Chapter 1 of the Life of Charlotte Bronte, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marie Magnus. The Life of Charlotte Bronte, Volume 1. By Elizabeth Gaskell. Chapter 1. The Leeds and Bradford Railway runs along a deep valley of the air. A slow and sluggish stream compared to the neighboring river of Worf. Keithley Station is on this line of railway, about a quarter of a mile from the town of the same name. The number of inhabitants and the importance of Keithley have been very greatly increased during the last 20 years, owing to the rapidly extended market for worsted manufacturers. A branch of industry that mainly employs the factory population of this part of Yorkshire, which has Bradford for its Sondra and Metropolis. Keithley is in the process of transformation from my populous, old-fashioned village into a still more populous and flourishing town. It is evident to the stranger that as the gable ended houses, which obtrude themselves corner-wise on the winding street, fall vacant, they are pulled down to allow a greater space for traffic and a more modern style of architecture. The quaint and narrow shop windows of 50 years ago are giving way to large panes and plate glass. Nearly every dwelling seems devoted to some branch of commerce. And passing hastily through the town, one hardly perceives where the necessary lawyer and doctor can live. So little appearance is there of any dwellings of the professional middle class, such as abound in our old cathedral towns. In fact, nothing can be more opposed than the state of society, the modes of thinking, the standards of reference on all points of morality, manners, and even politics and religion in such a new manufacturing place as Keithley in the north and any stately, sleepy, picturesque cathedral town in the south. Yet the aspect of Keithley promises well for future stateliness, if not picturesqueness. Grey stone abounds and the rows of houses built of it have a kind of solid grandeur connected with their uniform and enduring lawns, the framework of the doors and the lentils of the windows, even in the smallest dwellings, are made of blocks of stone. There is no painted wood to require continual beautifying or else present a shabby aspect. And the stone is kept scrupulously clean by the notable Yorkshire housewives. Such glimpses into the interior as a passer-by obtains reveal a rough abundance of the means of living and diligent and active habits in the women. But the voices of the people are hard and their tones discordant, promising little of the musical taste that distinguishes the district and which has already furnished a carotis to the musical world. The names of the shops of which the one just given is an example seem strange even to inhabitant of the neighboring county and have a peculiar smack and flavor of the place. The town of Keithley never quite melts into country on the road to Highworth. Although the houses become more sparse as the traveler journeys upwards to the grey round hills, the seem to bound his journey in a westerly direction. First comes some villas, just sufficiently retired from the road to show that they can scarcely belong to anyone liable to be summoned in a hurry. At the call of suffering or danger from his comfortable fireside. The lawyer, the doctor and the clergyman live at hand and hardly in the suburbs with a screen of shrubs for concealment. In a town one does not look for vivid coloring where there may be of this is furnished by the wares in the shops not by foliage or atmospheric effects. But in the country some brilliancy and vividness seems to be instinctively expected and there is consequently a slight feeling of disappointment at the grey neutral tent of every object near or far off on the way from Keithley to Howard. The distance is about four miles and as I have said what with the villas, great worsted factories rows of workmen's houses with here and there an old fashioned farmhouse and outbuildings it can hardly be called country any part of the way. For two miles the road passes over tolerably level ground distant hills on the left a beck flowing through meadows on the right and furnishing water power at certain points to the factories built on its banks. The air is dim and lightless with the smoke from all these habitations and places of business. The sole in the valley or bottom to use the local term is rich but as the road begins to ascend the vegetation becomes poorer. It does not flourish it merely exists and instead of trees there are only bushes and shrubs about the dwellings. Stone dykes are everywhere used in place of hedges and what crops there are on the patches of arable land consistent pale hungry looking grey green oats. Right before the traveler on this road rises Howard's village he can see it for two miles before he arrives for it is situated on the side of a pretty steep hill with a background of dun and purple moors rising and sweeping away yet higher than the church which is built at the very summit of the long narrow street. All around the horizon there is the same line of sinuous wave like hills the scoops into which they fall only reveal other hills beyond of similar color and shape crowned with wild bleak moors grand from the ideas of solitude and loneliness which they suggest or oppressive from the feeling which they give of being pent up by some monotonous and illimitable barrier according to the mood of mind in which a spectator may be for a short distance the road appears to turn away from Howard as it winds around the base of the shoulder of a hill but then it crosses a bridge over the back and the ascent through the village begins the flagstones with which it is paved are placed end ways in order to give a better hold to the horses feet and even with this help they seem to be in constant danger of sleeping backwards the old stone houses are high compared to the width of the street which makes an abrupt turn before reaching the more level ground at the head of the village so that the steep aspect of the place in one part is almost like that of a wall but this surmounted the church lies a little off the main road on the left a hundred yards or so and the driver relaxes his care and the horse breeze more easily as they pass into the quiet little by street that leads to Howard's parsonage the church yard is on one side of the sling the schoolhouse and the sex since dwelling where the curates formerly lodged are on the other the parsonage stands at right angles to the road facing down upon the church so that in fact parsonage church and bale freed schoolhouse form three sides of an irregular oblong of which the fourth is open to the fields and moors that lie beyond the area of this oblong is filled up by a crowded church yard and a small garden or court in front of the clergyman's house as the entrance to this from the road is at the side the path goes around the corner into the little plot of ground underneath the window is a narrow flower border carefully tended in days of yore although only the most hardy plants could be made to grow there within the stone wall which keeps out the surrounding church yard are bishops of elder and lilac the rest of the ground is occupied by a square grass plot and a gravel walk the house is of grey stone two stories high heavily roofed with flags in order to resist the winds that might strip off a lighter covering it appears to have been built about a hundred years ago and to consist of four rooms on each story the two windows on the right as the visitor stands with his back to the church as we enter in at the front door belonging to Mr. Bronte's study the two on the left to the family's sitting room everything about the place tells of the most dainty order the most exquisite cleanliness the door steps are spotless the small old fashioned window panes glitter like looking glass inside and outside of that house cleanliness goes up into its essence the church lies as I have mentioned above most of the houses in the village and the graveyard rises above the church and it's terribly full of upright tombstones the chapel or church claims greater antiquity than any other in that part of the kingdom but there's no appearance of this in the external aspect of the present edifice unless it be in the two eastern windows which remain unmodernized and in the lower part of the steeple inside the character of the pillars shows that they were constructed before the reign of Henry VII it is probable that there existed on this ground a field Kirk or Oratory in the earliest times and from the Archbishop's Registry at York it is ascertained that there was a chapel at Howarth in 1317 the inhabitants refer inquiries concerning the date to the following inscription on a stone in the church tower that is to say before the preaching of Christianity in Northumbria Whitaker says this mistake originated in the illiterate copying out by some modern stonecutter of an inscription in the character of Henry VIII's time on an adjoining stone wrought pro bono statue you test taught now every antiquary knows that the formula of prayer bono statue always refers to the living I suspect this singular Christian name has been mistaken by the stonecutter for O state a contraction of Eustatius the word Todd which has been misread for the Arabic figures 600 is perfectly fair and legible on the presumption of this foolish claim to antiquity the people would need set up for independence and contest the right of the vicar of Bradford to nominate a curate at Howarth I have given this extract in order to explain the imaginary groundwork of a commotion which took place in Howarth about 5 years ago to which I shall have occasion to elude again more particularly the interior of the church is commonplace it is neither old enough nor modern enough to compel notice the pews are of black oak with high divisions and the names of those to whom they belong are painted in white letters on the doors there are neither brasses nor altitudes nor monuments but there is a memorial tablet on the inside of the communion table bearing the following inscription here lie the remains of Mariah Bronte wife of the Reverend P. Bronte A. B. Minister of Howarth her soul departed to the savior September 15th 1821 in the 39th year of her age B. also ready for in such an hour as you think not a son of man cometh Matthew 24 verse 44 also here lie the remains of Mariah Bronte daughter of the aforesaid she died on the 6th of May 1825 in the 12th year of her age and of Elizabeth Bronte her sister who died June 15th 1825 in the 11th year of her age Fairly I say unto you accept ye be converted and become as little children ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven Matthew 18 verse 3 here also lie the remains of Patrick Branwell Bronte who died September 24th 1848 aged 30 years and of Emily Jane Bronte who died December 19th 1848 aged 29 years son and daughter of the Reverend P. Bronte incumbent this stone is also dedicated to the memory of Anne Bronte youngest daughter of the Reverend P. Bronte A.B. she died aged 27 years May 28th 1849 at the upper part of this tablet ample space is allowed between the lines of the inscription when the first memorials were written down the survivors in their fond affection thought little of the margin and verge they were living for those who were still living but as one dead member of the household follows another fast to the grave the lines are pressed together and the letters become small after the record of Anne's death there is room for no other