Her father was always anxious to procure every change that was
possible for her, seeing, as he did, the benefit which she derived
from it, however reluctant she might have been to leave her home and
him beforehand. This August she was invited to go for a week to the
neighbourhood of Bowness, where Sir James Kay Shuttleworth had taken a
house; but she says, "I consented to go, with reluctance, chiefly to
please Papa, whom a refusal on my part would much have annoyed; but I
dislike to leave him. I trust he is not worse, but his complaint is
still weakness. It is not right to anticipate evil, and to be always
looking forward with an apprehensive spirit; but I think grief is a
two-edged sword, it cuts both ways; the memory of one loss is the
anticipation of another."
It was during this visit at the Briery--Lady Kay Shuttleworth having
kindly invited me to meet her there--that I first made acquaintance with
Miss Brontë. If I copy out part of a letter, which I wrote soon after
this to a friend, who was deeply interested in her writings, I shall
probably convey my first impressions more truly and freshly than by
amplifying what I then said into a longer description.
"Dark when I got to Windermere station; a drive along the level road
to Low-wood; then a stoppage at a pretty house, and then a pretty
drawing-room, in which were Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth, and
a little lady in a black-silk gown, whom I could not see at first for
the dazzle in the room; she came up and shook hands with me at once. I
went up to unbonnet, etc.; came down to tea; the little lady worked away
and hardly spoke but I had time for a good look at her. She is (as she
calls herself) UNDEVELOPED, thin, and more than half a head shorter than
I am; soft brown hair, not very dark; eyes (very good and expressive,
looking straight and open at you) of the same colour as her hair; a
large mouth; the forehead square, broad and rather over-hanging. She has
a very sweet voice; rather hesitates in choosing her expressions, but
when chosen they seem without an effort admirable, and just befitting
the occasion; there is nothing overstrained, but perfectly simple. . . .
After breakfast, we four went out on the lake, and Miss Brontë agreed
with me in liking Mr. Newman's Soul, and in liking Modern Painters,
and the idea of the Seven Lamps; and she told me about Father Newman's
lectures at the Oratory in a very quiet, concise, graphic way. . . .
She is more like Miss ---- than any one in her ways--if you can fancy
Miss ---- to have gone through suffering enough to have taken out every
spark of merriment, and to be shy and silent from the habit of extreme,
intense solitude. Such a life as Miss Brontë's I never heard of before.
---- described her home to me as in a village of grey stone houses,
perched up on the north side of a bleak moor, looking over sweeps of
bleak moors, etc., etc.
"We were only three days together; the greater part of which was
spent in driving about, in order to show Miss Brontë the Westmoreland
scenery, as she had never been there before. We were both included in an
invitation to drink tea quietly at Fox How; and I then saw how severely
her nerves were taxed by the effort of going amongst strangers. We knew
beforehand that the number of the party would not exceed twelve; but she
suffered the whole day from an acute headache brought on by apprehension
of the evening.
"Brierly Close was situated high above Low-wood, and of course commanded
an extensive view and wide horizon. I was struck by Miss Brontë's
careful examination of the shape of the clouds and the signs of the
heavens, in which she read, as from a book, what the coming weather
would be. I told her that I saw she must have a view equal in extent
at her own home. She said that I was right, but that the character of
the prospect from Haworth was very different; that I had no idea what a
companion the sky became to any one living in solitude,--more than any
inanimate object on earth,--more than the moors themselves."
The following extracts convey some of her own impressions and feelings
respecting this visit:--
"You said I should stay longer than a week in Westmoreland; you ought
by this time to know me better. Is it my habit to keep dawdling at a
place long after the time I first fixed on for departing? I have got
home, and I am thankful to say Papa seems,--to say the least,--no worse
than when I left him, yet I wish he were stronger. My visit passed off
very well; I am glad I went. The scenery is, of course, grand; could I
have wandered about amongst those hills ALONE, I could have drank in
all their beauty; even in a carriage with company, it was very well.
