Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (557 page)
Read Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) Online
Authors: CHARLOTTE BRONTE,EMILY BRONTE,ANNE BRONTE,PATRICK BRONTE,ELIZABETH GASKELL
‘Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;
Sending sad shadows after things not sad,
Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry
Becomes an echo of man’s misery.’
And thus we see, in Branwell’s ‘Caroline,’ how, even in its calmness, the beautifully suggested picture of eve — when the sunlight slants, and the waters cease their motion, and the calm and hush tell of rest from labour — is made to harmonize with the plaintive thoughts of Harriet. But then comes the more significant question:
‘Why is such a silence given
To this summer day’s decay,
Does our earth feel aught of Heaven,
Can the voice of Nature pray?’
What, in short, is the harmonious and sympathetic spell that breathes through Nature?
The wild places of the earth, mountains and moorlands, where the storms raged, and the great winds blew, were nearest akin to the Titanic genius of Branwell and Emily. Thus, in the sonnet, the everlasting majesty of Black Comb was held up by Branwell as an example to man, and as a contrast to human feebleness; and later, when his woe was most acute, he was drawn into a ‘communion of vague unity’ with Penmaenmawr, comparing the living, beating heart of man with the stony hill, and begging,
‘Let me, like it, arise o’er mortal care,
All woes sustain, yet never know despair,
Unshrinking face the griefs I now deplore,
And stand through storm and shine like moveless Penmaenmawr.’
And, lastly, in the ‘Epistle from a Father to a Child in her Grave,’ we find him comparing himself with one in the midst of wild mountains:
‘I, thy life’s source, was like a wanderer breasting
Keen mountain winds, and on a summit resting,
Whose rough rocks rise above the grassy mead,
With sleet and north winds howling overhead.’
It will be seen from this short inquiry that the poetry of Branwell Brontë was entirely introspective, having, almost to the last line, some direct reference to his own thoughts or feelings; and that it may thus be read as an actual part of the story of his life. The disposition it reveals, though often hidden, as the readers of this book know, through the effects of folly and indulgence, was one of a singularly gentle, affectionate, and sympathetic character; passionate and unstable, it is true, but a disposition, nevertheless, that has been frequently misunderstood, and not seldom wronged. One of the aims of this book has been to set Patrick Branwell Brontë right with the public; an attempt, not to clear him from follies and weaknesses that really were his — which the public, but for the mistakes of biographers, would never have known — but to show that, at any rate, his nature was one rather to be admired than condemned. It has aimed also, by the publication of his poetical writings, to demonstrate that his genius is not unworthy to be ranked with that which made his sisters famous. Yet it may, perhaps, be held that the poems here published contain more of rich promise than of real fulfilment, rather the earnest of literary success than the actual accomplishment of it. But, in reading the poetry of Branwell Brontë, which is so uniformly sad, it may be well to remember what Mr. Swinburne has said, in speaking of Mr. Browning, that ‘to do justice to any book which deserves any other sort of justice than that of the fire or waste-paper basket, it is necessary to read it in a fit frame of mind.’
THE END.
Clement King Shorter (1857–1926) was a British journalist and literary critic.
As well as an author and critic, he was remarkable for his hobby of collecting manuscripts, books, and other materials related to his favourite authors. He was an avid collector, particularly focusing on the works of the Brontë sisters. This collecting and research eventually led to some of his most well-known works, including this biography, first published in 1896.
Additionally, he edited Elizabeth Gaskell’s
The Life of Charlotte Brontë,
which also appears in this Delphi collection, in 1899.
