Miss Taylor wrote one or two useful letters to Mrs. Gaskell, while the latter was preparing her Memoir of Charlotte Brontë, and her favourable estimate of the book we have already seen. About 1859 or 1860 she returned to England and lived out the remainder of her days in complete seclusion in a Yorkshire home that she built for herself. The novel to which she refers in a letter to her friend never seems to have got itself written, or at least published, for it was not until 1890 that Miss Mary Taylor produced a work of fiction—Miss Miles. [259a] This novel strives to inculcate the advantages as well as the duty of women learning to make themselves independent of men. It is well, though not brilliantly written, and might, had the author possessed any of the latter-day gifts of self-advertisement, have attracted the public, if only by the mere fact that its author was a friend of Currer Bell’s. But Miss Taylor, it is clear, hated advertisement, and severely refused to be lionised by Brontë worshippers. Twenty years earlier than Miss Miles, I may add, she had preached the same gospel in less attractive guise. A series of papers in the Victorian Magazine were reprinted under the title of The First Duty of Women. [259b] ‘To inculcate the duty of earning money,’ she declares, ‘is the principal point in these articles.’ ‘It is to the feminine half of the world that the commonplace duty of providing for themselves is recommended,’ and she enforces her doctrine with considerable point, and by means of arguments much more accepted in our day than in hers. Miss Taylor died in March 1893, at High Royd, in Yorkshire, at the age of seventy-six. She will always occupy an honourable place in the Brontë story.
CHAPTER X: MARGARET WOOLER
The kindly, placid woman who will ever be remembered as Charlotte Brontë’s schoolmistress, had, it may be safely said, no history. She was a good-hearted woman, who did her work and went to her rest with no possible claim to a place in biography, save only that she assisted in the education of two great women. For that reason her brief story is worth setting forth here.
‘I am afraid we cannot give you very much information about our aunt, Miss Wooler,’ writes one of her kindred. ‘She was the eldest of a large family, born June 10th, 1792. She was extremely intelligent and highly educated, and throughout her long life, which lasted till within a week of completing her ninety-third year, she took the greatest interest in religious, political, and every charitable work, being a life governor to many institutions. Part of her early life was spent in the Isle of Wight with relations, where she was very intimate with the Sewell family, one of whom was the author of Amy Herbert. By her own family, she was ever looked up to with the greatest respect, being always called “Sister” by her brothers and sisters all her life. After she retired from her school at Roe Head, and afterwards Dewsbury Moor, she used sometimes to make her home for months together with my father and mother at Heckmondwike Vicarage; then she would go away for a few months to the sea-side, either alone or with one of her sisters. The last ten or twelve years of her life were spent at Gomersall, along with two of her sisters and a niece. The three sisters all died within a year, the youngest going first and the eldest last. They are buried in Birstall Churchyard, close to my parents and sister.
‘Miss Brontë was her pupil when at Roe Head; the late Miss Taylor and Miss E. Nussey were also her pupils at the same time. Afterwards Miss Brontë stayed on as governess. My father prepared Miss Brontë for confirmation when he was curate-in-charge at Mirfield Parish Church. When Miss Brontë was married, Miss Wooler was one of the guests. Mr. Brontë, not feeling well enough to go to Church that morning, my aunt gave her away, as she had no other relative there to do it.
‘Miss Wooler kept up a warm friendship with her former pupil, up to the time of her death.
‘My aunt was a most loyal subject, and devotedly attached to the Church. She made a point of reading the Bible steadily through every year, and a chapter out of her Italian Testament each day, for she used to say “she never liked to lose anything she had learnt.” It was always a pleasure, too, if she met with any one who could converse with her in French.
‘I fear these few items will not be of much use, but it is difficult to record anything of one who led such a quiet and retiring, but useful life.’
‘My recollections of Miss Wooler,’ writes Miss Nussey, ‘are, that she was short and stout, but graceful in her movements, very fluent in conversation and with a very sweet voice. She had Charlotte and myself to stay with her sometimes after we left school. We had delightful sitting-up times with her when the pupils had gone to bed. She would treat us so confidentially, relating her six years’ residence in the Isle of Wight with an uncle and aunt—Dr. More and his wife. Dr. More was on the military staff, and the society of the island had claims upon him. Mrs. More was a fine woman and very benevolent. Personally, Miss Wooler was like a lady abbess. She wore white, well-fitting dresses embroidered. Her long hair plaited, formed a coronet, and long large ringlets fell from her head to shoulders. She was not pretty or handsome, but her quiet dignity made her presence imposing. She was nobly scrupulous and conscientious—a woman of the greatest self-denial. Her income was small. She lived on half of it, and gave the remainder to charitable objects.’
It is clear that Charlotte was very fond of her schoolmistress, although they had one serious difference during the brief period of her stay at Dewsbury Moor with Anne. Anne was home-sick and ill, and Miss Wooler, with her own robust constitution, found it difficult to understand Anne’s illness. Charlotte, in arms for her sister, spoke out with vehemence, and both the sisters went home soon afterwards. [262] Here are a bundle of letters addressed to Miss Wooler.
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, August 28th, 1848.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I will write without further delay. It often happens that when we linger at first in answering a friend’s letter, obstacles occur to retard us to an inexcusably late period.
‘In my last I forgot to answer a question you asked me, and was sorry afterwards for the omission; I will begin, therefore, by replying to it, though I fear what I can give will now come a little late. You said Mrs. Chapham had some thoughts of sending her daughter to school, and wished to know whether the Clergy Daughters’ School at Casterton was an eligible place.
‘My personal knowledge of that institution is very much out of date, being derived from the experience of twenty years ago; the establishment was at that time in its infancy, and a sad rickety infancy it was. Typhus fever decimated the school periodically, and consumption and scrofula in every variety of form, which bad air and water, and bad, insufficient diet can generate, preyed on the ill-fated pupils. It would not then have been a fit place for any of Mrs. Chapham’s children. But, I understand, it is very much altered for the better since those days. The school is removed from Cowan Bridge (a situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque—low, damp, beautiful with wood and water) to Casterton; the accommodation, the diet, the discipline, the system of tuition, all are, I believe, entirely altered and greatly improved. I was told that such pupils as behaved well and remained at school till their educations were finished were provided with situations as governesses if they wish to adopt that vocation, and that much care was exercised in the selection; it was added they were also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on quitting Casterton.
