03:25):
am writing, while the rest were almost ascetic in their habits,
Branwell was allowed to grow up self indulgence. But in
an early youth his power of attracting and attaching people
was so great that few came in contact with him
who were not so much dazzled by him as to
be desirous of gratifying whatever wishes he expressed. Of course,
(03:46):
he was careful enough not to reveal anything before his
father and sisters of the pleasures he indulged in. But
his tone of thought and conversation became gradually coarser, and
for a time his sisters tried to persuade themselves that
such coarseness was a part of manliness, and su blind
themselves by love to the fact that Branwell was worse
than other young men at present, though he had they
(04:10):
were aware fallen into some errors, the exact nature of
which they avoided knowing. Still, he was their hope and
their darling, their pride, who should sometimes bring great glory
to the name of Bronte. He and his sister Charlotte
were both slight and small of stature, while the other
two were of taller and larger make. I have seen
(04:32):
Brannell's profile. It is what would be generally esteemed very handsome.
The forehead is massive, the eyes well set and the
expression of it fine and intellectual. The nose too is good,
but there are some coarse lines about the mouth, and
the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and thick,
indicating self indulgence, while the slightly retreating chin conveys an
(04:56):
idea of weakness of will. His hair and complexion were sandy.
He had enough of Irish blood in him to make
his manners frank and genial, with a kind of natural
gallantry about them. In a fragment of one of his
manuscripts which I have read, there is a justness and
felicity of expression which is very striking. It is the
beginning of a tale, and the actors in it are
(05:18):
drawn with much of the grace of characteristic portrait painting
and perfectly pure and simple language, which distinguishes so many
of Addison's papers in the Spectator. The fragment is too
short to afford the means of judging whether he had
much dramatic talent, as the persons of the story are
not thrown into conversation, but altogether the elegance and composure
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of style are such as one would not have expected
from this vehement and ill fated young man. He had
a stronger desire for literary fame burning in his hearts
than even that which occasionally flashed up in his sisters.
He tried various outlets for his talents. He wrote and
sent poe poems to Wordsworth and Coleridge, who both expressed
(06:03):
kind and laudatory opinions, and he frequently contributed verses to
the Leeds Mercury. In eighteen forty he was living at home,
employing himself in occasional composition of various kinds, and waiting
till some occupation for which he might be fitted without
any expensive course of preliminary training, should turn up. Waiting
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not impatiently, for he saw society of one kind, probably
what he called life at the Black Bull, and at
home he was yet the cherished favorite. Miss Branwell was
unaware of the fermentation of unoccupied talent going on around her.
She was not her niece's confidante. Perhaps no one so
(06:45):
much older could have been. But their father, from whom
they derived not a little of their adventurous spirit, was
silently cognizant of much of which she took no note.
Next to her nephew, the docile, pensive Anne was her
favorite of her she had taken charge from her infancy.
She was always patient and tractable, and would submit quietly
(07:08):
to occasional oppression, even when she felt it keenly. Not
so her two elder sisters. They made their opinions known
when roused by any injustice. At such times Emily would
express herself as strongly as Charlotte, although perhaps less frequently.
But in general, notwithstanding that Miss Branwell might be occasionally unreasonable,
(07:31):
she and her nieces went on smoothly enough. And though
they might now and then be annoyed by petty tyranny,
she still inspired them with sincere respect and not a
little affection. They were moreover grateful to her for many
habits she had enforced upon them, and which in time
had become second nature. Order method, neatness in everything, of
(07:54):
perfect knowledge of all kinds of household work, and exact punctuality,
and obedience to the las of time and place, of
which no one but themselves, I have heard Charlotte say,
could sell the value in after life. With their impulsive natures,
it was positive repose to have learned implicit obedience to
external laws. People in Haworth have assured me that according
(08:17):
to the hour of the day, nay, the very minutes,
could they have told what the inhabitants of the parsonage
were about. At certain times the girls would be sewing
in their aunt's bedroom, the chamber which in former days
before they had outstripped her in their learning, had served
them as a schoolroom. At certain early hours they had
(08:37):
their meals. From six to eight, Miss Branwell read aloud
to mister Bronte. At punctual eight the household assembled to
evening prayers in his study, and by nine he, the ants,
and Tabby were all in bed, the girls free to
pace up and down like restless wild animals in the parlor,
(08:58):
talking over plans and projects and thoughts of what was
to be their future life. At the time of which
I write, the favorite idea was that of keeping a school.