Portrayal of Shorter in the publication ‘Vanity Fair’, 1894
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I: PATRICK BRONTË AND MARIA HIS WIFE
CHAPTER III: SCHOOL AND GOVERNESS LIFE
CHAPTER IV: THE PENSIONNAT HÉGER, BRUSSELS
CHAPTER V: PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTË
CHAPTER XI: THE CURATES AT HAWORTH
CHAPTER XII: CHARLOTTE BRONTË’S LOVERS
CHAPTER XIII: LITERARY AMBITIONS
CHAPTER XIV: WILLIAM SMITH WILLIAMS
CHAPTER XV: WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
CHAPTER XVI: LITERARY FRIENDSHIPS
CHAPTER XVII: THE REV. ARTHUR BELL NICHOLLS
It is claimed for the following book of some five hundred pages that the larger part of it is an addition of entirely new material to the romantic story of the Brontës. For this result, but very small credit is due to me; and my very hearty acknowledgments must be made, in the first place, to the Rev. Arthur Bell Nicholls, for whose generous surrender of personal inclination I must ever be grateful. It has been with extreme unwillingness that Mr. Nicholls has broken the silence of forty years, and he would not even now have consented to the publication of certain letters concerning his marriage, had he not been aware that these letters were already privately printed and in the hands of not less than eight or ten people. To Miss Ellen Nussey of Gomersall, I have also to render thanks
p. vifor having placed the many letters in her possession at my disposal, and for having furnished a great deal of interesting information. Without the letters from Charlotte Brontë to Mr. W. S. Williams, which were kindly lent to me by his son and daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton Williams, my book would have been the poorer. Sir Wemyss Reid, Mr. J. J. Stead, of Heckmondwike, Mr. Butler Wood, of Bradford, Mr. W. W. Yates, of Dewsbury, Mr. Erskine Stuart, Mr. Buxton Forman, and Mr. Thomas J. Wise are among the many Brontë specialists who have helped me with advice or with the loan of material. Mr. Wise, in particular, has lent me many valuable manuscripts. Finally, I have to thank my friend Dr. Robertson Nicoll for the kindly pressure which has practically compelled me to prepare this little volume amid a multitude of journalistic duties.
CLEMENT K. SHORTER.
198 Strand, London,
September
1
st
, 1896.
In the whole of English biographical literature there is no book that can compare in widespread interest with the
Life of Charlotte Brontë
by Mrs. Gaskell. It has held a position of singular popularity for forty years; and while biography after biography has come and gone, it still commands a place side by side with Boswell’s
Johnson
and Lockhart’s
Scott
. As far as mere readers are concerned, it may indeed claim its hundreds as against the tens of intrinsically more important rivals. There are obvious reasons for this success. Mrs. Gaskell was herself a popular novelist, who commanded a very wide audience, and
Cranford
, at least, has taken a place among the classics of our literature. She brought to bear upon the biography of Charlotte Brontë all those literary gifts which had made the charm of her seven volumes of romance. And these gifts were employed upon a romance of real life, not less fascinating than anything which imagination could have furnished. Charlotte Brontë’s success as an author turned the eyes of the world upon her. Thackeray had sent her his
Vanity Fair
before he knew her name or sex. The precious volume lies before me —
And Thackeray did not send many inscribed copies of his books even to successful authors. Speculation concerning the author of
Jane Eyre
was sufficiently rife during those seven sad years of literary renown to make a biography imperative when death came to Charlotte Brontë in 1855. All the world had heard something of the three marvellous sisters, daughters of a poor parson in Yorkshire, going one after another to their death with such melancholy swiftness, but leaving — two of them, at least — imperishable work behind them. The old blind father and the bereaved husband read the confused eulogy and criticism, sometimes with a sad pleasure at the praise, oftener with a sadder pain at the grotesque inaccuracy. Small wonder that it became impressed upon Mr. Brontë’s mind that an authoritative biography was desirable. His son-in-law, Mr. Arthur Bell Nicholls, who lived with him in the Haworth parsonage during the six weary years which succeeded Mrs. Nicholls’s death, was not so readily won to the unveiling of his wife’s inner life; and although we, who read Mrs. Gaskell’s
Memoir
, have every reason to be thankful for Mr. Brontë’s decision, peace of mind would undoubtedly have been more assured to Charlotte Brontë’s surviving relatives had the most rigid silence been maintained. The book, when it appeared in 1857, gave infinite pain to a number of people, including Mr. Brontë and Mr. Nicholls; and Mrs. Gaskell’s subsequent experiences had the effect of persuading her that all biographical literature was intolerable and undesirable. She would seem to have given instructions that no biography of herself should be written; and now that thirty years have passed since her death we have no substantial record of one of the most fascinating women of her age. The loss to literature has been forcibly brought home to the present writer, who has in his possession a bundle of letters written by Mrs. Gaskell to numerous friends of Charlotte Brontë during the progress of the biography. They serve,
all of them, to impress one with the singular charm of the woman, her humanity and breadth of sympathy. They make us think better of Mrs. Gaskell, as Thackeray’s letters to Mrs. Brookfield make us think better of the author of
Vanity Fair
.