‘If I have the opportunity of reading The Life of Dr. Arnold, I shall not fail to profit thereby; your recommendation makes me desirous to see it. Do you remember once speaking with approbation of a book called Mrs. Leicester’s School, which you said you had met with, and you wondered by whom it was written? I was reading the other day a lately published collection of the Letters of Charles Lamb, edited by Serjeant Talfourd, where I found it mentioned that Mrs. Leicester’s School was the first production of Lamb and his sister. These letters are themselves singularly interesting; they have hitherto been suppressed in all previous collections of Lamb’s works and relics, on account of the frequent allusions they contain to the unhappy malady of Miss Lamb, and a frightful incident which darkened her earlier years. She was, it appears, a woman of the sweetest disposition, and, in her normal state, of the highest and clearest intellect, but afflicted with periodical insanity which came on once a year, or oftener. To her parents she was a most tender and dutiful daughter, nursing them in their old age, when one was physically and the other mentally infirm, with unremitting care, and at the same time toiling to add something by needlework to the slender resources of the family. A succession of laborious days and sleepless nights brought on a frenzy fit, in which she had the miserable misfortune to kill her own mother. She was afterwards placed in a madhouse, where she would have been detained for life, had not her brother Charles promised to devote himself to her and take her under his care—and for her sake renounce a project of marriage he then entertained. An instance of abnegation of self scarcely, I think, to be paralleled in the annals of the “coarser sex.” They passed their subsequent lives together—models of fraternal affection, and would have been very happy but for the dread visitation to which Mary Lamb continued liable all her life. I thought it both a sad and edifying history. Your account of your little niece’s naïve delight in beholding the morning sea for the first time amused and pleased me; it proves she has some sensations—a refreshing circumstance in a day and generation when the natural phenomenon of children wholly destitute of all pretension to the same is by no means an unusual occurrence.
‘I have written a long letter as you requested me, but I fear you will not find it very amusing. With love to your little companion,—Believe me, my dear Miss Wooler, yours affectionately and respectfully,
‘C. Brontë.
‘Papa, I am most thankful to say, continues in very good health, considering his age. My sisters likewise are pretty well.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, March 31st, 1848.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I had been wishing to hear from you for some time before I received your last. There has been so much sickness during the last winter, and the influenza especially has been so severe and so generally prevalent, that the sight of suffering around us has frequently suggested fears for absent friends. Ellen Nussey told me, indeed, that neither you nor Miss C. Wooler had escaped the influenza, but, since your letter contains no allusion to your own health or hers, I trust you are completely recovered. I am most thankful to say that papa has hitherto been exempted from any attack. My sister and myself have each had a visit from it, but Anne is the only one with whom it stayed long or did much mischief; in her case it was attended with distressing cough and fever; but she is now better, though it has left her chest weak.
‘I remember well wishing my lot had been cast in the troubled times of the late war, and seeing in its exciting incidents a kind of stimulating charm which it made my pulse beat fast only to think of—I remember even, I think, being a little impatient that you would not fully sympathise with my feelings on this subject, that you heard my aspirations and speculations very tranquilly, and by no means seemed to think the flaming sword could be any pleasant addition to the joys of paradise. I have now outlived youth; and, though I dare not say that I have outlived all its illusions, that the romance is quite gone from life, the veil fallen from truth, and that I see both in naked reality, yet, certainly, many things are not to me what they were ten years ago; and amongst the rest, “the pomp and circumstance of war” have quite lost in my eyes their factitious glitter. I have still no doubt that the shock of moral earthquakes wakens a vivid sense of life both in nations and individuals; that the fear of dangers on a broad national scale diverts men’s minds momentarily from brooding over small private perils, and, for the time, gives them something like largeness of views; but, as little doubt have I that convulsive revolutions put back the world in all that is good, check civilisation, bring the dregs of society to its surface—in short, it appears to me that insurrections and battles are the acute diseases of nations, and that their tendency is to exhaust by their violence the vital energies of the countries where they occur. That England may be spared the spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the Continent and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray!
‘With the French and Irish I have no sympathy. With the Germans and Italians I think the case is different—as different as the love of freedom is from the lust of license.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, September 27th, 1850.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—When I tell you that I have already been to the Lakes this season, and that it is scarcely more than a month since I returned, you will understand that it is no longer within my power to accept your kind invitation.
‘I wish I could have gone to you. I wish your invitation had come first; to speak the truth, it would have suited me better than the one by which I profited. It would have been pleasant, soothing, in many ways beneficial, to have spent two weeks with you in your cottage-lodgings. But these reflections are vain. I have already had my excursion, and there is an end of it. Sir J. K. Shuttleworth is residing near Windermere, at a house called “The Briary,” and it was there I was staying for a little while in August. He very kindly showed me the scenery—as it can be seen from a carriage—and I discerned that the “Lake Country” is a glorious region, of which I had only seen the similitude in dream—waking or sleeping. But, my dear Miss Wooler, I only half enjoyed it, because I was only half at my ease. Decidedly I find it does not agree with me to prosecute the search of the picturesque in a carriage; a waggon, a spring-cart, even a post-chaise might do, but the carriage upsets everything. I longed to slip out unseen, and to run away by myself in amongst the hills and dales. Erratic and vagrant instincts tormented me, and these I was obliged to control, or rather, suppress, for fear of growing in any degree enthusiastic, and thus drawing attention to the “lioness,” the authoress, the artist. Sir J. K. Shuttleworth is a man of ability and intellect, but not a man in whose presence one willingly unbends.
‘You say you suspect I have found a large circle of acquaintance by this time. No, I cannot say that I have. I doubt whether I possess either the wish or the power to do so. A few friends I should like to know well; if such knowledge brought proportionate regard I could not help concentrating my feelings. Dissipation, I think, appears synonymous with dilution. However, I have as yet scarcely been tried. During the month I spent in London in the spring, I kept very quiet, having the fear of “lionising” before my eyes. I only went out once to dinner, and was once present at an evening party; and the only visits I have paid have been to Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and my publishers. From this system I should not like to depart. As far as I can see, indiscriminate visiting tends only to a waste of time and a vulgarising of character. Besides, it would be wrong to leave papa often; he is now in his 75th year, the infirmities of age begin to creep upon him. During the summer he has been much harassed by chronic bronchitis, but, I am thankful to say, he is now somewhat better. I think my own health has derived benefit from change and exercise.