They thought that by a little contrivance and a very
little additional building, a small number of pupils four or
six might be accommodated in the parsonage. As teaching seemed
(09:21):
the only profession opened to them, and as it appeared
that Emily at least could not live away from home,
while the others also suffered much from the same cause.
This plan of school keeping presented itself as most desirable,
but it involved some outlay, and to this their aunt
was a verse. Yet there was no one to whom
they could apply for a loan of the requisite means,
(09:44):
except Miss Branwell, who had made a small store out
of her savings, which she intended for her nephew and
nieces eventually, but which she did not like to risk. Still,
this plan of school keeping remained uppermost, and in the
evenings of this winter of eighteen thirty nine to forty,
the alterations that would be necessary in the house, and
(10:04):
the best way of convincing their aunts of the wisdom
of their project, formed the principal subject of their conversation.
This anxiety weighed upon their minds rather heavily during the
months of dark and dreary weather. Nor were external events
among the circle of their friends of a cheerful character.
(10:24):
In January eighteen forty, Charlotte heard of the death of
a young girl who had been a pupil of hers
and a schoolfellow of Anne's at the time when the
sisters were together at roe Head, and had attached herself
very strongly to the latter, who in return bestowed upon
her much quiet affection. It was a sad day when
the intelligence of this young creature's death arrives. Charlotte wrote thus,
(10:49):
on January twelfth, eighteen forty, your letter, which I received
this morning, was one of painful interest. And see it
seems is dead. When I saw her last, she was
a young, beautiful and happy girl. And now life's fitful
fever is over with her, and she sleeps well. I
(11:12):
shall never see her again. It is a sorrowful thought,
for she was a warm hearted, affectionate being, and I
cared for her whenever I seek for her. Now in
this world she cannot be found, no more than a
flower or a leaf which withered twenty years ago. A
bereavement of this kind gives when a glimpse of the
(11:33):
feeling those must have who have seen all drop around them,
friends after friends, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone.
But tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine.
During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in writing
a story. Some fragments of the manuscript yet remain, but
(11:56):
it is in too small a hand to be read
without great fatigue to the eyes, and one cares the
less to read it. As she herself condemned it in
the preface to the Professor by saying that in this
story she had got over such taste as she might
once have had for the ornamental and redundant in composition.
The beginning, too, as she acknowledges, was on a scale
(12:19):
commensurate with one of Richardson's novels of seven or eight volumes.
I gather some of these particulars from a copy of
a letter, apparently in reply to one from Wordsworth, to
whom she had sent the commencement of the story some
time in the summer of eighteen forty. Authors are generally
very tenacious of their productions. But I am not so
(12:42):
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
(13:03):
is very edifying and profitable to create a world out
of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants who
are so many melkezedeks and have no father nor mother
but your own imagination. I am sorry I did not
exist fifty or sixty years ago when the Lady's Magazine
was flourishing like a green bay tree. In that case,
(13:25):
I make no doubt my aspirations after literary fame would
have met with due encouragement, and I should have had
the pleasure of introducing Missrs Percy and West into the
very 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 and
(13:48):
reading them by stealth with a most exquisite pleasure. You
give a correct description of the patient grizzles of those days.
My aunt was one of them, and to this day
she thought 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
(14:10):
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, and
as to my handwriting or the lady like touches in
my style and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion
(14:30):
from that I may employ an amanuensis. Seriously, sir, I
am very much obliged to you for your kind and
candid letter. I almost wonder you took the trouble to
read and notice the novelette of an anonymous scribe who
had not even the manners to tell you whether he
was a man or a woman, or whether his c
(14:51):
t meant Charles Timms or Charlotte Tompkins. There are two
or three things noticeable in the letter from which these
extracts are taken. The first is the initials with which
she had evidently signed the former one, to which she
alludes about this time to her more familiar correspondence, she
(15:13):
occasionally calls herself Charles Thunder, making a kind of pseudonym
for herself out of her Christian name and the meaning
of her Greek surname. In the next place, there is
a touch of assured smartness, very different from the simple, womanly,
dignified letter which she had written to southe under nearly
(15:33):
similar circumstances three years before. I imagine the cause of
this difference to be twofold Southe, in his reply to
her first letter, had appealed to the higher parts of
her nature in calling her to consider whether literature was
or was not the best course for a woman to pursue.