Apart from these letters, a journey in the footsteps, as it were, of Mrs. Gaskell reveals to us the remarkable conscientiousness with which she set about her task. It would have been possible, with so much fame behind her, to have secured an equal success, and certainly an equal pecuniary reward, had she merely written a brief monograph with such material as was voluntarily placed in her hands. Mrs. Gaskell possessed a higher ideal of a biographer’s duties. She spared no pains to find out the facts; she visited every spot associated with the name of Charlotte Brontë — Thornton, Haworth, Cowan Bridge, Birstall, Brussels — and she wrote countless letters to the friends of Charlotte Brontë’s earlier days.
But why, it may be asked, was Mrs. Gaskell selected as biographer? The choice was made by Mr. Brontë, and not, as has been suggested, by some outside influence. When Mr. Brontë had once decided that there should be an authoritative biography — and he alone was active in the matter — there could be but little doubt upon whom the task would fall. Among all the friends whom fame had brought to Charlotte, Mrs. Gaskell stood prominent for her literary gifts and her large-hearted sympathy. She had made the acquaintance of Miss Brontë when the latter was on a visit to Sir James Kay Shuttleworth, in 1850; and a letter from Charlotte to her father, and others to Mr. W. S. Williams, indicate the beginning of a friendship which was to leave so permanent a record in literary history: —
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘20
th
November
, 1849.
‘My dear Sir, — You said that if I wished for any copies
of
Shirley
to be sent to individuals I was to name the parties. I have thought of one person to whom I should much like a copy to be offered — Harriet Martineau. For her character — as revealed in her works — I have a lively admiration, a deep esteem. Will you inclose with the volume the accompanying note?
‘The letter you forwarded this morning was from Mrs. Gaskell, authoress of
Mary Barton
; she said I was not to answer it, but I cannot help doing so. The note brought the tears to my eyes. She is a good, she is a great woman. Proud am I that I can touch a chord of sympathy in souls so noble. In Mrs. Gaskell’s nature it mournfully pleases me to fancy a remote affinity to my sister Emily. In Miss Martineau’s mind I have always felt the same, though there are wide differences. Both these ladies are above me — certainly far my superiors in attainments and experience. I think I could look up to them if I knew them. — I am, dear sir, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘
November
29
th
, 1849.
‘Dear Sir, — I inclose two notes for postage. The note you sent yesterday was from Harriet Martineau; its contents were more than gratifying. I ought to be thankful, and I trust I am, for such testimonies of sympathy from the first order of minds. When Mrs. Gaskell tells me she shall keep my works as a treasure for her daughters, and when Harriet Martineau testifies affectionate approbation, I feel the sting taken from the strictures of another class of critics. My resolution of seclusion withholds me from communicating further with these ladies at present, but I now know how they are inclined to me — I know how my writings have affected their wise and pure minds. The knowledge is present support and, perhaps, may be future armour.
‘I trust Mrs. Williams’s health and, consequently, your spirits are by this time quite restored. If all be well, perhaps I shall see you next week. — Yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘
January
1
st
, 1850.
‘My dear Sir, — May I beg that a copy of
Wuthering Heights
may be sent to Mrs. Gaskell; her present address is 3 Sussex Place, Regent’s Park. She has just sent me the
Moorland Cottage
. I felt disappointed about the publication of that book, having hoped it would be offered to Smith, Elder & Co.; but it seems she had no alternative, as it was Mr. Chapman himself who asked her to write a Christmas book. On my return home yesterday I found two packets from Cornhill directed in two well-known hands waiting for me. You are all very very good.