‘You ask after Ellen Nussey. When I saw Ellen, about two months ago, she looked remarkably well. I sometimes hear small fragments of gossip which amuse me. Somebody professes to have authority for saying that “When Miss Brontë was in London she neglected to attend divine service on the Sabbath, and in the week spent her time in going about to balls, theatres, and operas.” On the other hand, the London quidnuncs make my seclusion a matter of wonder, and devise twenty romantic fictions to account for it. Formerly I used to listen to report with interest and a certain credulity; I am now grown deaf and sceptical. Experience has taught me how absolutely devoid of foundations her stories may be.
‘With the sincere hope that your own health is better, and kind remembrances to all old friends whenever you see them or write to them (and whether or not their feeling to me has ceased to be friendly, which I fear is the case in some instances),—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, always yours, affectionately and respectfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, July 14th, 1851.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—My first feeling on receiving your note was one of disappointment; but a little consideration sufficed to show me that “all was for the best.” In truth, it was a great piece of extravagance on my part to ask you and Ellen together; it is much better to divide such good things. To have your visit in prospect will console me when hers is in retrospect. Not that I mean to yield to the weakness of clinging dependently to the society of friends, however dear, but still as an occasional treat I must value and even seek such society as a necessary of life. Let me know, then, whenever it suits your convenience to come to Haworth, and, unless some change I cannot now foresee occurs, a ready and warm welcome will await you. Should there be any cause rendering it desirable to defer the visit, I will tell you frankly.
‘The pleasures of society I cannot offer you, nor those of fine scenery, but I place very much at your command the moors, some books, a series of “curling-hair times,” and an old pupil into the bargain. Ellen may have told you that I have spent a month in London this summer. When you come you shall ask what questions you like on that point, and I will answer to the best of my stammering ability. Do not press me much on the subject of the “Crystal Palace.” I went there five times, and certainly saw some interesting things, and the coup d’oeil is striking and bewildering enough, but I never was able to get up any raptures on the subject, and each renewed visit was made under coercion rather than my own free-will. It is an excessively bustling place; and, after all, it’s wonders appeal too exclusively to the eye and rarely touch the heart or head. I make an exception to the last assertion in favour of those who possess a large range of scientific knowledge. Once I went with Sir David Brewster, and perceived that he looked on objects with other eyes than mine.
‘Ellen I find is writing, and will therefore deliver her own messages of regard. If papa were in the room he would, I know, desire his respects; and you must take both respects and a good bundle of something more cordial from yours very faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, September 22nd, 1851.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Our visitor (a relative from Cornwall) having left us, the coast is now clear, so that whenever you feel inclined to come, papa and I will be truly glad to see you. I do wish the splendid weather we have had and are having may accompany you here. I fear I have somewhat grudged the fine days, fearing a change before you come.—Believe me, with papa’s regards, yours respectfully and affectionately,
‘C. Brontë.
‘Come soon; if you can, on Wednesday.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘October 3rd, 1851.
‘Dear Nell,—Do not think I have forgotten you because I have not written since your last. Every day I have had you more or less in my thoughts, and wondered how your mother was getting on; let me have a line of information as soon as possible. I have been busy, first with a somewhat unexpected visitor, a cousin from Cornwall, who has been spending a few days with us, and now with Miss Wooler, who came on Monday. The former personage we can discuss any time when we meet. Miss Wooler is and has been very pleasant. She is like good wine: I think time improves her; and really whatever she may be in person, in mind she is younger than when at Roe Head. Papa and she get on extremely well. I have just heard papa walk into the dining-room and pay her a round compliment on her good-sense. I think so far she has been pretty comfortable and likes Haworth, but as she only brought a small hand-basket of luggage with her she cannot stay long.
‘How are you? Write directly. With my love to your mother, etc., good-bye, dear Nell.—Yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.
TO MISS WOOLER
‘February 6th, 1852.
‘Ellen Nussey, it seems, told you I spent a fortnight in London last December; they wished me very much to stay a month, alleging that I should in that time be able to secure a complete circle of acquaintance, but I found a fortnight of such excitement quite enough. The whole day was usually spent in sight-seeing, and often the evening was spent in society; it was more than I could bear for a length of time. On one occasion I met a party of my critics—seven of them; some of them had been very bitter foes in print, but they were prodigiously civil face to face. These gentlemen seemed infinitely grander, more pompous, dashing, showy, than the few authors I saw. Mr. Thackeray, for instance, is a man of quiet, simple demeanour; he is however looked upon with some awe and even distrust. His conversation is very peculiar, too perverse to be pleasant. It was proposed to me to see Charles Dickens, Lady Morgan, Mesdames Trollope, Gore, and some others, but I was aware these introductions would bring a degree of notoriety I was not disposed to encounter; I declined, therefore, with thanks.
‘Nothing charmed me more during my stay in town than the pictures I saw. One or two private collections of Turner’s best water-colour drawings were indeed a treat; his later oil-paintings are strange things—things that baffle description.
‘I twice saw Macready act—once in Macbeth and once in Othello. I astonished a dinner-party by honestly saying I did not like him. It is the fashion to rave about his splendid acting. Anything more false and artificial, less genuinely impressive than his whole style I could scarcely have imagined. The fact is, the stage-system altogether is hollow nonsense. They act farces well enough: the actors comprehend their parts and do them justice. They comprehend nothing about tragedy or Shakespeare, and it is a failure. I said so; and by so saying produced a blank silence—a mute consternation. I was, indeed, obliged to dissent on many occasions, and to offend by dissenting. It seems now very much the custom to admire a certain wordy, intricate, obscure style of poetry, such as Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes. Some pieces were referred to about which Currer Bell was expected to be very rapturous, and failing in this, he disappointed.
‘London people strike a provincial as being very much taken up with little matters about which no one out of particular town-circles cares much; they talk, too, of persons—literary men and women—whose names are scarcely heard in the country, and in whom you cannot get up an interest. I think I should scarcely like to live in London, and were I obliged to live there, I should certainly go little into company, especially I should eschew the literary coteries.