but one more of that generation the last of that nursery of six little motherless children was yet to follow before the survivor the childless and widowed father found his rest on another tablet below the first the following record has been added to that mournful list adjoining lie the remains of Charlotte wife of the reverend Arthur Bell Nichols A.B. and daughter of the reverend P. Bronte A.B. incumbent she died March 31st 1855 in the 39th year of her age end of chapter one of the life of Charlotte Bronte recording by Marie Mayness www.thebronte soul www.thebronte soul www.whetpaint.com CHAPTER II For a right understanding of the life of my dear friend, Charlotte Bronte, it appears to me more necessary in her case than in most others that the reader should be made acquainted with the peculiar forms of population and society amidst which her earliest years were passed, and from which both her own and her sister's first impressions on human life must have been received. I shall endeavor, therefore, before proceeding further with my work to present some idea of the character of the people of Howardth, and the surrounding districts. Even an inhabitant of the neighboring county of Lancaster is struck by the peculiar force of character which the Yorkshire men display. This makes them interesting as a race, while, at the same time, as individuals, the remarkable degree of self-sufficiency they possess gives them an air of independence, rather apt to repel a stranger. I use this expression self-sufficiency in the largest sense, conscious of the strong sagacity and the dogged power of will which seem almost the birthright of the natives of the West Riding, each man relies upon himself, and seeks no help at the hands of his neighbor. From rarely requiring the assistance of others, he comes to doubt the power of bestowing it. From the general success of his efforts, he grows to depend upon them, and to overseen his own energy and power. He belongs to that keen yet short-sighted class who considers suspicion of all whose honesty is not proved as a sign of wisdom. The practical qualities of a man are held in great respect, but the one of faith in strangers and untried modes of action extends itself even to the manner in which the virtues are regarded. And if they produce no immediate and tangible results, they are rather put aside as unfit for this busy, striving world, especially if they are more of a passive than an active character. The affections are strong and their foundations lie deep, but they are not, such affections seldom are, widespreading, nor do they show themselves on the surface. Indeed there is little display of any of the amenities of life among this wild, rough population. Their cost is curt, their accent, and tone of speech blunt and harsh. Something of this may, probably, be attributed to the freedom of mountain air and of isolated hillside life. Something be derived from their rough Norse ancestry. They have a quick perception of character and a keen sense of humor. The dwellers among them must be prepared for certain uncomplimentary, though most likely true, observations, pithily expressed. Their feelings are not easily roused, but their duration is lasting. Hence there is much close friendship and faithful service, and for a correct exemplification of the form in which the latter frequently appears I need only refer the reader of Wuthering Heights to the character of Joseph. From the same cause come also enduring grudges, in some cases amounting to hatred which occasionally has been bequeathed from generation to generation. I remember Miss Bronte once telling me that it was a saying round about Howarth, keep a stone in thy pocket seven year, turn it, and keep it seven years longer, that it may be ever ready to thine hands when thine enemy draws near. The west-riding men are sleuth-hounds in pursuit of money. Miss Bronte related to my husband a curious instance illustrated of this eager desire for riches. A man that she knew, who was a small manufacturer, had engaged in many local speculations which had always turned out well, and thereby rendered him a person of some wealth. He was rather past middle age when he be-thought himself of ensuring his life, and he had only just taken out his policy when he fell ill of an acute disease, which was certain to end fatally in a very few days. The doctor, half hesitatingly, revealed to him his hopeless state. By Jingo cried he, rousing up at once, into the old energy, I shall do the insurance company. I always was a lucky fellow. These men are keen and shrewd, faithful and persevering in following out a good purpose, fell in tracking an evil one. They are not emotional, they are not easily made into either friends or enemies, but once lovers or haters it is difficult to change their feeling. They are a powerful race both in mind and body, both for good and for evil. The woolen manufacturer was introduced into this district in the days of Edward III. It is traditionally said that a colony of flimmings came over and settled in the West Riding to teach the inhabitants what to do with their wool. In the mixture of agricultural with manufacturing labor that ensued and prevailed in the West Riding up to a very recent period sounds pleasant enough at this distance of time when the classical impression is left and the details forgotten or only brought to light by those who explore the few remote parts of England where the customs still lingers. The idea of the mistress and her maidens spinning at the great wheels while the master was abroad plowing his fields or seeing after his flocks on the purple moors is very poetical to look back upon. But when such life actually touches on our own days and we can hear particulars from the lips of those now living there come out details of coarseness, of the uncouthness of the rustic mingled with the sharpness of the tradesmen. Of irregularity and fierce lawlessness that rather mar the vision of pastoral innocence and simplicity. Still, as it is the exceptional and exaggerated characteristics of any period that leave the most vivid memory behind them, it would be wrong and in my opinion faithless to conclude that such and such forms of society and modes of living were not best for the period when they prevailed, although the abuses they may have led into and the gradual progress of the world have made it well that such ways and manners should pass away forever and as preposterous to attempt to return to them as it would be for a man to return to the clothes of his childhood. The patent granted to Alderman Cawkein and the further restrictions imposed by James I on the export of undied woolen claws met by a prohibition on the part of the states of Holland of the import of English dyed claws injured the trade of the West Riding Manufacturers considerably. Their independence of character, their dislike of authority, and their strong powers of thought predispose them to rebellion against the religious dictation of such men as Lorde and the arbitrary rule of the stewards, and the injury done by James and Charles to the trade by which they gained their bread made the great majority of them commonwealth men. I shall have occasion afterwards to give one or two instances of the warm feelings and extensive knowledge on subjects of both home and foreign politics existing at the present day in the villages lying west and east of the mountainous ridge that separates Yorkshire and Lancashire, the inhabitants of which are of the same race and possess the same quality of character. The descendants of many who served under Cromwell at Dunbar live on the same lands as their ancestors occupied then, and perhaps there is no part of England where the traditional and fond recollections of the commonwealth have lingered so long as in that inhabited by the worn manufacturing population of the West Riding, who had their restrictions taken off their trade by the protector's admirable commercial policy. I have it on good authority that not thirty years ago the phrase in Oliver's days was in common use to denote a time of unusual prosperity. The class of Christian names prevalent in a district is one indication of the direction in which it's tied of hero worship sets. Grave enthusiasts in politics or religion perceive not the ludicrous side of those which they give to their children, and some are to be found still in their infancy not a dozen miles from Howarth that will have to go through life as Lamartine, Kossuth, and Dempinski. And so there is a testimony to what I have said of the traditional feeling of the district in the fact that the Old Testament names in general use among the Puritans are yet the prevalent appellations in most Yorkshire families of middle or humble rank, whatever their religious persuasion may be. There are numerous records too that show the kindly way in which the ejected ministers were received by their gentry as well as by the poor part of the inhabitants during the persecuting days of Charles II. These little facts all testify to the old hereditary spirit of independence, ready ever to resist authority which was conceived to be unjustly exercised that distinguishes the people of the West Riding to the present day. The parish of Halifax touches that of Bradford, in which the chapelry of Howarth is included, and the nature of the grounds in the two parishes is much of the same wild and hilly description. The abundance of coal and the number of mountain streams in the district may get highly favorable to manufacturers, and accordingly, as I stated, the inhabitants have for centuries been engaged in making cloth, as well as in agricultural pursuits. But the intercourse of trade fails, for a long time, to bring amenity and civilization into these outlying hamlets, or widely scattered dwellings. Mr. Hunter, in his Life of Oliver Haywood, quotes a sentence out of a memorial of one James Rither living in the reign of Elizabeth, which is partially true to this day. They have no superior to court, no civilities to practice. A sour and sturdy humor is the consequence, so that a stranger is shocked by a tone of defiance in every voice, and an air of fierceness in every countenance. Even now, a stranger can hardly ask a question without receiving some crusty reply, if, indeed, he receives any at all. Sometimes the sour rudeness amounts to positive insult. Yet, if the foreigner takes all this trelishness good-humoredly, or as a matter, of course, and makes any good claim upon their latent kindness and hospitality, they are faithful and generous, and thoroughly to be relied upon. As a slight illustration of the roughness that pervades all classes in these out-of-the-way villages, I may relate a little adventure which happened to my husband and myself three years ago at Ettingham. From Penagent to Pendle Hill, from Linton to Long Addingham, and all that craven coasted tell, et cetera, one of the places that sent forth its fighting men to the famous old battle of Floddenfields, and a village not many miles from Howarth. We were driving along the street, when one of those ne'er-do-well lads who seemed to have a kind of magnetic power for misfortunes, having dumped into the stream that runs through the place, just where all the broken glass and bottles are thrown, staggered naked and merely covered with blood into a cottage before us. Besides receiving another bad cut in the arm, he had completely laid open the artery, and was in a fair way of bleeding to death, which one of his relations comforted him by saying, would be