Sir James was all the while as kind and friendly as he could be: he is
in much better health. . . . Miss Martineau was from home; she always
leaves her house at Ambleside during the Lake season, to avoid the
influx of visitors to which she would otherwise be subject.
"If I could only have dropped unseen out of the carriage, and gone away
by myself in amongst those grand hills and sweet dales, I should have
drank in the full power of this glorious scenery. In company this can
hardly be. Sometimes, while ---- was warning me against the faults of
the artist-class, all the while vagrant artist instincts were busy in
the mind of his listener.
"I forget to tell you that, about a week before I went to Westmoreland,
there came an invitation to Harden Grange; which, of course, I declined.
Two or three days after, a large party made their appearance here,
consisting of Mrs. F---- and sundry other ladies and two gentlemen; one
tall and stately, black haired and whiskered, who turned out to be Lord
John Manners,--the other not so distinguished-looking, shy, and a little
queer, who was Mr. Smythe, the son of Lord Strangford. I found Mrs. F.
a true lady in manners and appearance, very gentle and unassuming. Lord
John Manners brought in his hand a brace of grouse for Papa, which was a
well-timed present: a day or two before Papa had been wishing for some."
To these extracts I must add one other from a letter referring to this
time. It is addressed to Miss Wooler, the kind friend of both her
girlhood and womanhood, who had invited her to spend a fortnight with
her at her cottage lodgings.
"Haworth, Sept. 27th, 1850.
"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 option to accept your kind
invitation. I wish I could have gone to you. I have already had my
excursion, and there is an end of it. Sir James Kay Shuttleworth is
residing near Windermere, at a house called the 'Briery,' and it was
there I was staying for a little time this August. He very kindly showed
me the neighbourhood, 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 dreams, waking or sleeping. 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.
"You say that you suspect I have formed 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 have, and these few 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 once was present at
an evening party; and the only visits I have paid have been to Sir James
Kay Shuttleworth's and my publisher's. 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 seventy-fifth 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 that
he is now somewhat better. I think my own health has derived benefit
from change and exercise.
"Somebody in D---- 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; but I am now grown deaf and sceptical: experience has
taught me how absolutely devoid of foundation her stories may be."
I must now quote from the first letter I had the privilege of receiving
from Miss Brontë. It is dated August the 27th.
"Papa and I have just had tea; he is sitting quietly in his room, and I
in mine; 'storms of rain' are sweeping over the garden and churchyard:
as to the moors, they are hidden in thick fog. Though alone, I am not
unhappy; I have a thousand things to be thankful for, and, amongst the
rest, that this morning I received a letter from you, and that this
evening I have the privilege of answering it.
"I do not know the 'Life of Sydney Taylor;' whenever I have the
opportunity I will get it. The little French book you mention shall also
take its place on the list of books to be procured as soon as possible.
It treats a subject interesting to all women--perhaps, more especially
to single women; though, indeed, mothers, like you, study it for the
sake of their daughters. The Westminster Review is not a periodical I
see regularly, but some time since I got hold of a number--for last
January, I think--in which there was an article entitled 'Woman's
Mission' (the phrase is hackneyed), containing a great deal that seemed
to me just and sensible. Men begin to regard the position of woman in
another light than they used to do; and a few men, whose sympathies
are fine and whose sense of justice is strong, think and speak of it
with a candour that commands my admiration. They say, however--and,
to an extent, truly--that the amelioration of our condition depends
on ourselves. Certainly there are evils which our own efforts will
best reach; but as certainly there are other evils--deep-rooted in the
foundation of the social system--which no efforts of ours can touch:
of which we cannot complain; of which it is advisable not too often to
think.
"I have read Tennyson's 'In Memoriam,' or rather part of it; I closed
the book when I had got about half way. It is beautiful; it is mournful;
it is monotonous. Many of the feelings expressed bear, in their
utterance, the stamp of truth; yet, if Arthur Hallam had been somewhat
nearer Alfred Tennyson, his brother instead of his friend,--I should
have distrusted this rhymed, and measured, and printed monument of
grief. What change the lapse of years may work I do not know; but it
seems to me that bitter sorrow, while recent, does not flow out in verse.