‘You told me, my dear Miss Wooler, to write a long letter. I have obeyed you.—Believe me now, yours affectionately and respectfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, March 12th, 1852.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your kind note holds out a strong temptation, but one that must be resisted. From home I must not go unless health or some cause equally imperative render a change necessary. For nearly four months now (i.e. since I became ill) I have not put pen to paper. My work has been lying untouched, and my faculties have been rusting for want of exercise. Further relaxation is out of the question, and I will not permit myself to think of it. My publisher groans over my long delays; I am sometimes provoked to check the expression of his impatience with short and crusty answers.
‘Yet the pleasure I now deny myself I would fain regard as only deferred. I heard something about your proposing to visit Scarbro’ in the course of the summer, and could I by the close of July or August bring my task to a certain point, how glad should I be to join you there for awhile!
‘Ellen will probably go to the south about May to make a stay of two or three months; she has formed a plan for my accompanying her and taking lodgings on the Sussex Coast; but the scheme seems to me impracticable for many reasons, and, moreover, my medical man doubts the advisability of my going southward in summer, he says it might prove very enervating, whereas Scarbro’ or Burlington would brace and strengthen. However, I dare not lay plans at this distance of time. For me so much must depend, first on papa’s health (which throughout the winter has been, I am thankful to say, really excellent), and second, on the progress of work, a matter not wholly contingent on wish or will, but lying in a great measure beyond the reach of effort and out of the pale of calculation.
‘I will not write more at present, as I wish to save this post. All in the house would join in kind remembrances to you if they knew I was writing. Tabby and Martha both frequently inquire after Miss Wooler, and desire their respects when an opportunity offers of presenting the same.—Believe me, yours always affectionately and respectfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, September 2nd, 1852.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I have delayed answering your very kind letter till I could speak decidedly respecting papa’s health. For some weeks after the attack there were frequent variations, and once a threatening of a relapse, but I trust his convalescence may now be regarded as confirmed. The acute inflammation of the eye, which distressed papa so much as threatening loss of sight, but which I suppose was merely symptomatic of the rush of blood to the brain, is now quite subsided; the partial paralysis has also disappeared; the appetite is better; weakness with occasional slight giddiness seem now the only lingering traces of disease. I am assured that with papa’s excellent constitution, there is every prospect of his still being spared to me for many years.
‘For two things I have reason to be most thankful, viz., that the mental faculties have remained quite untouched, and also that my own health and strength have been found sufficient for the occasion. Solitary as I certainly was at Filey, I yet derived great benefit from the change.
‘It would be pleasant at the sea-side this fine warm weather, and I should dearly like to be there with you; to such a treat, however, I do not now look forward at all. You will fully understand the impossibility of my enjoying peace of mind during absence from papa under present circumstances; his strength must be very much more fully restored before I can think of leaving home.
‘My dear Miss Wooler, in case you should go to Scarbro’ this season, may I request you to pay one visit to the churchyard and see if the inscription on the stone has been altered as I directed. We have heard nothing since on the subject, and I fear the alteration may have been neglected.
‘Ellen has made a long stay in the south, but I believe she will soon return now, and I am looking forward to the pleasure of having her company in the autumn.
‘With kind regards to all old friends, and sincere love to yourself,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours affectionately and respectfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, September 21st, 1852.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I was truly sorry to hear that when Ellen called at the Parsonage you were suffering from influenza. I know that an attack of this debilitating complaint is no trifle in your case, as its effects linger with you long. It has been very prevalent in this neighbourhood. I did not escape, but the sickness and fever only lasted a few days and the cough was not severe. Papa, I am thankful to say, continues pretty well; Ellen thinks him little, if at all altered.
‘And now for your kind present. The book will be precious to me—chiefly, perhaps, for the sake of the giver, but also for its own sake, for it is a good book; and I wish I may be enabled to read it with some approach to the spirit you would desire. Its perusal came recommended in such a manner as to obviate danger of neglect; its place shall always be on my dressing-table.
‘As to the other part of the present, it arrived under these circumstances:
‘For a month past an urgent necessity to buy and make some things for winter-wear had been importuning my conscience; the buying might be soon effected, but the making was a more serious consideration. At this juncture Ellen arrives with a good-sized parcel, which, when opened, discloses the things I required, perfectly made and of capital useful fabric; adorned too—which seemly decoration it is but too probable I might myself have foregone as an augmentation of trouble not to be lightly incurred. I felt strong doubts as to my right to profit by this sort of fairy gift, so unlooked for and so curiously opportune; on reading the note accompanying the garments, I am told that to accept will be to confer a favour(!) The doctrine is too palatable to be rejected; I even waive all nice scrutiny of its soundness—in short, I submit with as good a grace as may be.
‘Ellen has only been my companion one little week. I would not have her any longer, for I am disgusted with myself and my delays, and consider it was a weak yielding to temptation in me to send for her at all; but, in truth, my spirits were getting low—prostrate sometimes, and she has done me inexpressible good. I wonder when I shall see you at Haworth again. Both my father and the servants have again and again insinuated a distinct wish that you should be requested to come in the course of the summer and autumn, but I always turned a deaf ear: “Not yet,” was my thought, “I want first to be free—work first, then pleasure.”
‘I venture to send by Ellen a book which may amuse an hour: a Scotch tale by a minister’s wife. It seems to me well told, and may serve to remind you of characters and manners you have seen in Scotland. When you have time to write a line, I shall feel anxious to hear how you are. With kind regards to all old friends, and truest affection to yourself; in which Ellen joins me,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours gratefully and respectfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, October 8th, 1852.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I wished much to write to you immediately on my return home, but I found several little matters demanding attention, and have been kept busy till now.
‘I reached home about five o’clock in the afternoon, and the anxiety which is inseparable from a return after absence was pleasantly relieved by finding papa well and cheerful. He inquired after you with interest. I gave him your kind regards, and he specially charged me whenever I wrote to present his in return, and to say also that he hoped to see you at Haworth at the earliest date which shall be convenient to you.
‘The week I spent at Hornsea was a happy and pleasant week. Thank you, my dear Miss Wooler, for the true kindness which gave it its chief charm. I shall think of you often, especially when I walk out, and during the long evenings. I believe the weather has at length taken a turn: to-day is beautifully fine. I wish I were at Hornsea and just now preparing to go out with you to walk on the sands or along the lake.
