The New York herald., 1922-05-21

had put down her needle to interview
Tabby the devoted servant of the
family. about some domestic matter,
for Charlotte was a fastidious house
keeper and never neglected her homely
duties. 1t was interesting to find
among the collection volume of the
sisters poems which no publisher
would accept and which they finally
brought out. I'm 1S46, at their own ex-
pense. One year later, the obscurity
which shrouded Haworth emitted a
sudden light-"Jane Eyre" had flashed
upon the, reading world and Charlotte
Bronte was famous! Everything in
the tiny museum was interesting, even
to her bridal veil and modest wreath
of snowdrops, yellow now with age.
Before the stern simplicity of these
memorials we paused, aghast at our
moeern extravaganza. No luxury nor
outward beauty softened the lives of
Charlotte and Emily. and their inspira-
ton was as native to them as the
purple heather to the moors. Even so
their limitations fostered the creative
spirit, driving it inward to the world
of their imagination, where lay their
greatest power and which yielded
them the spiritual liberty they craved.
Haworth Church stands near the
top of the village, but only the square
tower is old; all the rest, alas, has
been restored since Mr.. Bronte's in
cumbency. An ancient sundial still
adorns the tower and bears beneath
the solemn admonition. Remember
thy latter end" Yew trees make TIE
place more somber and only at the
top near the parsonage, can glimpse
of the hills be seen, rolling away TO
the line of sky, where storms shroud
them in mist, and passing CLEANS of
sunlight transform the dark heath to
glory OF purple, inconceivably beau
tifnl and wild. No wonder the Brontes
loved the moors with their unendtng
changes, rejecting, almost like the
ocean, each CLEAN of light, each pass
ing flaw of wind which falls upon
them in a sudden mist of rain.
If could have stayed in the grim
old parsonage for an hour it would
have been none too long to absorb it's
atmosphere, still redolent Of the past.
It's stone tagged floors are now
covered with carpets, the deep window
loaded ,panes. and one can only forget
that the house could not have been
kept as it was in 1920. when the Rev.
Patrick Bronts brought his wife and
young family to Haworth Moors.
Mr.. Bronte had Spartan ideas about
bringing up children and his passion
ate Celtic temper was not always un-
der perfect control. There are wild
tales of his firing off pistols out of the
back door and of sudden fits of anger,
in one of which he cut up his wifes
only silk gown; but these are not au-
thenticated and all we do know is that
when disturbed. he would stride over
the moors for one Of those inter-
minable walks that he loved.
Often the tiny Brontes had nothing
but potatoes for dinner. HE had
grown to heroic proportions on po-
tatoes and he knew no reason why
his children should fare differently"
He wished TO make them superior to
the pleasures of eating and dress, and
the story goes that "one day the chill
dren had been out on the moor and
rain had come on. the nurse thought
their feet would be wet. and, accord
ingy, she rummaged out some colored
boots. These little pairs she ranged
round the kitchen fire TO warm; but
when the children came back the
boots were nowhere to be found: only
strange odor OF burnt leather was
perceived. Mr.. Bronte had come In