likely to save a deal of trouble. When my husband had checked the effusion of blood with a strap that one of the bystanders unbuckled from his leg, he asked if a surgeon had been sent for. Yoi was the answer, but we didn't think he'll come. Why not? He's owed, he's seen, and asthmatic, and it's a pill. My husband, taking a boy for his guide, drove as fast as he could to the surgeon's house, which was about three quarters of a mile off, and met the aunt of the wounded lad leaving it. Is he coming, inquired my husband? Well, he didn't say he wouldn't come. But tell him the lad may bleed to death. I did. And what did he say? Why only de-end him? What do I care? It ended, however, in his sending one of his sons, who not brought up to the surgery trade, was able to do what was necessary in the way of bandages and plasters. The excuse made for the surgeon was that he was near eighty and getting a bit doided, and he had a matter of twenty children. Among the most unmoved of the onlookers was the brother of the boy so badly hurt, and while he was lying in a pool of blood on the flag-floor and crying out how much his arm was watching, his stoical relation stood coolly smoking his bit of black pipe and uttered not a single word of either sympathy or sorrow. Forest customs, existing in the fringes of dark wood, which clothe the declivity of the hills on either side, tended to brutalize the population until the middle of the seventeenth century. Execution by beheading was performed in a summary way upon either men or women who were guilty of but very slight crimes, and to dogged, yet in some cases fine, indifference to human life was thus generated. The roads were so notoriously bad, even up to the last thirty years, that there was little communication between one village and another. If the produce of industry could be conveyed at stated times to the cloth market of the district, it was all that could be done, and in lonely houses on the distant hillside or by the small magnets of secluded hamlets, crimes might be committed almost unknown. Only without any great uprising of popular indignation calculated to bring down the strong arm of the law, it must be remembered that in those days there was no rural constabulary, and the few magistrates left to themselves, and generally related to one another, were most of them inclined to tolerate eccentricity, and to wink at faults too much like their own. Men hardly passed middle life talk of the days of their youth spent in this part of the country, when, during the winter months, they rode up to the saddle-gurse in mud. When absolute business was the only reason for stirring beyond the precincts of home, and when the business was conducted under a pressure of difficulties which they themselves, born along to Bradford Market in a swift, first-class carriage, can hardly believe to have been possible. For instance, one wool manufacturer says, not five and twenty years ago, he had to rise at times to set off on a winter's morning in order to be at Bradford with the great wagon-load of goods manufactured by his father. This load was packed over night, but in the morning there was a great gathering round it, and flashing of lanterns, and examination of horses-feet before the ponderous wagon got under way, and then someone had to go groping here and there, on hands and knees, and always sounding with the staff down the long, steep, slippery brow to find where the horses might tread safely, until they reached the comparative, easygoing, of the deep-rutted main road. People went on horseback over the upland moors, following the tracks of the packed horses that carry the parcels, baggage or goods, from one town to another, between which there did not happen to be a highway. But in winter, all such communication was impossible, by reason of the snow, which lay long and late on the bleak high grounds. I have known people who, traveling by the mail-coach over Blackstone Edge, had been snowed up for a week or ten days at the little inn near the summit, and obliged to spend both Christmas and New Year's Day there, till the store of provisions laid in for the use of the landlord and his family, falling short before the inroads of the unexpected visitors, they had recourse to the turkeys, geese, and Yorkshire pies, with which the coach was laid in. And even these were beginning to fail, when a fortunate thaw released them from their prison. Isolated as the hill-villages may be, they are in the world, compared with the loneliness of the gray ancestral houses, to be seen here and there in the dense hollows of the moors. These dwellings are not large, yet they are solid and roomy enough for the accommodation of those who live in them, and to whom the surrounding estates belong. The land has often been held by one family since the days of the tutors. The owners are, in fact, the remains of the old yeomanry, small squires, who are rapidly becoming extinct as a class, from one of two causes. Either the professor falls into idle drinking habits, and so is obliged eventually to sell his property, or he finds, if more shrewd and adventurous, that the beck, running down the mountainside, or the minerals beneath his feet, can be turned into a new source of wealth, and leaving the old plotting life of a landowner with small capital, he turns manufacturer, or digs for coal, or quarries for stone. Still, there are those remaining of this class, dwellers in lonely houses far from the upland districts, even at the present day, who sufficiently indicate what strange eccentricity, what wild strength of will, nay, even what a natural power of crime, was fostered by a mode of living in which a man seldom met his fellows, and where public opinion was only a distant and inarticulate echo of some clearer voice surrounding beyond the sweeping horizon. A solitary life cherishes more fancies until they become manias, and the powerful Yerkshire character, which was scarcely tamed into subjection by all the contact it met with in busy-town or crowded marts, has before now broken out into strange willfulness in the remotor districts. A singular account was recently given me of a landowner, living, it is true, on the Lankeshire side of the hills, but of the same blood and nature as the dwellers on the other, who was supposed to be in the receipts of seven or eight hundred a year, and whose house bore marks of handsome antiquity, as if his forefathers had been, for a long time, people of consideration. My informant was struck with the appearance of the place and proposed to the countrymen, who was accompanying him, to go up to it and take a nearer inspection. Reply was, you'd better not, he'd creep you down on the loan. He's let fly at some folk's legs, and let shot lodge in him afore now, for going too near to his house. In finding, on closer inquiry, that such was really the inhospitable custom of this Mordland squire, the gentleman gave up his purpose. I believe that the savage yeoman is still living. Another squire of more distinguished family and larger property, one is then sled to imagine of better education, but that does not always follow, died in his house, not many miles from Howarth only a few years ago.  When he was confined to his chamber, with what he knew would be his last illness, he had his cocks brought up there, and watched the bloody battle from his bed. As his mortal disease increased, and it became impossible for him to turn, so as to follow the combat, he had looking glasses arranged in such a manner, around and above him, as he lay, that he could still see the cocks fighting, and in this manner he died. These are merely instances of eccentricity compared to the tales of positive violence and crime that have occurred in these isolated dwellings, which still linger in the memories of some of the old people of the district, and some of which were doubtless familiar to the authors of Wuthering Heights and the tenet of Wildfell Hall. The amusements of the lower classes could hardly be more humane than those of the wealthy and better educated. The gentleman, who has kindly furnished me with some of the particulars I have given, remembers the bull baitings at Rodale, not 30 years ago. The bull was fastened by a chain or rope to a post in the river. To increase the amount of water, as well as to give their workpeople the opportunity of savage delight, the masters were accustomed to stop their mills on the day when the transport took place. The bull would sometimes wheel suddenly round so that the rope by which he was fastened swept those who had been careless enough to come within its range down into the water. And the good people of Rodale had the excitement of seeing one or two of their neighbors drowned, as well as of witnessing the bull baited, and the dogs torn and tossed. The people of Howarth were not less strong and full of character than their neighbors on either side of the hills. The village lies embedded in the moors between the two countries on the old road between Kiley and Cohn. About the middle of the last century it became famous in the religious world as the scene of the administrations of the Reverend William Grimshaw, curate of Howarth for 20 years. Before this time it is probable that the curates were of the same order as one Mr. Nichols, a Yorkshire clergyman in the days immediately succeeding the Reformation, who was much addicted to drinking and company keeping, and used to say to his companions, You must not heed me, but when I am got three feet above the earth, that was into the pulpits. Mr. Grimshaw's life was written by Newton, Calper's friends, and from it may be gathered some curious particulars of the manner in which a rough population were swayed and governed by a man of deep convictions and strong earnestness of purpose. It seems that he had not been in any way remarkable for religious zeal, though he had led a moral life and been conscientious in fulfilling his parochial duties until a certain Sunday in September 1744, when the servant, rising at five, found her master already engaged in prayer. She stated that, after remaining in his chamber for some time, he went to engage in religious exercises in the house of a parishioner, then home again to pray, then still fasting to the church, where as he was reading the second lesson he fell down and on his partial recovery had to be led from the church. As he went out he spoke to the congregation and told them not to disperse, as he had something to say to them and would return presently. He was taken to the clerk's house and again became insensible. His servant rubbed him to restore the circulation, and when he was brought to himself he seemed in a great rapture, and the first words he uttered were, I have had a glorious vision from the third heaven. He did not say what he had seen, but returned into the church and began the service again, at two in the afternoon, and went on until seven. End of Section 2, Recording by Katie Riley, March 2009. Volume 1, Section 3 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.org. The Life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Clegg-Corn Gaskell. From this time he devoted himself with the fervor of a Wesley and something of the fanaticism of Whitfields to calling out a religious life among his parishioners. They had been in the habit of playing at football on Sunday, using stones for this purpose and giving and receiving challenges from other parishes. There were horse races held on the moors just above the bridge, which were periodical sources of drunkenness and profligacy. Scarcely a wedding took place without the rough amusement of foot races, where the half-naked runners were a scandal to all decent strangers. The old custom of our villes, or funeral feasts, led to frequent pitched battles between the drunken mourners. Such customs were the outward signs of the kind's people with whom Mr. Grimshaw had to deal. But by various means, some of the most practical kinds, he wrought a great change in his parish. In his preaching he was occasionally assisted by Wesley and Whitfields, and at such times the little church proved much too small to hold the throng that poured in from distant villages, or lonely moorland hamlets, and frequently they were obliged to meet in the open air. Indeed, there was not room enough in the church even for the communicans. Mr. Whitfield was once preaching in Howarth, and made use of some such expression, as that he hoped there was no need to say much to this congregation as they had sat under so pious and godly a minister for so many years. Whereupon Mr. Grimshaw stood up in his place, and said with a loud voice, Oh, sir, for God's sake do not speak so. I pray you do not flatter them.  