I would not have you to fatigue yourself with writing to me when you are not inclined, but yet I should be glad to hear from you some day ere long. When you do write, tell me how you liked The Experience of Life, and whether you have read Esmond, and what you think of it.—Believe me always yours, with true affection and respect,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Brookroyd, December 7th, 1852.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Since you were so kind as to take some interest in my small tribulation of Saturday, I write a line to tell you that on Sunday morning a letter came which put me out of pain and obviated the necessity of an impromptu journey to London.
‘The money transaction, of course, remains the same, and perhaps is not quite equitable; but when an author finds that his work is cordially approved, he can pardon the rest—indeed, my chief regret now lies in the conviction that papa will be disappointed: he expected me to earn £500, nor did I myself anticipate that a lower sum would be offered; however, £250 is not to be despised. [275]
‘Your sudden departure from Brookroyd left a legacy of consternation to the bereaved breakfast-table. Ellen was not easily to be soothed, though I diligently represented to her that you had quitted Haworth with the same inexorable haste. I am commissioned to tell you, first, that she has decided not to go to Yarmouth till after Christmas, her mother’s health having within the last few days betrayed some symptoms not unlike those which preceded her former illness; and though it is to be hoped that those may pass without any untoward result, yet they naturally increase Ellen’s reluctance to leave home for the present.
‘Secondly, I am to say, that when the present you left came to be examined, the costliness and beauty of it inspired some concern. Ellen thinks you are too kind, as I also think every morning, for I am now benefiting by your kind gift.
‘With sincere regards to all at the Parsonage,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, yours respectfully and affectionately,
‘C. Brontë.
‘P.S.—I shall direct that Esmond (Mr. Thackeray’s work) shall be sent on to you as soon as the Hunsworth party have read it. It has already reached a second edition.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘Haworth, January 20th, 1853.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—Your last kind note would not have remained so long unanswered if I had been in better health. While Ellen was with me, I seemed to revive wonderfully, but began to grow worse again the day she left; and this falling off proved symptomatic of a relapse. My doctor called the next day; he said the headache from which I was suffering arose from inertness in the liver.
‘Thank God, I now feel better; and very grateful am I for the improvement—grateful no less for my dear father’s sake than for my own.
‘Most fully can I sympathise with you in the anxiety you express about your friend. The thought of his leaving England and going out alone to a strange country, with all his natural sensitiveness and retiring diffidence, is indeed painful; still, my dear Miss Wooler, should he actually go to America, I can but then suggest to you the same source of comfort and support you have suggested to me, and of which indeed I know you never lose sight—namely, reliance on Providence. “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” and He will doubtless care for a good, though afflicted man, amidst whatever difficulties he may be thrown. When you write again, I should be glad to know whether your anxiety on this subject is relieved. I was truly glad to learn through Ellen that Ilkley still continued to agree with your health. Earnestly trusting that the New Year may prove to you a happy and tranquil time,—I am, my dear Miss Wooler, sincerely and affectionately yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS WOOLER
‘January 27th, 1853.
‘My dear Miss Wooler,—I received your letter here in London where I have been staying about three weeks, and shall probably remain a few days longer. Villette is to be published to-morrow. Its appearance has been purposely delayed hitherto, to avoid discourteous clashing with Mrs. Gaskell’s new work. Your name was one of the first on the list of presentees, and directed to the Parsonage, where I shall also send this letter, as you mention that you are to leave Halifax at the close of this week. I will bear in mind what you say about Mrs. Morgan; and should I ever have an opportunity of serving her, will not omit to do so. I only wish my chance of being useful were greater. Schools seem to be considered almost obsolete in London. Ladies’ colleges, with professors for every branch of instruction, are superseding the old-fashioned seminary. How the system will work I can’t tell. I think the college classes might be very useful for finishing the education of ladies intended to go out as governesses, but what progress little girls will make in them seems to me another question.
‘My dear Miss Wooler, I read attentively all you say about Miss Martineau; the sincerity and constancy of your solicitude touches me very much. I should grieve to neglect or oppose your advice, and yet I do not feel that it would be right to give Miss Martineau up entirely. There is in her nature much that is very noble. Hundreds have forsaken her, more, I fear, in the apprehension that their fair names may suffer if seen in connection with hers, than from any pure convictions, such as you suggest, of harm consequent on her fatal tenets. With these fair-weather friends I cannot bear to rank. And for her sin, is it not one of those which God and not man must judge?
‘To speak the truth, my dear Miss Wooler, I believe if you were in my place, and knew Miss Martineau as I do—if you had shared with me the proofs of her rough but genuine kindliness, and had seen how she secretly suffers from abandonment, you would be the last to give her up; you would separate the sinner from the sin, and feel as if the right lay rather in quietly adhering to her in her strait, while that adherence is unfashionable and unpopular, than in turning on her your back when the world sets the example. I believe she is one of those whom opposition and desertion make obstinate in error, while patience and tolerance touch her deeply and keenly, and incline her to ask of her own heart whether the course she has been pursuing may not possibly be a faulty course. However, I have time to think of this subject, and I shall think of it seriously.
‘As to what I have seen in London during my present visit, I hope one day to tell you all about it by our fireside at home. When you write again will you name a time when it would suit you to come and see me; everybody in the house would be glad of your presence; your last visit is pleasantly remembered by all.
‘With kindest regards,—I am always, affectionately and respectfully yours,
‘C. Brontë.’
A note to Miss Nussey written after Charlotte’s death indicates a fairly shrewd view on the part of Miss Wooler as regards the popularity of her friend.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘My dear Miss Ellen,—The third edition of Charlotte’s Life has at length ventured out. Our curate tells me he is assured it is quite inferior to the former ones. So you see Mrs. Gaskell displayed worldly wisdom in going out of her way to furnish gossip for the discerning public. Did I mention to you that Mrs. Gibson knows two or three young ladies in Hull who finished their education at Mme. Héger’s pension? Mrs. G. said they read Villette with keen interest—of course they would. I had a nice walk with a Suffolk lady, who was evidently delighted to meet with one who had personally known our dear C. B., and would not soon have wearied of a conversation in which she was the topic.—Love to yourself and sisters, from—Your affectionate,
‘M. Wooler.’
