Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (456 page)

About the beginning of 1834, “E.” went to London for the first time.  The idea of her friend’s visit seems to have stirred Charlotte strangely.  She appears to have formed her notions of its probable consequences from some of the papers in the “British Essayists,” “The Rambler,” “The Mirror,” or “The Lounger,” which may have been among the English classics on the parsonage bookshelves; for she evidently imagines that an entire change of character for the worse is the usual effect of a visit to “the great metropolis,” and is delighted to find that “E.” is “E.” still.  And, as her faith in her friend’s stability is restored, her own imagination is deeply moved by the idea of what great wonders are to be seen in that vast and famous city.

“Haworth, February 20th, 1834.

“Your letter gave me real and heartfelt pleasure, mingled with no small share of astonishment.  Mary had previously informed me of your departure for London, and I had not ventured to calculate on any communication from you while surrounded by the splendours and novelties of that great city, which has been called the mercantile metropolis of Europe.  Judging from human nature, I thought that a little country girl, for the first time in a situation so well calculated to excite curiosity, and to distract attention, would lose all remembrance, for a time at least, of distant and familiar objects, and give herself up entirely to the fascination of those scenes which were then presented to her view.  Your kind, interesting, and most welcome epistle showed me, however, that I had been both mistaken and uncharitable in these suppositions.  I was greatly amused at the tone of nonchalance which you assumed, while treating of London and its wonders.  Did you not feel awed while gazing at St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey?  Had you no feeling of intense and ardent interest, when in St. James’s you saw the palace where so many of England’s kings have held their courts, and beheld the representations of their persons on the walls?  You should not be too much afraid of appearing
country-bred
; the magnificence of London has drawn exclamations of astonishment from travelled men, experienced in the world, its wonders and beauties.  Have you yet seen anything of the great personages whom the sitting of Parliament now detains in London — the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, Earl Grey, Mr. Stanley, Mr. O’Connell?  If I were you, I would not be too anxious to spend my time in reading whilst in town.  Make use of your own eyes for the purposes of observation now, and, for a time at least, lay aside the spectacles with which authors would furnish us.”

In a postscript she adds: —

“Will you be kind enough to inform me of the number of performers in the King’s military band?”

And in something of the same strain she writes on

“June 19th.
“My own Dear E.,

“I may rightfully and truly call you so now.  You
have
returned or
are
returning from London — from the great city which is to me as apocryphal as Babylon, or Nineveh, or ancient Rome.  You are withdrawing from the world (as it is called), and bringing with you — if your letters enable me to form a correct judgment — a heart as unsophisticated, as natural, as true, as that you carried there.  I am slow,
very
slow, to believe the protestations of another; I know my own sentiments, I can read my own mind, but the minds of the rest of man and woman kind are to me sealed volumes, hieroglyphical scrolls, which I cannot easily either unseal or decipher.  Yet time, careful study, long acquaintance, overcome most difficulties; and, in your case, I think they have succeeded well in bringing to light and construing that hidden language, whose turnings, windings, inconsistencies, and obscurities, so frequently baffle the researches of the honest observer of human nature . . . I am truly grateful for your mindfulness of so obscure a person as myself, and I hope the pleasure is not altogether selfish; I trust it is partly derived from the consciousness that my friend’s character is of a higher, a more steadfast order than I was once perfectly aware of.  Few girls would have done as you have done — would have beheld the glare, and glitter, and dazzling display of London with dispositions so unchanged, heart so uncontaminated.  I see no affectation in your letters, no trifling, no frivolous contempt of plain, and weak admiration of showy persons and things.”

In these days of cheap railway trips, we may smile at the idea of a short visit to London having any great effect upon the character, whatever it may have upon the intellect.  But her London — her great apocryphal city — was the “town” of a century before, to which giddy daughters dragged unwilling papas, or went with injudicious friends, to the detriment of all their better qualities, and sometimes to the ruin of their fortunes; it was the Vanity Fair of the “Pilgrim’s Progress” to her.

But see the just and admirable sense with which she can treat a subject of which she is able to overlook all the bearings.