But if they were so bound, it was not for one of exertion on Mr. Grimshaw's part to prevent them. He used to preach twenty or thirty times a week in private houses. If he perceived any one inattentive to his prayers, he would stop and rebuke the offender, and not go on to lease all every one on their knees. He was very earnest in enforcing the strict observance of Sunday, and he would not even allow his parishioners to walk in the fields between services. He sometimes gave out a very long psalm. Tradition says the 119th, and while it was being sung, he left the reading desk, and taking a horse whip, went into the public houses, and flogged the loiterers into church. They were swift, who could escape the lash of the parson by sneaking out the back way. He had strong health and an active body, and rode far and wide over the hills, awakening those who had previously had no sense of religion. To save time and be no charge to the families at whose houses he held his prayer meetings, he carried his provisions with him. All the food he took, in the day on such occasions, seemed simply of a piece of bread and butter, or dry bread and a raw onion. The horse races were justly objectionable to Mr. Grimshaw. They attracted numbers of profligate people to Howarth, and brought a match to the combustible materials of the place, only too ready to blaze out into wickedness. The story is that he tried all means of persuasion and even intimidation to have the races discontinued, but in vain. At length, in despair, he prayed with such fervor and earnestness that the rain came down in torrents, and deluged the ground, so that there was no footing for man or beast, even if the multitude had been willing to stand such a flood let down from above. And so Howarth races were stopped. Ends have never been resumed to this day. Even now the memory of this good man is held in reverence, and his faithful ministrations and real virtues are one of the boasts of the parish. But after his time, I fear there was a falling back into the wild, rough-heathen ways from which he had pulled them up, as it were by the passionate force of his individual character. He had built a chapel for the Wesleyan Methodists. And not very long after, the Baptists established themselves in a place of worship. Indeed, as Dr. Whitaker says, the people of this district are strong religionists. Only fifty years ago their religion did not work down into their lives. Half that length of time back the Code of Morals seemed to be formed upon that of their Norse ancestors. Revenge was handed down from father to son as in hereditary duty, and a great capability for drinking without the head being affected was considered one of the manly virtues. The games of football on Sunday, with the challenges, to neighboring parishes, were resumed, bringing in an influx of riotous strangers to fill the public houses and make the more sober-minded inhabitants long for good Mr. Grimshell's stout arm and ready horse whip. The old custom of Arvilles was as prevalent as ever. The sexton, standing at the foot of the open grave, announced that the Arvilles would be held at the black bull, or whatever public house, might be fixed upon by the friends of the dead, and thither the mourners and their acquaintances repaired. The origin of the custom had been the necessity of furnishing some refreshment for those who came from a distance, to pay their last mark of respect to a friend. In the life of Oliver Haywood there are two quotations which show what sort of food was provided for Arvilles in quiet non-conformist connections in the 17th century. The first, from Thorsby, tells of cold posits, stewed prunes, cake, and cheese, as being the Arvilles after Oliver Haywood's funeral. The second gives, as rather shabby, according to the notion of the times, 1673, nothing but a bit of cake, draught of wine, piece of rosemary, and pair of gloves. But the Arvilles at Howarth were often far more jovial doings. Among the poor the mourners were only expected to provide a kind of spiced roll for each person, and the expense of the liquors, rum or ale or a mixture of both, called dog's nose, was generally defrayed by each guest, placing some money on a plate set in the middle of the table. Richer people would order a dinner for their friends. At the funeral of Mr. Charnock, the successor but one to Mr. Grimshaw in the incumbency, above eighty people were bid to the Arvilles, and the price of the feast was four s sixty per head, all of which was defrayed by the friends of the deceased. As few shirked their liquor, there were some very frequently up-and-down fights before the close of the day, sometimes with the hard additions of pausing and gouging and biting. So I have dwelt on the exceptional traits and the characteristics of these stalwart West Ridingers, such as they were in the first quarter of the century, if not a few years earlier. I have little doubt that in the everyday life of the people so independent, willful and full of grim humor, there would be much found, even at present, that would shock those accustomed only to the local manners of the South. And in return I suspect the shrewd, sagacious, energetic Yorkshire men would hold such foreigners in no small contempt. I have said it is most probable that where Howard's church now stands, there was once an ancient field-kirk or oratory. It occupied the third or lowest class of ecclesiastical structures, according to the Saxon law, and had no right of sepulcher or administration of sacraments. It was so called because it was built without enclosure, and opened to the adjoining fields or moors. The founder, according to the Laws of Edgar, was bound, without subtracting from his ties, to maintain the ministering priest out of the remaining nine parts of his income. After the Reformation, the right of choosing their clergymen, at any of those chapels of ease, which had formerly been field-kirks, was vested in the freeholders and trustees, subject to the approval of the vicar of the parish. But owing to some negligence, this right has been lost to the freeholders and trustees at Howard, never since the days of Archbishop Sharp, and the power of choosing a minister has lapsed into the hands of the vicar of Bradford. So runs the account, according to one authority. Mr. Bronte says, This living has for its patrons the vicar of Bradford and certain trustees. My predecessor took the living with the consent of the vicar of Bradford, but in opposition to the trustees, in consequence of which he was so opposed that, after only three weeks' possession, he was compelled to resign. A Yorkshire gentleman who has kindly sent me some additional information on this subject, since the second edition of my work was published, right thus. The sole right of presentation to the incumbency of Howard is vested in the vicar of Bradford. He only can present. The funds, however, from which the clergyman's stipend mainly precedes, are vested in the hands of trustees, who have the power to withhold them if a nominee is sent of whom they disapprove. On the decease of Mr. Charnock, the vicar first tendered the preferment to Mr. Bronte, and he went over to his expected cure. He was told that towards himself they had no personal objection, but as a nominee of the vicar he would not be received. He therefore retired, with the declaration that if he could not come with the approval of the parish, his ministry could not be useful. Upon this the attempt was made to introduce Mr. Redhead. When Mr. Redhead was repelled, a fresh difficulty arose. Someone must first move towards a settlement, but a spirit being evoked which could not be allayed, action became perplexing. The matter had to be referred to some independent arbitrator, and my father was the gentleman to whom each party turned its eye. A meeting was convened, and the business settled by the vicar's conceding the choice to the trustees, and the acceptance of the vicar's presentation. That choice, forthwith, fell on Mr. Bronte, whose promptness and prudence had won their hearts. In conversing on the character of the inhabitants of the West Riding with Dr. Scorsby, who had been for some time vicar of Bradford, he alluded to certain riotous transactions which had taken place at Howarth on the presentation of the living to Mr. Redhead, and said that there had been so much in the particular's indicative of the character of the people that he advised me to inquire into them. I have accordingly done so, and from the lips of some of the survivors, among the actors and spectators, I have learned the means taken to eject the nominee of the vicar. The previous incumbent had been the Mr. Charnock who might have mentioned as next but one in succession to Mr. Grimshaw. He had a long illness which rendered him unable to discharge his duties without assistance, and Mr. Redhead gave him occasional help to the great satisfaction of the parishioners, and was highly respected by them during Mr. Charnock's lifetime. But the case was entirely altered when, at Mr. Charnock's death in 1819, they conceived that the trustees had been unjustly deprived of their rights by the vicar of Bradford who appointed Mr. Redhead as perpetual curate. The first Sunday he officiated, Howarth's church was filled even to the aisles, most of the people wearing the wooden clogs of the district. But while Mr. Redhead was reading the second lesson, the whole congregation, as by one impulse, began to leave the church, making all the noise they could with clattering and clumping of clogs till at length Mr. Redhead and the clerk were the only two left to continue the service. This was bad enough, but the next Sunday the proceedings were far worse. Then as before the church was well filled, but the aisles were left clear. Not a creature, not an obstacle, was in the way. The reason for this was made evident about the same time in the reading of the service as the disturbances had begun the previous week.  