When we arrived at the castle I was shown into a large parlour, in which was an old lady sitting in an arm-chair by the fireside, knitting. On the rug lay a very pretty tortoise-shell cat. As soon as mentioned, the old lady rose; and when Mr. O’Callaghan (for that, I learned, was his name) told her who I was, she said in the most cordial tone that I was welcome, and asked me to sit down. In the course of conversation I learned that she was Mr. O’Callaghan’s mother, and that his father had been dead about a year. We had sat about an hour, when supper was announced, and after supper Mr. O’Callaghan asked me if I should like to retire for the night. I answered in the affirmative, and a little boy was commissioned to show me to my apartment. It was a snug, clean, and comfortable little old-fashioned room at the top of the castle. As soon as we had entered, the boy, who appeared to be a shrewd, good-tempered little fellow, said with a shrug of the shoulder, ‘If it was going to bed I was, it shouldn’t be here that you’d catch me.’ ‘Why?’ said I. ‘Because,’ replied the boy, ‘they say that the ould masther’s ghost has been seen sitting on that there chair.’ ‘And have you seen him?’ ‘No; but I’ve heard him washing his hands in that basin often and often.’ ‘What is your name, my little fellow?’ ‘Dennis Mulready, please your honour.’ ‘Well, good-night to you.’ ‘Good-night, masther; and may the saints keep you from all fairies and brownies,’ said Dennis as he left the room.
As soon as I had laid down I began to think of what the boy had been telling me, and I confess I felt a strange kind of fear, and once or twice I even thought I could discern something white through the darkness which surrounded me. At length, by the help of reason, I succeeded in mastering these, what some would call idle fancies, and fell asleep. I had slept about an hour when a strange sound awoke me, and I saw looking through my curtains a skeleton wrapped in a white sheet. I was overcome with terror and tried to scream, but my tongue was paralysed and my whole frame shook with fear. In a deep hollow voice it said to me, ‘Arise, that I may show thee this world’s wonders,’ and in an instant I found myself encompassed with clouds and darkness. But soon the roar of mighty waters fell upon my ear, and I saw some clouds of spray arising from high falls that rolled in awful majesty down tremendous precipices, and then foamed and thundered in the gulf beneath as if they had taken up their unquiet abode in some giant’s cauldron. But soon the scene changed, and I found myself in the mines of Cracone. There were high pillars and stately arches, whose glittering splendour was never excelled by the brightest fairy palaces. There were not many lamps, only those of a few poor miners, whose rough visages formed a striking contrast to the dazzling figures and grandeur which surrounded them. But in the midst of all this magnificence I felt an indescribable sense of fear and terror, for the sea raged above us, and by the awful and tumultuous noises of roaring winds and dashing waves, it seemed as if the storm was violent. And now the mossy pillars groaned beneath the pressure of the ocean, and the glittering arches seemed about to be overwhelmed. When I heard the rushing waters and saw a mighty flood rolling towards me I gave a loud shriek of terror. The scene vanished, and I found myself in a wide desert full of barren rocks and high mountains. As I was approaching one of the rocks, in which there was a large cave, my foot stumbled and I fell. Just then I heard a deep growl, and saw by the unearthly light of his own fiery eyes a royal lion rousing himself from his kingly slumbers. His terrible eye was fixed upon me, and the desert rang and the rocks echoed with the tremendous roar of fierce delight which he uttered as he sprang towards me. ‘Well, masther, it’s been a windy night, though it’s fine now,’ said Dennis, as he drew the window-curtain and let the bright rays of the morning sun into the little old-fashioned room at the top of O’Callaghan Castle.
C. Brontë.
April the 28th, 1829.
Six numbers of The Young Men’s Magazine were written in 1829; a very juvenile poem, The Evening Walk, by the Marquis of Douro, in 1830; and another, of greater literary value, The Violet, in the same year. In 1831 we have an unfinished poem, The Trumpet Hath Sounded; and in 1832 a very long poem called The Bridal. Some of them, as for example a poem called Richard Coeur de Lion and Blondel, are written in penny and twopenny notebooks of the kind used by laundresses. Occasionally her father has purchased a sixpenny book and has written within the cover—
All that is written in this book must be in a good, plain, and legible hand.—P. B.
While upon this topic, I may as well carry the record up to the date of publication of Currer Bell’s poems. A Leaf from an Unopened Volume was written in 1834, as were also The Death of Darius, and Corner Dishes. Saul: a Poem, was written in 1835, and a number of other still unpublished verses. There is a story called Lord Douro, bearing date 1837, and a manuscript book of verses of 1838, but that pretty well exhausts the manuscripts before me previous to the days of serious literary activity. During the years as private governess (1839–1841) and the Brussels experiences (1842–1844), Charlotte would seem to have put all literary effort on one side.
There is only one letter of Charlotte Brontë’s childhood. It is indorsed by Mr. Brontë on the cover Charlotte’s First Letter, possibly for the guidance of Mrs. Gaskell, who may perhaps have thought it of insufficient importance. That can scarcely be the opinion of any one to-day. Charlotte, aged thirteen, is staying with the Fennells, her mother’s friends of those early love-letters.
TO THE REV. P. BRONTË
‘Parsonage House, Crosstone,
September 23rd, 1829.
‘My dear Papa—At Aunt’s request I write these lines to inform you that “if all be well” we shall be at home on Friday by dinner-time, when we hope to find you in good health. On account of the bad weather we have not been out much, but notwithstanding we have spent our time very pleasantly, between reading, working, and learning our lessons, which Uncle Fennell has been so kind as to teach us every day. Branwell has taken two sketches from nature, and Emily, Anne, and myself have likewise each of us drawn a piece from some views of the lakes which Mr. Fennell brought with him from Westmoreland. The whole of these he intends keeping. Mr. Fennell is sorry he cannot accompany us to Haworth on Friday, for want of room, but hopes to have the pleasure of seeing you soon. All unite in sending their kind love with your affectionate daughter,
‘Charlotte Brontë.’
The following list includes the whole of the early Brontë Manuscripts known to me, or of which I can find any record:—
UNPUBLISHED BRONTË LITERATURE.
BY CHARLOTTE BRONTË
| The Young Men’s Magazines. In Six Numbers [Only four out of these six numbers appear to have been preserved.] | 1829 |
| The Search after Happiness: A Tale. By Charlotte Brontë | 1829 |
| Two Romantic Tales; viz. The Twelve Adventures, and An Adventure in Ireland | 1829 |
| Characters of Great Men of the Present Age, Dec. 17th | 1829 |
| Tales of the Islanders. By Charlotte Brontë:— | |
| Vol. i. dated June 31, 1829 | |
| Vol. ii. dated December 2, 1829 | |
| Vol. iii. dated May 8, 1830 |