‘I trust to have derived benefit from my visit to Miss Martineau. A visit more interesting I certainly never paid. If self-sustaining strength can be acquired from example, I ought to have got good. But my nature is not hers; I could not make it so though I were to submit it seventy times seven to the furnace of affliction, and discipline it for an age under the hammer and anvil of toil and self-sacrifice. Perhaps if I was like her I should not admire her so much as I do. She is somewhat absolute, though quite unconsciously so; but she is likewise kind, with an affection at once abrupt and constant, whose sincerity you cannot doubt. It was delightful to sit near her in the evenings and hear her converse, myself mute. She speaks with what seems to me a wonderful fluency and eloquence. Her animal spirits are as unflagging as her intellectual powers. I was glad to find her health excellent. I believe neither solitude nor loss of friends would break her down. I saw some faults in her, but somehow I liked them for the sake of her good points. It gave me no pain to feel insignificant, mentally and corporeally, in comparison with her.
‘Trusting that you and yours are well, and sincerely wishing you all a happy new year, — I am, my dear sir, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
TO REV. P. BRONTË
‘The Briery, Windermere,
‘
August
10
th
, 1850.
‘Dear Papa, — I reached this place yesterday evening at eight
o’clock, after a safe though rather tedious journey. I had to change carriages three times and to wait an hour and a half at Lancaster. Sir James came to meet me at the station; both he and Lady Shuttleworth gave me a very kind reception. This place is exquisitely beautiful, though the weather is cloudy, misty, and stormy; but the sun bursts out occasionally and shows the hills and the lake. Mrs. Gaskell is coming here this evening, and one or two other people. Miss Martineau, I am sorry to say, I shall not see, as she is already gone from home for the autumn.
‘Be kind enough to write by return of post and tell me how you are getting on and how you are. Give my kind regards to Tabby and Martha, and — Believe me, dear papa, your affectionate daughter,
‘C. Brontë.’
And this is how she writes to a friend from Haworth, on her return, after that first meeting: —
‘Lady Shuttleworth never got out, being confined to the house with a cold; but fortunately there was Mrs. Gaskell, the authoress of
Mary Barton
, who came to the Briery the day after me. I was truly glad of her companionship. She is a woman of the most genuine talent, of cheerful, pleasing, and cordial manners, and, I believe, of a kind and good heart.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘
September
20
th
, 1850.
‘My dear Sir, — I herewith send you a very roughly written copy of what I have to say about my sisters. When you have read it you can better judge whether the word “Notice” or “Memoir” is the most appropriate. I think the former. Memoir seems to me to express a more circumstantial and different sort of account. My aim is to give a just idea of their identity, not to write any narration of their simple, uneventful lives. I depend on you for faithfully pointing out whatever may strike you as faulty. I could not write it in the conventional form —
that
I found impossible.
‘It gives me real pleasure to hear of your son’s success. I
trust he may persevere and go on improving, and give his parents cause for satisfaction and honest pride.
‘I am truly pleased, too, to learn that Miss Kavanagh has managed so well with Mr. Colburn. Her position seems to me one deserving of all sympathy. I often think of her. Will her novel soon be published? Somehow I expect it to be interesting.
‘I certainly did hope that Mrs. Gaskell would offer her next work to Smith & Elder. She and I had some conversation about publishers — a comparison of our literary experiences was made. She seemed much struck with the differences between hers and mine, though I did not enter into details or tell her all. Unless I greatly mistake, she and you and Mr. Smith would get on well together; but one does not know what causes there may be to prevent her from doing as she would wish in such a case. I think Mr. Smith will not object to my occasionally sending her any of the Cornhill books that she may like to see. I have already taken the liberty of lending her Wordsworth’s
Prelude
, as she was saying how much she wished to have the opportunity of reading it.