CHAPTER XI: THE CURATES AT HAWORTH
Something has already been said concerning the growth of the population of Haworth during the period of Mr. Brontë’s Incumbency. It was 4668 in 1821, and 6301 in 1841. This makes it natural that Mr. Brontë should have applied to his Bishop for assistance in his pastoral duty, and such aid was permanently granted him in 1838, when Mr. William Weightman became his first curate. [280] Mr. Weightman would appear to have been a favourite. He many times put in an appearance at the parsonage, although I do not recognise him in any one of Charlotte’s novels, and he certainly has no place among the three famous curates of Shirley. He would seem to have been the only man, other than her father and brother, whom Emily was known to tolerate. We know that the girls considered him effeminate, and they called him ‘Celia Amelia,’ under which name he frequently appears in Charlotte’s letters to Ellen Nussey. That he was good-natured seems to be indisputable. There is one story of his walking to Bradford to post valentines to the incumbent’s daughters, when he found they had never received any. There is another story of a trip to Keighley to hear him lecture. He was a bit of a poet, it seems, and Ellen Nussey was the heroine of some of his verses when she visited at Haworth. Here is a letter which throws some light upon Charlotte’s estimate of the young man—he was twenty-three years of age at this time.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘March 17th, 1840.
‘My dear Mrs. Eleanor,—I wish to scold you with a forty-horse power for having told Mary Taylor that I had requested you not to tell her everything, which piece of information has thrown her into tremendous ill-humour, besides setting the teeth of her curiosity on edge. Tell her forthwith every individual occurrence, including valentines, “Fair E---, Fair E---,” etc.; “Away fond love,” etc.; “Soul divine,” and all; likewise the painting of Miss Celia Amelia Weightman’s portrait, and that young lady’s frequent and agreeable visits. By-the-bye, I inquired into the opinion of that intelligent and interesting young person respecting you. It was a favourable one. “She” thought you a fine-looking girl, and a very good girl into the bargain. Have you received the newspaper which has been despatched, containing a notice of “her” lecture at Keighley? Mr. Morgan came and stayed three days. By Miss Weightman’s aid, we got on pretty well. It was amazing to see with what patience and good-temper the innocent creature endured that fat Welshman’s prosing, though she confessed afterwards that she was almost done up by his long stories. We feel very dull without you. I wish those three weeks were to come over again. Aunt has been at times precious cross since you went—however, she is rather better now. I had a bad cold on Sunday and stayed at home most of the day. Anne’s cold is better, but I don’t consider her strong yet. What did your sister Anne say about my omitting to send a drawing for the Jew basket? I hope she was too much occupied with the thoughts of going to Earnley to think of it. I am obliged to cut short my letter. Everybody in the house unites in sending their love to you. Miss Celia Amelia Weightman also desires to be remembered. Write soon again and—Believe me, yours unalterably,
‘Charivari.’
He would seem to have been a much teased curate. Now it is Miss Ellen Nussey, now a Miss Agnes Walton, who is supposed to be the object of his devotion.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘April 9th, 1840.
‘My dear Mrs. Menelaus,—I think I am exceedingly good to write to you so soon, indeed I am quite afraid you will begin to consider me intrusive with my frequent letters. I ought by right to let an interval of a quarter of a year elapse between each communication, and I will, in time; never fear me. I shall improve in procrastination as I get older.
‘My hand is trembling like that of an old man, so I don’t expect you will be able to read my writing; never mind, put the letter by and I’ll read it to you the next time I see you.
‘I have been painting a portrait of Agnes Walton for our friend Miss Celia Amelia. You would laugh to see how his eyes sparkle with delight when he looks at it, like a pretty child pleased with a new plaything. Good-bye to you. Let me have no more of your humbug about Cupid, etc. You know as well as I do it is all groundless trash.
‘C. Brontë.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘August 20th, 1840.
‘Dear Mrs. Ellen,—I was very well pleased with your capital long letter. A better farce than the whole affair of that letter-opening (ducks and Mr. Weightman included) was never imagined. [282] By-the-bye, speaking of Mr. W., I told you he was gone to pass his examination at Ripon six weeks ago. He is not come back yet, and what has become of him we don’t know. Branwell has received one letter since he went, speaking rapturously of Agnes Walton, describing certain balls at which he had figured, and announcing that he had been twice over head and ears desperately in love. It is my devout belief that his reverence left Haworth with the fixed intention of never returning. If he does return, it will be because he has not been able to get a “living.” Haworth is not the place for him. He requires novelty, a change of faces, difficulties to be overcome. He pleases so easily that he soon gets weary of pleasing at all. He ought not to have been a parson; certainly he ought not. Our august relations, as you choose to call them, are gone back to London. They never stayed with us, they only spent one day at our house. Have you seen anything of the Miss Woolers lately? I wish they, or somebody else, would get me a situation. I have answered advertisements without number, but my applications have met with no success.
‘Caliban.’
One wonders if a single letter by Charlotte Brontë applying for a ‘situation’ has been preserved! I have not seen one.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘September 29th, 1840.
‘I know Mrs. Ellen is burning with eagerness to hear something about William Weightman. I think I’ll plague her by not telling her a word. To speak heaven’s truth, I have precious little to say, inasmuch as I seldom see him, except on a Sunday, when he looks as handsome, cheery, and good-tempered as usual. I have indeed had the advantage of one long conversation since his return from Westmorland, when he poured out his whole warm fickle soul in fondness and admiration of Agnes Walton. Whether he is in love with her or not I can’t say; I can only observe that it sounds very like it. He sent us a prodigious quantity of game while he was away—a brace of wild ducks, a brace of black grouse, a brace of partridges, ditto of snipes, ditto of curlews, and a large salmon. If you were to ask Mr. Weightman’s opinion of my character just now, he would say that at first he thought me a cheerful chatty kind of body, but that on farther acquaintance he found me of a capricious changeful temper, never to be reckoned on. He does not know that I have regulated my manner by his—that I was cheerful and chatty so long as he was respectful, and that when he grew almost contemptuously familiar I found it necessary to adopt a degree of reserve which was not natural, and therefore was very painful to me. I find this reserve very convenient, and consequently I intend to keep it up.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘November 12th, 1840.
‘My dear Nell,—You will excuse this scrawled sheet of paper, inasmuch as I happen to be out of that article, this being the only available sheet I can find in my desk. I have effaced one of the delectable portraitures, but have spared the others—lead pencil sketches of horse’s head, and man’s head—being moved to that act of clemency by the recollection that they are not the work of my hand, but of the sacred fingers of his reverence William Weightman. You will discern that the eye is a little too elevated in the horse’s head, otherwise I can assure you it is no such bad attempt. It shows taste and something of an artist’s eye. The fellow had no copy for it. He sketched it, and one or two other little things, when he happened to be here one evening, but you should have seen the vanity with which he afterwards regarded his productions. One of them represented the flying figure of Fame inscribing his own name on the clouds.