(15:55):
But the person to whom she addressed this one had
evidently confined himself to purely literary criticisms, Beside which her
sense of humor was tickled by the perplexity which her
correspondent felt as to whether he was addressing a man
or a woman. She rather wished to encourage the former idea,
and in consequence possibly assumed something of the flippancy which
(16:19):
very probably existed in her brother's style of conversation from
whom she would derive her notions of young manhood. Not likely,
as far as refinement was concerned, to be improved by
the other specimens she had seen, such as a curate
whom she afterwards represented in Surely these curates were full
of strong High Church feeling belligerent by nature. It was
(16:43):
well for their professional character that they had, as clergymen
sufficient scope for the exercise of their warlike propensities. Mister Bronte,
with all his warm regard for church and state, had
a great respect for mental freedom. And though he was
the last man in the world to conceal his opinions,
he lived in perfect amity with all the respectable part
(17:06):
of those who differed from him. Not so the Curates
descent was schism, and schism was condemned in the Bible.
In default of turban Sarcians, they entered on a crusade
against Methodists in Broadcloth, and the consequence was that the
Methodists and Baptist refused to pay the church rates. Miss
(17:27):
Bronte thus describes the state of the things at this time.
Little Haworth has been all in a bustle about church rates.
Since you were here, we had a stirring meeting in
the school room. Papa took the chair, and mister C
and mister W acted as his supporters, one on each side.
There was violent opposition which that mister C's Irish blood
(17:49):
in a ferment. And if Papa had not kept him quiet,
partly by persuasion and partly by compulsion, he would have
given the dissenters their kale through the reek, a Scottish
proverb which I'll explain to you another time. He and
mister W both bottled up their wrath for the time,
but it was only to explode with redoubled force at
(18:11):
a future period. We had two sermons on descent and
its consequences preached last Sunday, one in the afternoon by
mister W, and one in the evening by mister C.
All the dissenters were invited to come and hear, and
they actually shut up their chapels and came in a body.
Of course, the church was crowded. Mister W delivered a noble,
(18:34):
eloquent high church apostolical succession discourse, in which he banged
the dissenters most fearlessly and unflinchingly. I thought they had
got enough for one while, but it was nothing to
the dose that was thrust down their throats in the evening,
a keener, cleverer, bolder, and more heart stirring harangue than
(18:55):
that which mister C delivered from Hawarth pulpit last Sunday evening.
I never heard. He did not rant, he did not cant,
He did not whine, he did not sniggle. He just
got up and spoke with the boldness of a man
who was impressed with the truth of what he was saying,
who has no fear of his enemies and no dread
of consequences. His sermon lasted an hour, yet I was
(19:18):
sorry when it was done. I do not say that
I agree either with him or with mister W, either
in all or in half their opinions. I consider them bigoted, intolerant,
and wholly unjustifiable on the ground of common sense. My
conscience will not let me be either a Pusiite or
a hookist, mays. If I were a dissenter, I would
(19:40):
have taken the first opportunity of kicking or of horsewhipping
both the gentlemen for their stern, bitter attack on my
religion and its teachers. But in spite of all this,
I admired the noble integrity which could dictate so fearless
an opposition against so strong an antagonist. P s. Mister
(20:01):
W has given another lecture at the Kighly Mechanics Institution,
and Papa has also given a lecture. Both are spoken
of very highly in the newspapers, and it is mentioned
as a matter of wonder that such displays of intellect
should emanate from the village of Haworth, situated among the
bogs and mountains, and until very lately supposed to be
(20:22):
in a state of semi barbarism. Such are the words
of the newspaper. To fill up the account of this
outwardly eventless year, I may add a few more extracts
from the letters entrusted to me May fifteenth, eighteen forty.
Do not be over persuaded to marry a man you
(20:42):
can never respect. I do not say love, because I
think if you can respect a person before marriage, moderate
love at least will come after. And as to intense passion,
I am convinced that that is no desirable feeling. In
the first place, it seldom or never meets with the acquittal,
And in the second place, if it did, the feeling
(21:03):
would be only temporary. It would last the honeymoon, and
then perhaps give place to disgust or indifference worse perhaps
than disgust. Certainly this would be the case on the
man's parts and on the woman's. God help her if
she is left to love passionately and alone. I am
tolerably well convinced that I shall never marry at all.
(21:27):
Reason tells me so. And I am not so utterly
the slave of feeling, but that I can occasionally hear
her voice. June second, eighteen forty. M is not yet
come to Haworth, but she is to come on the
condition that I first go and stay a few days there.
