Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842-1885

by T. Wemyss Reid

I have said that during the stormy days of the atrocities agitation I was engaged in other work than that of political writing. This was the completion of a little book in which I gave my impressions of Charlotte and Emily Brontë to the public. The story of Charlotte Brontë, as told by Mrs. Gaskell, had always possessed a great fascination for me. I had been moved to write to Mrs. Gaskell when her biography of Charlotte appeared, and I had received from her more than one letter filled with interesting details about Charlotte's father, and his life after his daughter's death. When I went to Leeds in 1866, the first pilgrimage I made was to Haworth. That was less than eleven years after Charlotte's death, and at a time when there were, of course, many persons still living in the village who had a perfect recollection of the wonderful sisters. But, strange to say, Haworth was not in those days a popular "shrine." "Whiles some Americans come to see the church, but nobody else," was the statement made to me when I asked the sexton if there were many visitors to the home of the Brontës.

My visit furnished me with a theme for a descriptive article which was printed in Chambers's Journal in 1867, and, having written it, I believed that my connection with the Brontës was at an end. But when I went back to Leeds in 1870, I was struck by the fact that throughout the West Riding of Yorkshire there prevailed a widespread feeling that was nothing less than one of positive antipathy to the works and the story of the Brontës. Their books, though they dealt with local scenes and characters, were no longer read. In that respect, however, the West Riding hardly differed from the rest of England. What was peculiar to Yorkshire was the fact that, if you mentioned the name of Brontë in any average company, the chances were in favour of your being met with an indignant snort from someone who protested that Charlotte's stories were a disgraceful libel upon the district, and that "Wuthering Heights" was a book so dreadful in its character that its author would only have met with her deserts if she had been soundly whipped for writing it. I met more than one lady who had known the Brontës, and who, in reply to my eager questioning, spoke of them with undisguised contempt. I was assured that they were not ladies, that they were not even successful as governesses, that their father and brother were a pair of reprobates, and that they themselves, being embittered by the fact that they were not admitted to the good society of their neighbourhood, had deliberately revenged themselves by writing scurrilous libels and caricatures in order to bring Yorkshire men and women into contempt. It all seems incredible now; yet this was the actual state of feeling prevalent in Yorkshire with regard to the Brontës thirty years ago.

I was asked to deliver a lecture before some literary society in Leeds, and it seemed to me that I could not do better than tell the story of the Brontës; and defend them against the aspersions cast upon them by their old neighbours. Accordingly, I wrote a lecture which was the foundation of the little book I subsequently published on the same subject. Miss Nussey, Charlotte's schoolfellow and bosom friend, and the "dear E." of Mrs. Gaskell's "Life," was then living at Birstall, near Leeds. She heard of my lecture through some mutual friend, and expressed a desire to be allowed to read it. After having done so, she asked me to visit her—a request with which I gladly complied. I found her a cheerful, neat, and well-preserved woman, who, though she was well advanced in middle life, retained a good deal of the charm of manner with which Caroline Helstone, in the delightful story of "Shirley," is endowed.

I am well aware that the identity of Ellen Nussey and Caroline Helstone has been questioned by some recent writers, and that Mr. Nicholls, who was for a few months Charlotte Brontë's husband, is quoted in support of this denial. All I can say is, first, that Miss Nussey acknowledged to me the truth of the statement that she had served as a model for Caroline Helstone, just as Emily Brontë served as a model for Shirley herself; and secondly, that it was impossible for anyone to know Miss Nussey in those days without seeing how vivid and truthful Charlotte's portrait of her was. Almost her first words to me when I met her expressed her regret that Mrs. Gaskell had not done justice to Charlotte's life and character in her famous Memoir. To me this was rank heresy, for, like most other persons, I was indebted to Mrs. Gaskell for nearly all the knowledge I then possessed of the Brontë story. But, in reply to my defence of Mrs. Gaskell, Miss Nussey entered into particulars. She explained to me that Mrs. Gaskell had mixed up the sordid and shameful story of Branwell Brontë with that of his sisters; and she protested against the way in which local traditions, that had nothing to do with the character of the gifted sisters, in whom there was not a single drop of Yorkshire blood, had been imported into Mrs. Gaskell's narrative, as though these traditions were in some way connected with the lives of the Brontës. Finally, she declared that she would not rest satisfied until a book had been written about Charlotte which toned down the over-colouring of Mrs. Gaskell's narrative, and she asked me if I was prepared to write such a book.

It was a flattering proposal, but I felt compelled to decline it. I was well aware that I could not put myself into competition with Mrs. Gaskell, even if I desired to do so, and I had no wish to appear to attack a book which I regarded as one of the masterpieces of English biography. But Miss Nussey was persistent, and she offered me the use of all Charlotte's correspondence with her, including the letters relating to her courtship and marriage, which Mrs. Gaskell had never even seen. After I had read these letters and other documents with which Miss Nussey furnished me, I suggested that, if I could not write a book, I might still make one or two interesting magazine articles out of the materials in my possession. Miss Nussey embraced this idea with enthusiasm, protesting that so long as she could see Charlotte "set right" in the eyes of the world, she would be perfectly satisfied with anything I chose to do. Accordingly, in the spring of 1866, I wrote three articles which appeared in Macmillan's Magazine. I wrote them with fear and trembling, and I must add that I wrote them without any kind of encouragement from outside, other than that which I received from Miss Nussey herself. The general impression among the editors and critics of the day was that there was nothing new to be said about the Brontës, and that, even if there were, the public would not care to hear it. The kind and genial editor of Macmillan's Magazine himself—Sir George Grove—shared this conviction, and it was only at the urgent request of William Black, through whom I approached him, that he agreed to look at my articles. However, having seen them, he liked them, and wrote to me warmly in their praise. Nor did the public like them less, if Sir George Grove was correct in his statement that these contributions of mine about the author of "Jane Eyre" had done more to increase the sale of the magazine than any article since Mrs. Stowe's famous defamation of Lord Byron.

