Saturated as the feminine division of the pilgrims was with the Wordsworth cult, nothing but the necessity of laying out regular stages and abiding by them prevented them from lingering in this enchanted spot.
But the route was given; the leaders decreed the hour; and protests were unavailing.
But, hark! the summons—down the placid lake
Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells.
. . . . . . . . .
Northward, ever northward, was now the appointed course of the wanderers: across moor [392] ]and fell to Yorkshire, with its somewhat rude inhabitants. Uninviting as it was in appearance, with barren-looking moors and desolate stretches of rocky undulations, it held within its bosom a jewel of priceless worth. There stood the lonely parsonage of world-wide fame, where had lived the Brontë family—the wondrous girls who, from that dreary parsonage, standing among graves, on a wind-beaten hill-top, aroused the admiration of the keenest literary intelligences of the period. Then the order of the day was the route to Keighley in Yorkshire, four miles only from Haworth; and to Keighley by ordinary, perhaps prosaic, methods the pilgrims proceeded.
For to Keighley, they were aware, the Brontës, these strange children, fiercely desirous of knowledge of all and every kind and sort, were accustomed to walk from the village of Haworth. Why? Because there was a draper’s shop? Because there was at rare intervals a fair of the period? None of these provincial recreations interested this remarkable family. No! But because there was a circulating library. For that sole reason did these delicate little creatures undertake the rough moorland walk of eight miles—four miles there and four miles back—‘happy, though often tired to death, if only they brought home a novel by Scott or a poem by Southey.’ Brought home! To what a home did the tired feet and aching limbs bring these eager searchers after knowledge! To a ‘grey parsonage standing among graves, on a wind-beaten hill-top; the neighbouring summits wild with moors. A lonely [393] ]place, among half-dead ash trees and stunted thorns. The world cut off on one side by the still ranks of the serried dead; distanced on the other by mile-wide stretches of heath.’ Such, we know, was Emily Brontë’s home, the vicinity inhabited by Catharine, by Heathcliff, by Earnshaw, and Hindley.
‘Oh, what a dreadful place to live in!’ cried Hermione; ‘it recalls Kinglake’s description of the country around Jerusalem—“a land unspeakably desolate and ghastly”—no wonder the poor things died early and Branwell drank. When one thinks of that murderous school at Cowan Bridge it is hard to restrain one’s feelings.’
‘Some people love moors and fells,’ argued Vanda; ‘there’s a wild and rugged grandeur about them; and Yorkshiremen, next to the Scots, are among the boldest of the races of Britain. Look at the men and women we watched going to that mill!’
‘All very well,’ said her unconvinced sister. ‘The climate kills off the weak ones; but what of those poor, sensitive little creatures, shivering and ill-fed, in that unhealthy, undrained hole? That fanatical idiot of a clergyman ought to have been sent to gaol, and a teacher or two hanged! He was rich too, and thanked God for the progress of the school, while these dear babes starved by inches.’