He began urging his beast round the aisles and the screams and cries and laughter of the congregation entirely drowned all sound of Mr. Redhead's voice, and I believe he was obliged to desist. Neither too they had not proceeded to anything like personal violence, but on the third Sunday they must have been greatly irritated at seeing Mr. Redhead determined to brave their will, ride up the village street, accompanied by several gentlemen from Bradford. They put up their horses at the black bull, the little inn close upon the churchyard for the convenience of our villes, as well as for other purposes, and went into church. On this the people followed, with the chimney sweeper, with whom they had employed to clean the chimneys of some outbuildings belonging to the church that very morning, and afterward plied with drink till he was in a state of solemn intoxication.  At last, either prompted by some mischief-maker, or from some tipsy impulse, he clambered up the pulpit stairs, and attempted to embrace Mr. Redhead. Then the profane fun grew fast and furious. Some of the more riotous pushed the soot-covered chimney sweeper against Mr. Redhead as he tried to escape. They threw both him and his tormentor down on the ground in the churchyard where the soot-bag had been emptied, and, though at last, Mr. Redhead escaped into the black bull, the doors of which were immediately barred, the people raged without, threatening to stone him and his friends. One of my informants is an old man, who was the landlord of the inn at the time, and he stands to it that such was the temper of the irritated mob, that Mr. Redhead was in real danger of his life. This man, however, plans an escape for his unpopular inmates. The black bull is near the top of the long, steep-powered street, and at the bottom, close by the bridge, on the road to Kiley, is a turnpike. Giving directions to his hunted guests to steal out at the back door, through which, probably, many energy well has escaped from good Mr. Grimshaw's horse whip, the landlord and some of the stable boys rode the horses belonging to the party from Bradford backwards and forwards before his front door, among the fiercely expecting crowd. Through some opening between the houses, those on the horses saw Mr. Redhead and his friends creeping along behind the street, and then, striking spurs, they dashed quickly down to the turnpike. The obnoxious clergyman and his friends mounted in haste, and had sped some distance before the people found out that their prey had escaped, and came running to the closed turnpike gate. This was Mr. Redhead's last appearance at Howarth for many years. Long afterwards he came to preach, and in his sermon to a large and attentive congregation, he good-humorly reminded them of the circumstances which I have described.  The foregoing account, which I heard from two of the survivors, in the presence of a friend who convoked for the accuracy of my repetition, has, to a certain degree, been confirmed by a letter from a Yorkshire gentleman, whose words I have already quoted. I am not surprised at your difficulty in authenticating matter of fact. I find this in recalling what I have heard, and the authority on which I have heard anything. As to the donkey-tail, I believe you are right. Mr. Redhead and Dr. Ramsbotham, his son-in-law, are no strangers to me. Each of them has a niche in my affections. I have asked, this day, two persons who lived in Howarth at the time to which you allude, the son and daughter of an acting trustee, and each of them between sixty and seventy years of age, and they have assured me that the donkey was introduced. One of them says it was mounted by a half-witted man, seated with his face towards the tail of the beast, and having several hats piled on his head. Neither of my informants was, however, present at these edifying services. I believe that no movement was made in the church on either Sunday until the whole of the authorized reading service was gone through, and I am sure that nothing was more remote from the most respectable party than any personal antagonism toward Mr. Redhead. He was one of the most amiable and worthy of men, a man to myself endeared by many ties and obligations. I never heard before your book that the sweep ascended the pulpit steps. He was present, however, in the clerical habiliments of his order. I may also add that among the many who were present at those sad Sunday orgies, the majority were non-residents, and came from those moorland fastnesses on the outskirts of the parish, locally designated as Over the Steers, one stage more remote than Howarth from modern civilization. To an instance or two more of the rusticity of the inhabitants of the chapelry of Howarth, I may introduce you. A Howarth carrier called at the office of a friend of mine to deliver a parcel on a cold winter's day and stood with the door open.  Have you no doors in your country? Joib responded, Robin. We have, but we never stick them. I have frequently remarked the number of doors open, even winter. When well directed, the indomitable and independent energies of the natives of this part of the country are invaluable, dangerous when perverted. I shall never forget the fierce actions and utterances of one suffering from delirium tremens. Whether in its wrath, disdain, or in its dismay, the countenance was infernal. I called once upon a time, on a most respectable yeoman, and as I was, in language earnest and homely, pressed to accept the hospitality of the house. I consented. The word to me was, nay, master, yeoman, stop and have some tia. Yeoman, ay, yeoman. A beautiful table was soon spread. At all events, time soon went, while I scaled the hills, to sea, to mare, as were 30 years' odes, and its fowl, as were fewer. On sitting down to the table, a venerable woman officiated, and after filling the cups, she thus addressed me. Nay, master, yeoman, loose the table. Loose the table. The master said, shamins, yeoman, say to grace. I took the hint, and uttered the blessing. I spoke with an aged and tried woman at one time, who, after recording her mercies, stated among others her powers of speech, by asserting, thank the Lord, a never or a mildly-mouthed woman. I feel particularly at fault in attempting the orthography of the dialect, but must excuse myself by telling you that I once saw a letter in which the word I have just now used, excuse, was written, exquiaise. There are some things, however, which rather tend to soften the idea of the rudeness of Howarth. An overall district has been more markedly the abode of musical taste and acquirements, and this at a period when it was difficult to find them to the same extent apart from towns in advance of their times. I have gone to Howarth and found an orchestra to meet me, filled with local performers, vocal and instrumental, to whom the best works of Hansel, Hayden, Mozart, Marcello, etc., etc., were familiar as household words. By knowledge, taste, and voice they were markedly separate from ordinary village choirs, and have been put in extensive requisition for the solo and chorus of many an imposing festival. One man still survives, who, for fifty years, has had one of the finest tenor voices I ever heard, and with it a refined and cultivated taste. To him and to others many inducements have been offered to migrate, but the loom, the association, the mountaineer have had charms and owe to secure their continuance at home. I love the recollection of their performance, that recollection extends over more than sixty years. The attachments, the antipathies, and the hospitalities of the district are ardent, hearty, and homely. Courageality in each is the prominent characteristic, as a people, these mountaineers have ever been accessible to gentleness and truth, so far as I have known them, but excite suspicion or resentment, and they defy emphatic and not impotent resistance. Compulsion they defy. I accompanied Mr. Heap on his first visit to Howarth after his accession to the vicarage of Bradford. It was on Easter Day, either 1816 or 1817. His predecessor, the venerable John Cross, known as the Blind Vicar, had been inattentive to the vicarial claims. A searching investigation had to be made and enforced, and as it proceeded, stout and sturdy utterances were not lacking on the part of the parishioners. To a spectator, though rude, they were amusing, and significant for telling what might be expected and what afterwards realized, on the advance of a new incumbent. If they deemed him an intruder. From their peculiar parochial position and circumstances, the inhabitants of the chapelry have been prompt, earnest, and persevering in their opposition to church-rates.  I believe one-fifth. Besides this, they had to maintain their own edifice, etc., etc. They resisted, therefore, with energy, that which they deemed to be oppression and injustice. By scores they would wend their way from the hills to attend a vestry meeting at Bradford, and in such service failed not to show less of the swavature-in-modo than the furrier-in-ray. Happily such occasions for their action has not occurred for many years. The use of patronomics has been common in this locality. Inquire from man by his Christian name and surname, and you may have some difficulty in finding him. Ask, however, for George Ined's, or Dick Abab's, or Tom the Jack's, as the case may be, and your difficulty is at an end. In many instances, the person is designated by his residence. In my early years I had occasion to inquire for Jonathan Whitaker, who owned a considerable farm in the township. I was sent hither and thither until it occurred to me to ask for Jonathan of the gate. My difficulties were then at an end. Such circumstances arise out of the settled character and isolation of the natives. Those who have witnessed a Howard's wedding, when the parties were above the rank of laborers, will not easily forget the scene. A levy was made on the horses of the neighborhood and a merry cavalcade of mounted men and women, single or double, to verse the way to Bradford Church. The inn and church appeared to be a natural connection, and as the laborers of the temperance society had then to begin, the interests of sobriety were not always consulted. On remounting their steeds they commenced with a race, and not unfrequently an inebriate, or unskillful horseman, or woman, was put, or to combat. A race also was frequent at the ends of these wedding expeditions, from the bridge to the toll-barred Howard. The race course you will know to be anything but level. Into the midst of this lawless, yet not unkindly population, Mr. Bronte brought his wife and six little children in February 1820. There are those yet alive who remember seven heavily-laden carts lumbering slowly up to the Longstone Street, bearing the new Parsons household goods to his future abode. One wonders how the bleak aspects of their new home, the low, oblong stone parsonage high up yet with a still higher background of sweeping moors, struck on the gentle delicate wife, whose health even then was failing. END OF SEXTION 3 the life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Cleighorn Gaskell Volume 1 Section 4 CHAPTER III The reverent Patrick Bronte is a native of the county down in Ireland. His father, Hugh Bronte, was left an orphan at an early age. He came from the south to the north of the island and settled in the parish of Ahaderg, near Low Brickland. There was some family tradition that, humble as Hugh Bronte's circumstances were, he was a descendant of an ancient family. But about this neither he nor his descendants have cared to inquire. He made an early marriage and reared and educated ten children on the proceeds of the few acres of land which he farmed. This large family were remarkable for great physical strength and much personal beauty. Even in his old age Mr. Bronte is a striking looking man, above the common height, with a nobly shaped head and erect