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Updated: June 2, 2025
It was to be a shawl, or rather a large handkerchief, such as she could pin across her neck and shoulders, in the old-fashioned country manner. Miss Bronte took great pains in seeking out one which she thought would please the old woman. On her arrival at home, she addressed the following letter to the friend with whom she had been staying in London: "Haworth, July 1st, 1851. "My dear Mrs.
When they left it they hungered and thirsted for it; they sickened till the hour of their return. They gave themselves to it with passion, and their works ring with the shock and interchange of two immortalities. Haworth is saturated with them. Their souls are henceforth no more to be disentangled from its soul than their bodies from its earth.
All that was not so dark a gray as to look black was dull brown; and not a single window-pane had a gleam of intelligence for the unwelcome strangers. I could imagine no merriment in Haworth, nor any sound of laughter; yet the Brontës were happy when they were children at least, they thought they were; but it would be too tragic if children didn't think themselves happy.
Stay you quietly at B., till you go to S., as I shall stay at Haworth; as sincere a farewell can be taken with the heart as with the lips, and perhaps less painful. I am glad the weather is changed; the return of the south-west wind suits me; but I hope you have no cause to regret the departure of your favourite east wind. But I suppose one must not heed it, or think the case singular.
She used to write things novels; but no one should read novels; novels are stories that are not so things that never happened; they tell of folks that never was. Having no argument to present in way of rebuttal, I shook hands with the old man and started away. He walked with me to the road to put me on the right way to Haworth.
The parish of Halifax touches that of Bradford, in which the chapelry of Haworth is included; and the nature of the ground in the two parishes is much the of the same wild and hilly description.
I received a letter from her a little later than this; and though there is reference throughout to what I must have said in writing to her, all that it called forth in reply is so peculiarly characteristic, that I cannot prevail upon myself to pass it over without a few extracts: "Haworth, Aug. 6th, 1851. "My dear Mrs.
Yet it is wrong and foolish to repine. Undoubtedly, my duty directs me to stay at home for the present. There was a time when Haworth was a very pleasant place to me; it is not so now. I feel as if we were all buried here. I long to travel; to work; to live a life of action. Excuse me, dear, for troubling you with my fruitless wishes. I will put by the rest, and not trouble you with them.
I think, dear, that Haworth has done me good, and helped me to be brave. Again and again I turned, when we'd left, to look back at the church tower, and try to gather some of the Brontë courage before we slipped away down many a dark hill toward Bradford, as night gathered us in.
"It was a dull, drizzly Indian-inky day, all the way on the railroad to Keighley, which is a rising wool-manufacturing town, lying in a hollow between hills not a pretty hollow, but more what the Yorkshire people call a 'bottom, or 'botham. I left Keighley in a car for Haworth, four miles off four tough, steep, scrambling miles, the road winding between the wavelike hills that rose and fell on every side of the horizon, with a long illimitable sinuous look, as if they were a part of the line of the Great Serpent, which the Norse legend says girdles the world.
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