‘Mrs. Brook and I have interchanged letters. She expressed herself pleased with the style of my application—with its candour, etc. (I took care to tell her that if she wanted a showy, elegant, fashionable personage, I was not the man for her), but she wants music and singing. I can’t give her music and singing, so of course the negotiation is null and void. Being once up, however, I don’t mean to sit down till I have got what I want; but there is no sense in talking about unfinished projects, so we’ll drop the subject. Consider this last sentence a hint from me to be applied practically. It seems Miss Wooler’s school is in a consumptive state of health. I have been endeavouring to obtain a reinforcement of pupils for her, but I cannot succeed, because Mrs. Heap is opening a new school in Bradford.
‘C. Brontë.’
‘January 10th, 1841.
‘My dear Ellen,—I promised to write to you, and therefore I must keep my promise, though I have neither much to say nor much time to say it in.
‘Mary Taylor’s visit has been a very pleasant one to us, and I believe to herself also. She and Mr. Weightman have had several games at chess, which generally terminated in a species of mock hostility. Mr. Weightman is better in health; but don’t set your heart on him, I’m afraid he is very fickle—not to you in particular, but to half a dozen other ladies. He has just cut his inamorata at Swansea, and sent her back all her letters. His present object of devotion is Caroline Dury, to whom he has just despatched a most passionate copy of verses. Poor lad, his sanguine temperament bothers him grievously.
‘That Swansea affair seems to me somewhat heartless as far as I can understand it, though I have not heard a very clear explanation. He sighs as much as ever. I have not mentioned your name to him yet, nor do I mean to do so until I have a fair opportunity of gathering his real mind. Perhaps I may never mention it at all, but on the contrary carefully avoid all allusion to you. It will just depend upon the further opinion I may form of his character. I am not pleased to find that he was carrying on a regular correspondence with this lady at Swansea all the time he was paying such pointed attention to you; and now the abrupt way in which he has cut her off, and the evident wandering instability of his mind is no favourable symptom at all. I shall not have many opportunities of observing him for a month to come. As for the next fortnight, he will be sedulously engaged in preparing for his ordination, and the fortnight after he will spend at Appleby and Crackenthorp with Mr. and Miss Walton. Don’t think about him; I am not afraid you will break your heart, but don’t think about him.
‘Give my love to Mercy and your mother, and,—Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘Ça’ira.’
‘Rawdon, March 3rd, 1841.
‘My dear Ellen,—I dare say you have received a valentine this year from our bonny-faced friend the curate of Haworth. I got a precious specimen a few days before I left home, but I knew better how to treat it than I did those we received a year ago. I am up to the dodges and artifices of his lordship’s character. He knows I know him, and you cannot conceive how quiet and respectful he has long been. Mind I am not writing against him—I never will do that. I like him very much. I honour and admire his generous, open disposition, and sweet temper—but for all the tricks, wiles, and insincerities of love, the gentleman has not his match for twenty miles round. He would fain persuade every woman under thirty whom he sees that he is desperately in love with her. I have a great deal more to say, but I have not a moment’s time to write it in. My dear Ellen, do write to me soon, don’t forget.—Good-bye.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘March 21st, 1841.
‘My dearest Ellen,—I do not know how to wear your pretty little handcuffs. When you come you shall explain the mystery. I send you the precious valentine. Make much of it. Remember the writer’s blue eyes, auburn hair, and rosy cheeks. You may consider the concern addressed to yourself, for I have no doubt he intended it to suit anybody.
‘Fare-thee-well.
‘C. B.’
Then there are these slighter inferences, that concerning Anne being particularly interesting.
‘Write long letters to me, and tell me everything you can think of, and about everybody. “His young reverence,” as you tenderly call him, is looking delicate and pale; poor thing, don’t you pity him? I do from my heart! When he is well, and fat, and jovial, I never think of him, but when anything ails him I am always sorry. He sits opposite to Anne at church, sighing softly, and looking out of the corners of his eyes to win her attention, and Anne is so quiet, her look so downcast, they are a picture.’
‘July 19th, 1841.
‘Our revered friend, W. W., is quite as bonny, pleasant, lighthearted, good-tempered, generous, careless, fickle, and unclerical as ever. He keeps up his correspondence with Agnes Walton. During the last spring he went to Appleby, and stayed upwards of a month.’
During the governess and Brussels episodes in Charlotte’s life we lose sight of Mr. Weightman, and the next record is of his death, which took place in September 1842, while Charlotte and Emily were in Brussels. Mr. Brontë preached the funeral sermon, [287] stating by way of introduction that for the twenty years and more that he had been in Haworth he had never before read his sermon. ‘This is owing to a conviction in my mind,’ he says, ‘that in general, for the ordinary run of hearers, extempore preaching, though accompanied with some peculiar disadvantages, is more likely to be of a colloquial nature, and better adapted, on the whole, to the majority.’ His departure from the practice on this occasion, he explains, is due to the request that his sermon should be printed.
Mr. Weightman, he told his hearers, was a native of Westmoreland, educated at the University of Durham. ‘While he was there,’ continued Mr. Brontë, ‘I applied to the justly venerated Apostolical Bishop of this diocese, requesting his Lordship to send me a curate adequate to the wants and wishes of the parishioners. This application was not in vain. Our Diocesan, in the scriptural character of the Overlooker and Head of his clergy, made an admirable choice, which more than answered my expectations, and probably yours. The Church Pastoral Aid Society, in their pious liberality, lent their pecuniary aid, without which all efforts must have failed.’ ‘He had classical attainments of the first order, and, above all, his religious principles were sound and orthodox,’ concludes Mr. Brontë. Mr. Weightman was twenty-six years of age when he died. His successor was Mr. Peter Augustus Smith, whom Charlotte Brontë has made famous in Shirley as Mr. Malone, curate of Briarfield. Mr. Smith was Mr. A. B. Nicholls’s predecessor at Haworth. Here is Charlotte Brontë’s vigorous treatment of him in a letter to her friend.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘January 26th, 1844.