Nor did the matter end, as I thought it would have done, with the publication of my articles in Macmillan's. I received a summons from the famous head of that firm of publishers, Mr. Alexander Macmillan; and, attending him in the deferential manner in which authors in those days waited upon important publishers, was asked with characteristic gruffness if I could add enough to the articles to make a book. "The public," said Mr. Macmillan, in tones which made me feel my own insignificance, "seems to want something more of the stuff; I really don't know why. But if you can do something more, we'll make a book of it." Then he named the honorarium I was to receive in payment both for the magazine articles and the volume. It was a modest sum—only a hundred pounds, and of this I felt that Miss Nussey was entitled to a considerable share. But a hundred pounds was not to be despised. Besides, I loved my subject, and knew that I had still something left to say about it. So I closed with Mr. Macmillan's offer, and a few months later my little book, "Charlotte Brontë: a Monograph," was duly published.

It will be seen that it was by accident rather than design that I wrote the book. Miss Nussey moved me to the writing of the magazine articles; Mr. Macmillan urged me to expand them into a volume. Otherwise I should have written nothing on the subject, and it would have been left to somebody else to start that Brontë cult which has since spread so widely. The appearance of the volume marked an important epoch in my life. Yet, in the first instance, "Charlotte Brontë" was very coldly received by the critics. Most of them seemed to think that the book was entirely superfluous. They evidently shared Mr. Macmillan's surprise that anybody should think such a volume was needed. Most of them also agreed that I had no special qualifications for the task I had undertaken, and that the new matter I had brought to light was of little value. One of my critics, the Athenaeum, poured contempt upon me for having spoken of "the scent of the heather." The ingenuous writer evidently had seen heather nowhere save on the slab of a fishmonger's shop. But, in spite of the critics, the book sold, and sold rapidly. It went through three editions in this country within a few weeks of its publication. It was republished in America by arrangement with the Macmillans, and had so large a sale there that it was speedily pirated, the pirates not even having the decency to give my name upon the title-page.

Snubbed as I felt myself to be, I still had my reward. People who had read the book wrote to me in enthusiastic terms, and they were not all Americans who did so. I speedily became aware that I had, almost by accident, tapped a vein of pure and rich sentiment. Best of all was the fact that my kind friend, Lord Houghton, forwarded to me a letter he had received from Mr. Swinburne which contained the following passage: "Has anyone told you I am just about to publish a 'Study' on Charlotte Brontë, which has grown out of all proportion to the thing it was meant to be—a review of (or article on) Mr. Wemyss Reid's little jewel and treasure-casket of a book?" Need I say that I was more than consoled for the coldness of the reception which the Press had given to my first literary essay by such words as these; nor had I long to wait before I saw the Brontë cult a great and growing factor in our literary life. The critics could not ignore Mr. Swinburne, and when his "Note" on Charlotte Brontë appeared, they were compelled to discuss seriously the question which they had previously regarded as superfluous or trivial.

At Mr. Swinburne's request I subsequently went to see the distinguished poet at the rooms he occupied in Great James Street. My reception was not what I had expected, though Mr. Swinburne cannot be blamed for the fact. I was kept waiting on the doorstep, after ringing the bell, for an unusually long time, and during the interval of waiting a tradesman's boy arrived, basket on arm. He was more impatient than I was, and rang the bell violently to quicken the movements of those within, evidently careless as to whether he might be disturbing a poet's daydream. A terrible old woman, with landlady written large all over her face and person, opened the door, and, without paying the slightest attention to me, began to rate the shopboy in no measured terms. He retaliated in the same fashion, and I found myself quite unheeded in the midst of this war of words. At last, tired of waiting, I interposed between the boy and the landlady, and asked the latter if Mr. Swinburne was at home. She looked at me with withering contempt for a few seconds, and then ejaculated, "No, he ain't, and it would be a good thing for him if he never was when the likes of you come to call on him." Having delivered herself of this hospitable sentence, she slammed the door in my face, and left me a sadder man. I never dared to face that lady again, and in consequence I missed the pleasure of making Mr. Swinburne's acquaintance at that time.

I was elected about this time a member of the Savile Club, which then had its home in Savile Row. My proposer was Mr. J. F. McLennan, the author of "Primitive Marriage," and I owed my immediate election chiefly to his good offices, but partly to the fact that my book on Charlotte Brontë had found favour with the reading public. A great deal has been written since then about the Brontës. Some of our ablest literary critics have discussed their genius with a penetrating insight that has opened up for us the secrets of their wonderful laboratory, whilst industrious investigators have brought to light many facts which were unknown to Mrs. Gaskell at the time when she wrote her famous Memoir. A Brontë Society has been formed in Yorkshire, and no man would now be justified in maintaining either that the Brontës are not fully appreciated in the world of letters, or that in their own county their fame is neglected or despised. I myself have added very little to the literature which has been poured forth upon the subject since the appearance of Mr. Swinburne's "Note." I shrank from doing so, because I was not in sympathy with the public curiosity which aspired to know everything that there was to tell about the Brontës without regard to its intrinsic interest, or to that decent reticence which even the dead have a right to expect from us. I did not, for example, in my "monograph" publish the remarkable letters in which Charlotte told Miss Nussey the story of her strange love affair with Mr. Nicholls. Mr. Nicholls was still living, and I felt that these letters could not decently be published during his lifetime. Twenty years later, however, they were published by Mr. Shorter, not only during the lifetime of Mr. Nicholls, but with that gentleman's full consent.