If all be well, I shall go next Wednesday, I
(21:51):
may say, at G until Friday or Saturday. In the
early part of the following week. I shall pass with
you if you will have me, which last sentence indeed
is nonsense, for as I shall be glad to see you,
so I know you will be glad to see me.
This arrangement will not allow much time, but it is
the only practical one which, considering all the circumstances I
(22:14):
can affect. Do not urge me to stay more than
two or three days, because I shall be obliged to
refuse you. I intend to walk to Kylie there to
take the coach as far as B, then to get
someone to carry my box, and to walk the rest
of the way to G. If I manage this, I
(22:34):
think I shall contrive very well. I shall reach B
by about five o'clock, and then I shall have the
cool of the evening for the walk. I have communicated
the whole arrangement to M. I desire exceedingly to see
both her and you goodbye. C B c B C
(22:55):
B c B. If you have any better plan to suggest,
I am open to conviction, provided your plan is practicable.
August twentieth, eighteen forty have you seen anything of Miss
H lately? I wish they or somebody else would get
me a situation. I have answered advertisements without number, but
(23:19):
my applications have met with no success. I have got
another bale of French books from g containing upwards of
forty volumes. I have read about half. They are, like
the rest, clever, wicked, sophistical, and immoral. The best of
it is they give one a thorough idea of France
(23:40):
and Paris, and are the best substitute for French conversation
that I have met with. I positively have nothing more
to say to you, for I am in a stupid humor.
You must excuse this letter not being quite as long
as your own. I have written to you soon that
you might not look after the postman in vain. Preserve
(24:01):
this writing as a curiosity in calligraphy. I think it
is exquisite, all brilliant black blots and utterly illegible letters. Caliban,
the wind bloweth where it listeth thou hear'st the sound thereof,
but canst not tell whence it came, nor whether it
goeth that I believe is scripture, though in what chapter
(24:23):
or book, or whether it be correctly quoted, I can't
possibly say. However, it behoves me to write a letter
to a young woman of the name of e with
whom I was once acquainted in life's morning march, when
my spirit was young. This young woman wished me to
write to her some time since, though I have nothing
to say, I e'en put it off day by day,
(24:46):
till at last, fearing that she will curse me by
her gods, I feel constrained to sit down and tack
a few lines together, which ye may call a letter
or not, as she pleases. Know if the young woman
expects sense in this production, she will find herself miserably disappointed.
I shall dress her a dish of Salma Ginzi. I
shall cook a hash, compound a stew, toss up an omelet,
(25:10):
souffle a la francia, and send it her with my respects.
The wind which is very high up in our hills
of Judea, though I suppose down in the philistine flats
of Bee Parish, it is nothing to speak of, has
produced the same effects on the contents of my knowledge
box that a quay of Usqueba does upon those of
(25:31):
most other bipeds. I see everything Colaire de Rose, and
am strongly inclined to dance a jig if I knew how,
I think I must partake of the nature of a
pig or an ass, both which animals are strongly affected
by a high wind. From what quarter the wind blows
I cannot tell, for I never could in my life.
(25:52):
But I should very much like to know how the
great brewing tub of Bridlington Bay works, and what sort
of yeasty froth rises just now on the waves. A
woman of the name of missus b, it seems, wants
a teacher. I wish you would have me, and I
have written miss w to tell her so verily. It
(26:14):
is a delightful thing to live here at home, at
full liberty, to do just what one pleases. But I
recollect some scrubby old fable about grasshoppers and ants by
a scrubby old knave, I clept Aesop. The grasshoppers sang
all the summer and starved all the winter. A distant
relation of mine. One Patrick Branwell has set off to
(26:37):
seek his fortune in the wild, wondering adventurous, romantic knight
errant like capacity of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railroad.
Leeds and Manchester. Where are they cities in the wilderness
like Tadmore, Elias, Palmyra? Are they not? There is one
little trait respecting mister w which lately came to my knowledge,
(26:59):
which he gives a glimpse of the better side of
his character. Last Saturday night he had been sitting an
hour in the parlor with Papa, And as he went away,
I heard Papa say to him, what is the matter
with you? You seem in very low spirits to night? Oh,
I don't know. I've been to see a poor young
girl who I'm afraid is dying. Indeed, what is her name?
(27:25):
Susan Bland, the daughter of John Bland, the superintendent. Now
Susan Bland is my oldest and best scholar in the
Sunday School. And when I heard that, I thought I
would go as soon as I could to see her.