carriage. In his youth he must have been unusually handsome. He was born on Patrick Mess Day, March 17, 1777, and early gave tokens of extraordinary quickness and intelligence. He also had his full share of ambition and of his strong sense and forethought, there is proof in the fact that, knowing that his father could afford him no pecuniary aid and that he must depend upon his own exertions, he opened a public school at the early age of sixteen, and this mode of living he continued to follow for five or six years. He then became a tutor in the family of the Reverend Miss Dutay, rector of Drumguland Parish. Thence he proceeded to St. John's College, Cambridge, where he was entered in July 1802, being at that time five and twenty years of age. After nearly four years residence he obtained his BA degree and was ordained to a curacy in Essex, whence he removed into Yorkshire. The course of life of which this is the outline shows a powerful and remarkable character originating and pursuing a purpose in a resolute and independent manner. Here is a youth, a boy of sixteen, separating himself from his family and determining to maintain himself, and that not in the hereditary manner by agricultural pursuits, but by the labour of his brain. I suppose, from what I have heard, that Mr. Tye became strongly interested in his children's tutor, and may have aided him not only in the direction of his studies, but in the suggestion of an English university education, and in advice as to the mode in which he should obtain entrance there. Mr. Bronte has now no trace of his Irish origin remaining in his speech. He never could have shown his Celtic descent in the straight Greek lines and long oval of his face. But at five and twenty, fresh from the only life he had ever known, to present himself at the gates of St. John's proved no little determination of will and scorn of ridicule. While at Cambridge he became one of a core of volunteers who were then being called out all over the country to resist the apprehended invasion by the French. I have heard him allude in late years to Lord Palmerston, as one who had often been associated with him than in the mimic military duties which they had to perform. We take him up now, settled as a curate at Hart's Head in Yorkshire, far removed from his birthplace and all his Irish connections, with whom indeed he cared little to keep up any intercourse and whom he never, I believe, revisited after becoming a student at Cambridge. Hart's Head is a very small village, lying to the east of Huddersfield and Halifax, and from its high situation on a mound, as it were, surrounded by a circular basin, commanding a magnificent view. Mr. Bronte resided here for five years, and while the incumbent of Hart's Head he wooed and married Mariah Branwell. She was the third daughter of Mr. Thomas Branwell, merchant of Penzance. Her mother's maiden name was Karn, and both on father's and mother's side the Branwell family were sufficiently well descended to enable them to mix in the best society that Penzance then afforded. Mr. and Mrs. Branwell would be living, their family of four daughters and one son, still children, during the existence of that primitive state of society which is well described by Dr. Davie in The Life of His Brother. In the same town when the population was about two thousand persons there was only one carpet, the floors of rooms were sprinkled with sea sand, and there was not a single silver fork. At that time when our colonial possessions were very limited, our army and navy on a small scale, and there was comparatively little demand for intellect, the younger sons of gentlemen were often of necessity brought up to some trade or mechanical art, to which no discredit or loss of caste, as it were, was attached. The eldest son, if not allowed to remain an idle country squire, was sent to Oxford or Cambridge, preparatory to his engaging in one of the three liberal professions of divinity, law, or physics. The second son was perhaps apprenticed to a surgeon or apothecary or a solicitor, the third to a pewterer or watchmaker, the fourth to a packer or a mercer, and so on were there more to be provided for. After their apprenticeships were finished the young men almost invariably went to London to perfect themselves in their respective trade or art, and on their return into the country when settled in business they were not excluded from what would now be considered genteel society. Visiting then was conducted differently from what it is at present. Dinner parties were almost unknown, excepting at the annual feast time. This too was then a season of peculiar indulgence and conviviality, and a round of entertainments was given consisting of tea and supper. Excepting at these two periods visiting was almost entirely confined to tea parties, which assembled at three o'clock, broke up at nine, and the amusement of the evening was commonly some round game at cards, as Pope Joan or commerce. The lower class was then extremely ignorant, and all classes were very superstitious, and the belief in witches maintained its ground, and there was an almost unbounded credulity respecting the supernatural and monstrous. There was scarcely a parish in Mount Spade that was without a haunted house, or a spot to which some story of supernatural horror was not attached. Even when I was a boy I remember a house in the best street of Penzance, which was uninhabited because it was believed to be haunted, and which young people walked by at night at a quickened pace and with a beating heart. Amongst the middle and higher classes there was little taste for literature and still less for science, and their pursuits were rarely of a dignified or intellectual kind. Hunting, shooting, wrestling, cock-fighting, generally ending in drunkenness were what they most delighted in. Smuggling was carried on to a great extent, and drunkenness and a low state of morals were naturally associated with it. Most smuggling was the means of acquiring wealth to bold and reckless adventurers. Drunkenness and dissipation occasioned the ruin of many respectable families. I have given this extract because I can see that bears some reference to the life of Miss Bronte, whose strong mind and vivid imagination must have received their first impressions either from the servants, in that simple household almost friendly companions during the greater part of the day, retailing the traditions or the news of Haworth Village, or from Mr. Bronte, whose intercourse with his children appears to have been considerably restrained, and whose life both in Ireland and at Cambridge had been spent under peculiar circumstances, or from her aunt, Miss Branwell, who came to the parsonage when Charlotte was only six or seven years old to take charge of her dead sister's family. This aunt was older than Mrs. Bronte and had lived longer among the pensance society which Dr. Davie describes. But in the Branwell family itself the violence and irregularity of nature did not exist. They were Methodists, and as far as I can gather a gentle and sincere piety gave refinement and purity of character. Mr. Branwell, the father, according to his descendants account, was a man of musical talent. He and his wife lived to see all their children grown up and died within a year of each other, he in 1808, she in 1809, when their daughter Mariah was twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. I have been permitted to look over a series of nine letters which were addressed to her by Mr. Bronte during the brief term of their engagement in 1812. They are full of tender grace of expression and feminine modesty, pervaded by the deep piety to which I have alluded as a family characteristic. I shall make one or two extracts from them to show what sort of person was the mother of Charlotte Bronte. But first I must state the circumstances under which this Cornish lady met the scholar from Ahadarge near Low Brickland. In the early summer of 1812, when she would be twenty-nine, she came to visit her uncle, the Reverend John Fennel, who was at that time a clergyman of the Church of England, living near Leeds, but who had previously been a Methodist minister. Mr. Bronte was the incumbent of Hart's head and had the reputation in the neighbourhood of being a very handsome fellow, full of Irish enthusiasm, and with something of an Irishman's capability of falling easily in love. Miss Branwell was extremely small in person, not pretty but very elegant, and always dressed with the quiet simplicity of taste which accorded well with her general character, and of which some of the details call to mind the style of dress preferred by her daughter for her favourite heroines. Mr.  In her first letter to him dated August twenty-sixth, she seems almost surprised to find herself engaged, and it alludes to the short time which she has known him. In the rest there are touches reminding one of Juliet's, but trust me, gentlemen, I'll prove more true than those who have more cunning to be strange. There are plans for happy picnic parties to Curstal Abbey in the following September days, when Uncle Ant and Cousin Jane, the last engaged to a Mr. Morgan, another clergyman, were of the party, all since then, except Mr. Bronte. There was no opposition on the part of any of her friends to her engagement. Mr. and Mrs. Fennell sanctioned it, and her brothers and sisters in faraway Pencance appear fully to have approved of it. In a letter dated September eighteenth, she says, For some years I have been perfectly my own mistress, subject to no control whatever, so far from it that my sisters, who are many years older than myself, and even my dear mother, used to consult me on every occasion of importance, and scarcely ever doubted the propriety of my opinions and actions. Perhaps you will be ready to accuse me of vanity in mentioning this, but you must consider that I do not boast of it. I have many times felt at a disadvantage, and although I thank God it has never led me into error, yet in circumstances of uncertainty and doubt I have deeply felt the want of a guide and instructor. In the same letter she tells Mr. Bronte that she has informed her sisters of her engagement, and that she should not see them again so soon as she had intended. Mr. Fennell, her uncle, also writes to them by the same post in praise of Mr. Bronte. The journey from Penzance to Leeds in those days was both very long and very expensive. The lovers had not much money to spend in unnecessary traveling, and as Miss Branwell had neither father nor mother living, it appeared both a discreet and seemly arrangement that the marriage should take place from her uncle's house. There was no reason, either, why the engagement should be prolonged. They were past their first youth. They had means sufficient for their unambitious wants. The living of Hart's Head is rated in the clergy list at two hundred two pounds per hanum, and she was in the receipt of a small annuity, fifty pounds, I have been told, by the will of her father. So at the end of September the lovers began to talk about taking a house, for I suppose that Mr. Bronte up to that time had been in lodgings, and all went smoothly and successfully with a view to their marriage in the ensuing winter, until November, when a misfortune happened, which she thus patiently and prettily describes. I suppose you never expected to be much the richer for me, but I am sorry to inform you that I am still poorer than I thought myself. I mention having sent for my books, clothes, etc. On Saturday