‘Dear Nell,—We were all very glad to get your letter this morning. We, I say, as both papa and Emily were anxious to hear of the safe arrival of yourself and the little varmint. [288]
‘As you conjecture, Emily and I set to shirt-making the very day after you left, and we have stuck to it pretty closely ever since. We miss your society at least as much as you miss ours, depend upon it. Would that you were within calling distance, that you could as you say burst in upon us in an afternoon, and, being despoiled of your bonnet and shawl, be fixed in the rocking-chair for the evening once or twice every week. I certainly cherished a dream during your stay that such might one day be the case, but the dream is somewhat dissipating. I allude of course to Mr. Smith, to whom you do not allude in your letter, and I think you foolish for the omission. I say the dream is dissipating, because Mr. Smith has not mentioned your name since you left, except once when papa said you were a nice girl, he said, “Yes, she is a nice girl—rather quiet. I suppose she has money,” and that is all. I think the words speak volumes; they do not prejudice one in favour of Mr. Smith. I can well believe what papa has often affirmed, and continues to affirm, i.e., that Mr. Smith is a very fickle man, that if he marries he will soon get tired of his wife, and consider her as a burden, also that money will be a principal consideration with him in marrying.
‘Papa has two or three times expressed a fear that since Mr. Smith paid you so much attention he will perhaps have made an impression on your mind which will interfere with your comfort. I tell him I think not, as I believe you to be mistress of yourself in those matters. Still, he keeps saying that I am to write to you and dissuade you from thinking of him. I never saw papa make himself so uneasy about a thing of the kind before; he is usually very sarcastic on such subjects.
‘Mr. Smith be hanged! I never thought very well of him, and I am much disposed to think very ill of him at this blessed minute. I have discussed the subject fully, for where is the use of being mysterious and constrained?—it is not worth while.
‘Be sure you write to me and immediately, and tell me whether you have given up eating and drinking altogether. I am not surprised at people thinking you looked pale and thin. I shall expect another letter on Thursday—don’t disappoint me.
‘My best regards to your mother and sisters.—Yours, somewhat irritated,
‘C. B.’
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Dear Nell,—I did not “swear at the postman” when I saw another letter from you. And I hope you will not “swear” at me when I tell you that I cannot think of leaving home at present, even to have the pleasure of joining you at Harrogate, but I am obliged to you for thinking of me. I have nothing new about Rev. Lothario Smith. I think I like him a little bit less every day. Mr. Weightman was worth 200 Mr. Smiths tied in a bunch. Good-bye. I fear by what you say, “Flossy jun.” behaves discreditably, and gets his mistress into scrapes.
‘C. Brontë.’
‘March 16th, 1844.
‘Dear Ellen,—I received your kind note last Saturday, and should have answered it immediately, but in the meantime I had a letter from Mary Taylor, and had to reply to her, and to write sundry letters to Brussels to send by opportunity. My sight will not allow me to write several letters per day, so I was obliged to do it gradually.
‘I send you two more circulars because you ask for them, not because I hope their distribution will produce any result. I hope that if a time should come when Emily, Anne, or I shall be able to serve you, we shall not forget that you have done your best to serve us.
‘Mr. Smith is gone hence. He is in Ireland at present, and will stay there six weeks. He has left neither a bad nor a good character behind him. Nobody regrets him, because nobody could attach themselves to one who could attach himself to nobody. I thought once he had a regard for you, but I do not think so now. He has never asked after you since you left, nor even mentioned you in my hearing, except to say once when I purposely alluded to you, that you were “not very locomotive.” The meaning of the observation I leave you to divine.
‘Yet the man is not without points that will be most useful to himself in getting through life. His good qualities, however, are all of the selfish order, but they will make him respected where better and more generous natures would be despised, or at least neglected.
‘Mr. Grant fills his shoes at present decently enough—but one cares naught about these sort of individuals, so drop them.
‘Mary Taylor is going to leave our hemisphere. To me it is something as if a great planet fell out of the sky. Yet, unless she marries in New Zealand, she will not stay there long.
‘Write to me again soon and I promise to write you a regular long letter next time.
‘C. Brontë.’
The Mr. Grant here described had come to Haworth as master of the small grammar school in which Branwell had received some portion of his education. He is the Mr. Donne, curate of Whinbury, in Shirley. Whinbury is Oxenhope, of which village and district Mr. Grant after a time became incumbent. The district was taken out of Haworth Chapelry, and Mr. Grant collected the funds to build a church, schoolhouse, and parsonage. He died at Oxenhope, many years ago, greatly respected by his parishioners. He seems to have endured good-naturedly much chaff from Mr. Brontë and others, who always called him Mr. Donne. It was the opinion of many of his acquaintances that the satire of Shirley had improved his disposition.
Mr. Smith left Haworth in 1844, to become curate of the parish church of Keighley. He became, at a later date, incumbent of a district church, but, his health failing, he returned to his native country, where he died.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘October 15th, 1844.
‘Dear Nell,—I send you two additional circulars, and will send you two more, if you desire it, when I write again. I have no news to give you. Mr. Smith leaves in the course of a fortnight. He will spend a few weeks in Ireland previously to settling at Keighley. He continues just the same: often anxious and bad-tempered, sometimes rather tolerable—just supportable. How did your party go off? How are you? Write soon, and at length, for your letters are a great comfort to me. We are all pretty well. Remember me kindly to each member of the household at Brookroyd.—Yours,
‘C. B.’
The third curate of Shirley, Mr. Sweeting of Nunnely, was Mr. Richard Bradley, curate of Oakworth, an outlying district of Keighley parish. He is at this present time vicar of Haxby, Yorkshire, but far too aged and infirm to have any memories of those old Haworth days.
Mr. Brontë’s one other curate was Mr. De Renzi, who occupied the position for a little more than a year,—during the period, in fact, of Mr. Brontë’s quarrel with Mr. Nicholls for aspiring to become his son-in-law. After he left Haworth, Mr. De Renzi became a curate at Bradford. He has been dead for some years. The story of Mr. Nicholls’s curacy belongs to another chapter. It is sufficient testimony to his worth, however, that he was able to win Charlotte Brontë in spite of the fact that his predecessors had inspired in her such hearty contempt. ‘I think he must be like all the curates I have seen,’ she writes of one; ‘they seem to me a self-seeking, vain, empty race.’