It is now so dark that, notwithstanding
the singular property of seeing in the night-time, which the young ladies
at Roe Head used to attribute to me, I can scribble no longer."
To a visitor at the parsonage, it was a great thing to have Tabby's good
word. She had a Yorkshire keenness of perception into character, and it
was not everybody she liked.
Haworth is built with an utter disregard of all sanitary conditions: the
great old churchyard lies above all the houses, and it is terrible to
think how the very water-springs of the pumps below must be poisoned. But
this winter of 1833-4 was particularly wet and rainy, and there were an
unusual number of deaths in the village. A dreary season it was to the
family in the parsonage: their usual walks obstructed by the spongy state
of the moors--the passing and funeral bells so frequently tolling, and
filling the heavy air with their mournful sound--and, when they were
still, the "chip, chip," of the mason, as he cut the grave-stones in a
shed close by. In many, living, as it were, in a churchyard, and with
all the sights and sounds connected with the last offices to the dead
things of everyday occurrence, the very familiarity would have bred
indifference. But it was otherwise with Charlotte Bronte. One of her
friends says:--"I have seen her turn pale and feel faint when, in
Hartshead church, some one accidentally remarked that we were walking
over graves.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162