“Haworth, July 4th, 1834.

“In your last, you request me to tell you of your faults.  Now, really, how can you be so foolish!  I
won’t
tell you of your faults, because I don’t know them.  What a creature would that be, who, after receiving an affectionate and kind letter from a beloved friend, should sit down and write a catalogue of defects by way of answer!  Imagine me doing so, and then consider what epithets you would bestow on me.  Conceited, dogmatical, hypocritical, little humbug, I should think, would be the mildest. Why, child!  I’ve neither time nor inclination to reflect on your
faults
when you are so far from me, and when, besides, kind letters and presents, and so forth, are continually bringing forth your goodness in the most prominent light.  Then, too, there are judicious relations always round you, who can much better discharge that unpleasant office.  I have no doubt their advice is completely at your service; why then should I intrude mine?  If you will not hear them, it will be vain though one should rise from the dead to instruct you.  Let us have no more nonsense, if you love me.  Mr. — - is going to be married, is he?  Well, his wife elect appeared to me to be a clever and amiable lady, as far as I could judge from the little I saw of her, and from your account. Now to that flattering sentence must I tack on a list of her faults?  You say it is in contemplation for you to leave — -.  I am sorry for it.  — - is a pleasant spot, one of the old family halls of England, surrounded by lawn and woodland, speaking of past times, and suggesting (to me at least) happy feelings.  M. thought you grown less, did she?  I am not grown a bit, but as short and dumpy as ever.  You ask me to recommend you some books for your perusal. I will do so in as few words as I can.  If you like poetry, let it be first-rate; Milton, Shakspeare, Thomson, Goldsmith, Pope (if you will, though I don’t admire him), Scott, Byron, Campbell, Wordsworth, and Southey.  Now don’t be startled at the names of Shakspeare and Byron.  Both these were great men, and their works are like themselves.  You will know how to choose the good, and to avoid the evil; the finest passages are always the purest, the bad are invariably revolting; you will never wish to read them over twice.  Omit the comedies of Shakspeare, and the Don Juan, perhaps the Cain, of Byron, though the latter is a magnificent poem, and read the rest fearlessly; that must indeed be a depraved mind which can gather evil from Henry VIII., from Richard III., from Macbeth, and Hamlet, and Julius Cæsar.  Scott’s sweet, wild, romantic poetry can do you no harm.  Nor can Wordsworth’s, nor Campbell’s, nor Southey’s — the greatest part at least of his; some is certainly objectionable.  For history, read Hume, Rollin, and the Universal History, if you can; I never did.  For fiction, read Scott alone; all novels after his are worthless.  For biography, read Johnson’s Lives of the Poets, Boswell’s Life of Johnson, Southey’s Life of Nelson, Lockhart’s Life of Burns, Moore’s Life of Sheridan, Moore’s Life of Byron, Wolfe’s Remains.  For natural history, read Bewick and Audubon, and Goldsmith and White’s history of Selborne.  For divinity, your brother will advise you there.  I can only say, adhere to standard authors, and avoid novelty.”

From this list, we see that she must have had a good range of books from which to choose her own reading.  It is evident, that the womanly consciences of these two correspondents were anxiously alive to many questions discussed among the stricter religionists. The morality of Shakspeare needed the confirmation of Charlotte’s opinion to the sensitive “E.;” and a little later, she inquired whether dancing was objectionable, when indulged in for an hour or two in parties of boys and girls.  Charlotte replies, “I should hesitate to express a difference of opinion from Mr. — -, or from your excellent sister, but really the matter seems to me to stand thus.  It is allowed on all hands, that the sin of dancing consists not in the mere action of ‘shaking the shanks’ (as the Scotch say), but in the consequences that usually attend it; namely, frivolity and waste of time; when it is used only, as in the case you state, for the exercise and amusement of an hour among young people (who surely may without any breach of God’s commandments be allowed a little light-heartedness), these consequences cannot follow.  Ergo (according to my manner of arguing), the amusement is at such times perfectly innocent.”