evening, about the time when you were writing the description of your imaginary shipwreck, I was reading and feeling the effects of a real one, having then received a letter from my sister giving me an account of the vessel in which she had sent my box, being stranded on the coast of Devonshire, in consequence of which the box was dashed to pieces with the violence of the sea, and all my little property, with the exception of a very few articles, being swallowed up in the mighty deep. If this should not prove the prelude to something worse, I shall thank little of it, as it is the first disastrous circumstance which has occurred since I left my home. The last of these letters is dated December the fifth. Miss Branwell and her cousin intended to set about making the wedding-cake in the following week so the marriage could not be far off. She had been learning by heart a pretty little hymn of Mr. Bronte's composing, and reading Lord Littleton's advice to a lady, on which she makes some pertinent and just remarks, showing that she thought as well as read. And so Mariah Branwell fades out of sight. We have no more direct intercourse with her. We hear of her as Mrs. Bronte, but it is as an invalid, not far from death, still patient, cheerful, and pious. The writing of these letters is elegant and neat. While there are allusions to household occupations, such as making the wedding-cake, there are also allusions to the books she has read or is reading, showing a well-cultivated mind. Without having anything of her daughter's rare talents, Mrs. Bronte must have been, I imagine, that unusual character, a well-balanced and consistent woman. The style of the letters is easy and good, as is also that of a paper from the same hand, entitled The Advantages of Poverty in Religious Concerns, which was written rather later with a view to publication in some periodical. She was married from her uncle's house in Yorkshire, on the 29th of December, 1812. The same day was also the wedding-day of her younger sister, Charlotte Branwell, in distant Penzance. I do not think that Mrs. Bronte ever revisited Cornwall, but she has left a very pleasant impression on the minds of those relations who yet survive. They speak of her as their favorite aunt, and one to whom they, as well as all the family, looked up as a person of talent and great amiability of disposition, and again as meek and retiring, while possessing more than ordinary talents, which she inherited from her father, and her piety was genuine and unobtrusive. Mr. Bronte remained for five years at Hart's Head, in the parish of Dewsbury. There he was married, and his two children, Mariah and Elizabeth, were born. At the expiration of that period he had the living of Thornton in Bradford Parish. Some of those great west-riding parishes are almost like bishoprics for their amount of population and number of churches. Thornton Church is a little episcopal chapel of ease, rich in non-conformist monuments, as of accepted lister and his friend Dr. Hall. The neighborhood is desolate and wild, great tracts of bleak land enclosed by stone dykes, sweeping up Clayton Heights. The church itself looks ancient and solitary as if left behind by the great stone mills of a flourishing independent firm, and the solid square chapel built by members of that denomination. Altogether not so pleasant a place as Hart's Head, with its ample outlook over cloud-shadowed, sun-flect plain and hill rising beyond hill to form the distant horizon. Here at Thornton Charlotte Bronte was born on the twenty-first of April, 1816. Fast on her heels followed Patrick Branwell, Emily Jane, and Anne. After the birth of this last daughter Mrs. Bronte's health began to decline. It is hard work to provide for the little tender wants of many young children where the means are but limited. The necessaries of food and clothing are much more easily supplied than the almost equal necessaries of attendance, care, soothing, amusement, and sympathy. Mariah Bronte, the eldest of six, could only have been a few months more than six years old when Mr. Bronte removed to Haworth on February the twenty-fifth, 1820. Those who knew her then describe her as grave, thoughtful, and quiet to a degree far beyond her years. Her childhood was no childhood. The cases are rare in which the possessors of great gifts have known the blessings of that careless happy time. Their unusual powers stir within them, and instead of the natural life of perception, the objective, as the Germans call it, they begin the deeper life of reflection, the subjective. Little Mariah Bronte was delicate and small in appearance, which seemed to give greater effect to her wonderful precocity of intellect. She must have been her mother's companion and helpmate in many a household and nursery experience, for Mr. Bronte was, of course, much engaged in his study, and besides he was not naturally fond of children and felt their frequent appearance on the scene as a drag both on his wife's strength and as an interruption to the comfort of the household. Haworth Parsonage is, as I mentioned in the first chapter, an oblong stone house facing down the hill on which the village stands, and with the front door right opposite to the western door of the church, distant about a hundred yards. Of this space, twenty yards or so in depth are occupied by the grassy garden, which is scarcely wider than the house. The graveyard lies on two sides of the house and garden. The house consists of four rooms on each floor and is two stories high. When the Brontes took possession, they made the larger parlor to the left of the entrance of the family's sitting room, while that on the right was appropriated to Mr. Bronte as a study. Behind this was the kitchen, behind the former a sort of flagged storeroom. Upstairs were four bed chambers of similar size, with the addition of a small apartment over the passage or lobby, as we call it in the north. This was to the front, the staircase going up right opposite to the entrance. There is the pleasant old fashion of window seats all through the house, and one can see that the parsonage was built in the days when wood was plentiful, as the massive stair banisters and the wainscots and the heavy window frames testify. This little extra upstairs room was appropriated to the children. Small as it was, it was not called a nursery. Indeed, it had not the comfort of a fireplace in it. The servants, two affectionate, warm-hearted sisters who cannot now speak of the family without tears, called the room the children's study. The age of the eldest student was perhaps by this time seven. The people in Haworth were none of them very poor. Many of them were employed in the neighboring worsted mills. A few were mill owners and manufacturers in a small way. There were also some shopkeepers for the humbler and the everyday wats, but for medical advice, for stationery, books, law, dress, or dainties, the inhabitants had to go to Keithley. There were several Sunday schools. The Baptists had taken the lead in instituting them. The Wesleyans had followed. The Church of England had brought up the rear. Good Mr Grimshaw, Wesley's friend, had built a humble Methodist chapel, but it stood close to the road leading onto the Moor. The Baptists then raised a place of worship with the distinction of being a few yards back from the highway. And the Methodists have since thought it well to erect another and a larger chapel, still more retired from the road. Mr Bronte was ever on kind and friendly terms with each denomination as a body, but from individuals in the village the family stood aloof, unless some direct service was required from the first. They kept themselves very close, is the account given by those who remember Mr and Mrs Bronte's coming amongst them. I believe many of the Yorkshiremen would object to the system of parochial visiting. Their surly independence would revolt from the idea of anyone having a right from his office to inquire into their condition, to counsel, or to admonish them. The Old Hills spirit lingers in them, which coined the rhyme, inscribed on the under part of one of the seats in the sedilia of Wally Abbey, not many miles from Haworth, who melds with what another does, had best go home and shoe his goose. I asked an inhabitant of a district close to Haworth what sort of clergyman they had at the church which he attended. A rare good one, said he, he minds his own business and never troubles himself with ours. Mr Bronte was faithful in visiting the sick and all those who sent for him, and diligent in attendance at the schools, and so was his daughter Charlotte, too, but cherishing and valuing privacy themselves, they were perhaps over-delicate in not intruding upon the privacy of others. From their first going to Haworth their walks were directed rather out towards the heathery moors, sloping upwards behind the parsonage than towards the long descending village street. A good old woman who came to nurse Mrs Bronte in the illness, an internal cancer, which grew and gathered upon her not many months after her arrival at Haworth, tells me that at that time the six little creatures used to walk out hand in hand towards the glorious wild moors which in after-days they loved so passionately, the elder ones taking thoughtful care for the toddling wee things. They were grave and silent beyond their years, subdued probably by the presence of serious illness in the house, for at the time which my informant speaks of, Mrs Bronte was confined to the bedroom from which she never came forth alive. You would not have known there was a child in the house, they were such still, noiseless, good little creatures. Mariah would shut herself up, Mariah but seven. In the children's study with a newspaper and be able to tell one everything when she came out, debates in Parliament and I don't know what all. She was as good as a mother to her sisters and brother. But there never were such good children. I used to think them spiritless, they were so different to any children I had ever seen. They were good little creatures, Emily was the prettiest. Mrs Bronte was the same patient, cheerful person as we have seen her formerly. Very ill, suffering great pain, but seldom if ever complaining, at her better times begging her nurse to raise her in bed to let her see her clean the great, because she did it as it was done in Cornwall. Emily fond of her husband, who warmly repaid her affection and suffered no one else to take the night nursing. But according to my informant, the mother was not very anxious to see much of her children, probably because the sight of them, knowing how soon they were to be left motherless, would have agitated her too much. So the little things clung quietly together, for their father was busy in his study and in his parish or with their mother, they took their meals alone, sat reading or whispering low in the children's study or wandered out on the hillside, hand in hand. The ideas of Rousseau and Mr Day on education had filtered down through many classes and spread themselves widely out. I imagine Mr Bronte must have formed some of his opinions on the management of children from these two theorists. His practice was not half so wild or extraordinary as that to which an ant of mine was subjected by a disciple of Mr Day's. She had been taken by this gentleman and his wife to live with them as their adopted child, perhaps about five and twenty years before the time of which I am writing. They were wealthy people and kind-hearted, but