I did go on Monday afternoon and found her on
her way to that born. Whence no traveler returns after
(27:48):
sitting with her some time, I happened to ask her
mother if she thought a little port wine would do
her good. She replied that the doctor had recommended it,
and that when mister W was last there, he had
brought them a bottle of wine and jar of preserves.
She added that he was always good natured to poor folks,
and seem to have a deal of feeling and kind
(28:10):
heartedness about him. No doubt there are defects in his character,
but there are also good qualities. God bless him. I
wonder who, with his advantages, would be without his faults.
I know many of his faulty actions, many of his
weaker points. Yet where I am, he shall always find
(28:30):
rather a defender than an accuser. To be sure, my
opinion will go but a very little way to decide
his character. What of that people should do right as
far as their ability extends. You are not to suppose
from all this that mister W and I are on
very amiable terms. We are not at all. We are distant,
cold and reserved. We seldom speak, and when we do
(28:54):
it is only to exchange the most trivial and commonplace remarks.
The misses d alluded to in this letter as in
want of a governess, entered into a correspondence with Miss Bronte,
and expressed herself much pleased with the letters she received
from her, with the style and candor of the application
in which Charlotte had taken care to tell her that
(29:16):
if she wanted a showy elegance or fashionable person, her
correspondent was not fitted for such a situation. But missus
b required her governess to give instructions in music and singing,
for which Charlotte was not qualified, and accordingly the negotiation
fell through. But Miss Bronty was not one to sit
(29:36):
down in despair after disappointment. Much as she disliked the
life of a private governess, it was her duty to
relieve her father of the burden of her support, and
this was the only way open to her, So she
set to advertising and inquiring with fresh vigor. In the meantime,
a little occurrence took place described in one of her letters,
(29:58):
which I shall give as it shows her instinctive aversion
to a particular class of men, whose vices, somehow supposed,
she looked upon with indulgence. The extract tells all that
need be known for the purpose I have in view
of the miserable pair to whom it relates. You remember
mister and missus Blank. Missus Blank came here the other
(30:21):
day with a most melancholy tale of her wretched husband's drunken, extravagant,
profligate habits. She asked Papa's advice. There was nothing, she said,
but ruined before them. They owed debts which they could
never pay. She expected mister Blank's instant dismissal from his curacy.
She knew from bitter experience that his vices were utterly hopeless.
(30:45):
He treated her and her child savagely with much more
to the same effect, Papa advised her to leave him
forever and go home if she had a home to
go to. She said this was what she had long
resolved to do, and she would leave him directly. As
soon as mister b dismissed him. She expressed great disgust
(31:06):
and contempt towards him, and did not affect to have
the shadow of regard in any way. I do not
wonder at this, but I do wonder she would ever
marry a man towards whom her feelings must always have
been pretty much the same as they are now. I
am morally certain no decent woman could experience anything but
aversion towards such a man as mister Blank. Before I
(31:28):
knew or suspected his character, and when I rather wondered
at his versatile talents, I felt it in an uncontrollable degree.
I hated to talk with him, hated to look at him.
Though as I was not certain that there was substantial
reason for such a dislike, and thought it absurd to
trust to mere instinct, I both concealed and repressed the
(31:48):
feelings as much as I could, and on all occasions
treated him with as much civility as I was mistress of.
I was struck with Mary's expression of a similar feeling.
At first sight. She said, when we left him, that
is a hideous man, Charlotte, I thought he is indeed.
(32:09):
End of section thirteen. Recording by Katie Riley, March two
thousand nine,
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My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder is a true crime comedy podcast hosted by Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark. Each week, Karen and Georgia share compelling true crimes and hometown stories from friends and listeners. Since MFM launched in January of 2016, Karen and Georgia have shared their lifelong interest in true crime and have covered stories of infamous serial killers like the Night Stalker, mysterious cold cases, captivating cults, incredible survivor stories and important events from history like the Tulsa race massacre of 1921. My Favorite Murder is part of the Exactly Right podcast network that provides a platform for bold, creative voices to bring to life provocative, entertaining and relatable stories for audiences everywhere. The Exactly Right roster of podcasts covers a variety of topics including historic true crime, comedic interviews and news, science, pop culture and more. Podcasts on the network include Buried Bones with Kate Winkler Dawson and Paul Holes, That's Messed Up: An SVU Podcast, This Podcast Will Kill You, Bananas and more.
The Joe Rogan Experience
The official podcast of comedian Joe Rogan.