Although the distance between Haworth and B — - was but seventeen miles, it was difficult to go straight from the one to the other without hiring a gig or vehicle of some kind for the journey. Hence a visit from Charlotte required a good deal of pre-arrangement. 
The
Haworth gig was not always to be had; and Mr. Brontë was often unwilling to fall into any arrangement for meeting at Bradford or other places, which would occasion trouble to others.  The whole family had an ample share of that sensitive pride which led them to dread incurring obligations, and to fear “outstaying their welcome” when on any visit.  I am not sure whether Mr. Brontë did not consider distrust of others as a part of that knowledge of human nature on which he piqued himself.  His precepts to this effect, combined with Charlotte’s lack of hope, made her always fearful of loving too much; of wearying the objects of her affection; and thus she was often trying to restrain her warm feelings, and was ever chary of that presence so invariably welcome to her true friends.  According to this mode of acting, when she was invited for a month, she stayed but a fortnight amidst “E.’s” family, to whom every visit only endeared her the more, and by whom she was received with that kind of quiet gladness with which they would have greeted a sister.

She still kept up her childish interest in politics.  In March, 1835, she writes: “What do you think of the course politics are taking?  I make this enquiry, because I now think you take a wholesome interest in the matter; formerly you did not care greatly about it.  B., you see, is triumphant.  Wretch!  I am a hearty hater, and if there is any one I thoroughly abhor, it is that man.  But the Opposition is divided, Red-hots, and Luke-warms; and the Duke (par excellence
the
Duke) and Sir Robert Peel show no signs of insecurity, though they have been twice beat; so ‘Courage, mon amie,’ as the old chevaliers used to say, before they joined battle.”

In the middle of the summer of 1835, a great family plan was mooted at the parsonage.  The question was, to what trade or profession should Branwell be brought up?  He was now nearly eighteen; it was time to decide.  He was very clever, no doubt; perhaps to begin with, the greatest genius in this rare family. The sisters hardly recognised their own, or each others’ powers, but they knew
his
.  The father, ignorant of many failings in moral conduct, did proud homage to the great gifts of his son; for Branwell’s talents were readily and willingly brought out for the entertainment of others.  Popular admiration was sweet to him. And this led to his presence being sought at “arvills” and all the great village gatherings, for the Yorkshiremen have a keen relish for intellect; and it likewise procured him the undesirable distinction of having his company recommended by the landlord of the Black Bull to any chance traveller who might happen to feel solitary or dull over his liquor.  “Do you want some one to help you with your bottle, sir?  If you do, I’ll send up for Patrick” (so the villagers called him till the day of his death, though in his own family he was always “Branwell”).  And while the messenger went, the landlord entertained his guest with accounts of the wonderful talents of the boy, whose precocious cleverness, and great conversational powers, were the pride of the village.  The attacks of ill health to which Mr. Brontë had been subject of late years, rendered it not only necessary that he should take his dinner alone (for the sake of avoiding temptations to unwholesome diet), but made it also desirable that he should pass the time directly succeeding his meals in perfect quiet.  And this necessity, combined with due attention to his parochial duties, made him partially ignorant how his son employed himself out of lesson-time.  His own youth had been spent among people of the same conventional rank as those into whose companionship Branwell was now thrown; but he had had a strong will, and an earnest and persevering ambition, and a resoluteness of purpose which his weaker son wanted.

It is singular how strong a yearning the whole family had towards the art of drawing.  Mr. Brontë had been very solicitous to get them good instruction; the girls themselves loved everything connected with it — all descriptions or engravings of great pictures; and, in default of good ones, they would take and analyse any print or drawing which came in their way, and find out how much thought had gone to its composition, what ideas it was intended to suggest, and what it
did
suggest.  In the same spirit, they laboured to design imaginations of their own; they lacked the power of execution, not of conception.  At one time, Charlotte had the notion of making her living as an artist, and wearied her eyes in drawing with pre-Raphaelite minuteness, but not with pre-Raphaelite accuracy, for she drew from fancy rather than from nature.