her food and clothing were of the very simplest and rudest description on Spartan principles. A healthy married child she did not much care for dress or eating, but the treatment which she felt as a real cruelty was this. They had a carriage in which she and the favorite dog were taken and airing on alternate days. The creature whose turn it was to be left at home being tossed in a blanket, an operation which my aunt especially dreaded. Her affright at the tossing was probably the reason why it was persevered in. Pressed up ghosts had become common and she did not care for them, so the blanket exercise was to be the next mode of hardening her nerves. It is well known that Mr Day broke off his intention of marrying Sabrina, the girl whom he had educated for this purpose, because within a few weeks of the time fixed for the wedding she was guilty of the frivolity while on a visit from home of wearing thin sleeves. Yet Mr Day and my aunt's relations were benevolent people, they strongly imbued with the crotchet that by a system of training might be educed the hardy-hood and simplicity of the ideal savage, forgetting the terrible isolation of feelings and habits which their pupils would experience in the future life which they must pass among the corruptions and refinements of civilization. Mr Bronte wished to make his children hardy and indifferent to the pleasures of eating and dress. In the latter he succeeded, as far as regarded his daughters. His strong, passionate, Irish nature was, in general, compressed down with resolute stoicism. But it was there notwithstanding all his philosophic calm and dignity of demeanor, though he did not speak when he was annoyed or displeased. Mrs Bronte, whose sweet nature thought invariably of the bright side, would say, ought I not to be thankful that he never gave me an angry word? Mr Bronte was an active walker, stretching away over the moors for many miles, noting in his mind all natural signs of winds and weather and keenly observing all the wild creatures that came and went in the loneliest sweeps of the hills. He has seen eagles stooping low in search of food for their young. No eagle is ever seen on those mountain slopes now. He fearlessly took whatever side and local or national politics appeared to him right. In the days of the Luddites he had been for the peremptory interference of the law, at a time when no magistrate could be found to act, and all the property of the West Riding was in terrible danger. He became unpopular then among the mill-workers, and he esteemed his life unsafe if he took his long and lonely walks unarmed, so he began the habit, which has continued to this day, of invariably carrying a loaded pistol about with him. It lay on his dressing-table with his watch. With his watch it was put on in the morning. With his watch it was taken off at night. Many years later, during his residence at Haworth, there was a strike. The hands in the neighborhood felt themselves aggrieved by the masters and refused to work. Mr. Bronte thought that they had been unjustly and unfairly treated, and he assisted them, by all the means in his power to keep the wolf from their doors, and avoid the incubus of debt. Several of the more influential inhabitants of Haworth and the neighborhood were mill-owners. They remonstrated pretty sharply with him, but he believed that his conduct was right and persevered in it. His opinions might be, often both wild and erroneous, his principles of action eccentric and strange, his views of life partial and almost misanthropical, but not one opinion that he held could be stirred or modified by any worldly motive. He acted up to his principles of action, and if any touch of misanthropy mingled with his view of mankind in general, his conduct to the individuals who came in personal contact with him did not agree with such view. It is true that he had strong and vehement prejudices and was obstinate in maintaining them, and that he was not dramatic enough in his perceptions to see how miserable others might be in a life that to him was all sufficient. But I do not pretend to be able to harmonize points of character and account for them and bring them all into one consistent and intelligible whole. The family with whom I have now to do shot their roots down deeper than I can penetrate. I cannot measure them. Much less is it for me to judge them. I have named these instances of eccentricity in the father, because I hold the knowledge of them to be necessary for a right understanding of the life of his daughter. Miss Brunty died in September 1821, and the lives of those quiet children must have become quieter and lonelier still. Charlotte tried hard in after-years to recall the remembrance of her mother and could bring back two or three pictures of her. One was when some time in the evening light she had been playing with her little boy, Patrick Branwell, in the parlor of Haworth Parsonage. But the recollections of four or five years old are of a very fragmentary character. Owing to some illness of the digestive organs, Mr. Brunty was obliged to be very careful about his diet. And in order to avoid temptation and possibly to have the quiet necessary for digestion, he had begun before his wife's death to take his dinner alone, a habit which he always retained. He did not require companionship, therefore he did not seek it, either in his walks or in his daily life. The quiet regularity of his domestic hours was only broken in upon by church wardens and visitors on parochial business, and sometimes by a neighbouring clergyman who came down the hills across the moors to mount up again to Haworth Parsonage and spend an evening there. But owing to Mrs. Brunty's death so soon after her husband had removed into the district, and also to the distances and to the bleak country to be traversed, the wives of these clerical friends did not accompany their husbands and the daughters grew up out of childhood into girlhood bereft in a singular manner of all such society as would have been natural to their age, sex, and station. But the children did not want society. To small infantile gayities they were unaccustomed, they were all and all to each other. I do not suppose that there ever was a family more tenderly bound to each other. Mariah read the newspapers and reported intelligence to her younger sisters, which it is wonderful they could take an interest in. But I suspect that they had no children's books, and that their eager minds browsed undisturbed among the wholesome pasture-ridge of English literature, as Charles Lamb expresses it. The servants of the household appear to have been much impressed with the little Brunty's extraordinary cleverness. In a letter which I had from him on this subject their father writes, the servants often said that they had never seen such a clever little child as Charlotte, and that they were obliged to be on their guard as to what they said and did before her, yet she and the servants always lived on good terms with each other. These servants are yet alive, elderly women residing in Bradford, they retain a faithful and fond recollection of Charlotte and speak of her unvarying kindness from the time when she was ever such a little child, when she would not rest till she had got the oldest used cradles and from the parsonage to the house where the parents of one of them lived to serve for a little infant sister. They tell of one long series of kind and thoughtful actions from this early period to the last weeks of Charlotte Brunty's life, and though she had left her place many years ago, one of these former servants went over from Bradford to Haworth on purpose to see Mr. Brunty and offer him her true sympathy when his last child died. I may add a little anecdote as a testimony to the admirable character of the likeness of Miss Brunty prefixed to this volume. A gentleman who had kindly interested himself in the preparation of this memoir took the first volume shortly after the publication to the house of this old servant in order to show her the portrait. The moment she caught a glimpse of the frontispiece, there she is in a minute, she exclaimed, come, John, look, to her husband, and her daughter was equally struck by the resemblance. There might not be many to regard the Brunty's with affection, but those who once loved them loved them long and well. I return to the father's letter. He says, When mere children as soon as they could read and write, Charlotte and her brothers and sisters used to invent and act little plays of their own in which the Duke of Wellington, my daughter Charlotte's hero, was sure to come off conqueror when a dispute would not unfrequently arise amongst them regarding the comparative merits of him, Bonaparte, Hannibal, and Caesar. When the argument got warm and rose to its height, as their mother was then dead I had sometimes to come in as arbitrate her, and settle the dispute according to the best of my judgment. Generally in the management of these concerns I frequently thought that I discovered signs of rising talent which I had seldom or never before seen in any of their age. A circumstance now occurs to my mind which I may as well mention. When my children were very young, when as far as I can remember the oldest was about ten years of age and the youngest about four, thinking that they knew more than I had yet discovered, in order to make them speak with less timidity, I deemed that if they were put under a sort of cover I might gain my end, and happening to have a mask in the house. I told them all to stand and speak boldly from under cover of the mask.  She answered, age and experience. I asked the next Emily, afterwards Ellis Bell, what I had best do with her brother Branwell, who was sometimes a naughty boy. She answered, reason with him, and when he won't listen to reason, whip him. I asked Branwell what was the best way of knowing the difference between the intellects of man and woman. He answered by considering the difference between them as to their bodies. I then asked Charlotte what was the best book in the world. She answered the Bible. And what was the next best? She answered the Book of Nature. I then asked the next what was the best mode of education for a woman. She answered that which would make her rule her house well. Lastly, I asked the oldest what was the best mode of spending time. She answered by laying it out in preparation for a happy eternity. I may not have given precisely their words, but I have nearly done so, as they made a deep and lasting impression on my memory. The substance, however, was exactly what I has stated. The strange and quaint simplicity of the mode taken by the father to ascertain the hidden characters of his children and the tone and character of these questions and answers show the curious education which was made by the circumstances surrounding the Brontes. They knew no other children. They knew no other modes of thought than what were suggested to them by the fragments of clerical conversation which they overheard in the parlor, or the subjects of village and local interest which they heard discussed in the kitchen. Each had their own strong characteristic flavor. They took a vivid interest in the public characters and the local and the foreign as well as home politics discussed in the newspapers. Long before Mariah Bronte died at the age of eleven, her father used to say he could converse with her on any of the leading topics of the day with as much freedom and pleasure as with any grown-up person. End of section four.