"I promised to send you Wordsworth's 'Prelude,' and, accordingly,
despatch it by this post; the other little volume shall follow in a
day or two. I shall be glad to hear from you whenever you have time to
write to me, but you are never, on any account, to do this except when
inclination prompts and leisure permits. I should never thank you for a
letter which you had felt it a task to write."
A short time after we had met at the Briery, she sent me the volume of
Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell's poems; and thus alludes to them in the
note that accompanied the parcel:--
"The little book of rhymes was sent by way of fulfilling a rashly-made
promise; and the promise was made to prevent you from throwing away four
shillings in an injudicious purchase. I do not like my own share of the
work, nor care that it should be read: Ellis Bell's I think good and
vigorous, and Acton's have the merit of truth and simplicity. Mine are
chiefly juvenile productions; the restless effervescence of a mind that
would not be still. In those days, the sea too often 'wrought and was
tempestuous,' and weed, sand, shingle--all turned up in the tumult. This
image is much too magniloquent for the subject, but you will pardon it."
Another letter of some interest was addressed, about this time, to a
literary friend, on Sept. 5th:--
"The reappearance of the Athenaeum is very acceptable, not merely
for its own sake,--though I esteem the opportunity of its perusal
a privilege,--but because, as a weekly token of the remembrance of
friends, it cheers and gives pleasure. I only fear that its regular
transmission may become a task to you; in this case, discontinue it at
once.
"I did indeed enjoy my trip to Scotland, and yet I saw little of the
face of the country; nothing of its grandeur or finer scenic features;
but Edinburgh, Melrose, Abbotsford--these three in themselves sufficed
to stir feelings of such deep interest and admiration, that neither at
the time did I regret, nor have I since regretted, the want of wider
space over which to diffuse the sense of enjoyment. There was room and
variety enough to be very happy, and 'enough,' the proverb says, 'is
as good as a feast.' The queen, indeed, was right to climb Arthur's
Seat with her husband and children. I shall not soon forget how I felt
when, having reached its summit, we all sat down and looked over the
city--towards the sea and Leith, and the Pentland Hills. No doubt you
are proud of being a native of Scotland,--proud of your country, her
capital, her children, and her literature. You cannot be blamed.
"The article in the Palladium is one of those notices over which an
author rejoices trembling. He rejoices to find his work finely, fully,
fervently appreciated, and trembles under the responsibility such
appreciation seems to devolve upon him. I am counselled to wait and
watch--D. V. I will do so; yet it is harder to wait with the hands
bound, and the observant and reflective faculties at their silent and
unseen work, than to labour mechanically.
"I need not say how I felt the remarks on 'Wuthering Heights;' they
woke the saddest yet most grateful feelings; they are true, they
are discriminating, they are full of late justice, but it is very
late--alas! in one sense, TOO late. Of this, however, and of the pang
of regret for a light prematurely extinguished, it is not wise to speak
much. Whoever the author of this article may be, I remain his debtor.
"Yet, you see, even here, Shirley is disparaged in comparison with "Jane
Eyre"; and yet I took great pains with Shirley. I did not hurry; I tried
to do my best, and my own impression was that it was not inferior to
the former work; indeed, I had bestowed on it more time, thought, and
anxiety: but great part of it was written under the shadow of impending
calamity; and the last volume, I cannot deny, was composed in the eager,
restless endeavour to combat mental sufferings that were scarcely
tolerable.
"You sent the tragedy of 'Galileo Galilei,' by Samuel Brown, in one
of the Cornhill parcels; it contained, I remember, passages of very
great beauty. Whenever you send any more books (but that must not be
till I return what I now have) I should be glad if you would include
amongst them the 'Life of Dr. Arnold.' Do you know also the 'Life of
Sydney Taylor?' I am not familiar even with the name, but it has been
recommended to me as a work meriting perusal. Of course, when I name any
book, it is always understood that it should be quite convenient to send
it."