Bronte family Timeline

Brontë Family Timeline

1777 Patrick Brontë is born “Patrick Brunty” in County Down, Ireland.

1806 Patrick earns a bachelor’s degree in theology from Cambridge.

1807 Patrick is ordained by the Church of England.

1810 Patrick publishes his first poem, “Winter Evening.”

1812 Patrick marries Maria Branwell and moves to Yorkshire.

1814 Maria Brontë is born.

1815 Elizabeth Brontë is born.

1815 Patrick Brontë is named curate at Thornton.

1816 Charlotte Brontë is born.

1817 Patrick Branwell Brontë is born.

1818 Emily Jane Brontë is born.

1820 Anne Brontë is born and family moves after Patrick is offered the Perpetual

Curacy at Haworth.

1821 Maria Brontë (wife of Patrick) dies.

1824 Maria and Elizabeth attend the Clergy Daughters’ School at Cowan Bridge in

Lancaster; Charlotte and Emily soon follow.

1825 Maria and Elizabeth Brontë die within six weeks of each other from tuberculosis;

Charlotte and Emily return home.

1831-32 Charlotte attends Roe Head School in Mirfield.

1835 Charlotte becomes a teacher at Roe Head School. Emily enrolls as a student but

returns home shortly after. Anne takes Emily’s place at Roe Head.

1837 Charlotte and Anne return home after Anne becomes ill. Charlotte resigns her

position.

9

1838 Emily is hired to teach at Law Hill School. She returns home six months later.

1838 Branwell goes to Bradford to become a portrait painter.

1839 Anne works briefly as governess to the Ingham family but is soon dismissed and

becomes governess to the Robinson family.

1840 Branwell takes a position as assistant clerk in Sowerby Bridge Railway Station.

1842 Charlotte and Emily travel to Brussels to study at the Pensionnat Heger.

1842 Aunt Elizabeth Branwell dies at the family home in Haworth. Charlotte and

Emily return home for the funeral. Charlotte returns to Brussels, while Emily

remains in Haworth.

1843 Charlotte becomes a teacher in the Pensionnat Heger. Branwell is hired as tutor

for the Robinson family.

1844 Charlotte returns to England.

1845 Anne resigns from position as governess to Robinson family and Branwell is

dismissed for having an affair with Mrs. Robinson.

1846 Publication of Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.

1847 Charlotte's Jane Eyre published.

1847 Anne's Agnes Grey and Emily's Wuthering Heights published together.

1848 Anne's The Tenant of Wildfell Hall published; Branwell dies of tuberculosis,

followed three months later by Emily.

1849 Anne dies of tuberculosis.

1849 Charlotte's Shirley is published.

1853 Charlotte's Villette is published.

1854 Charlotte marries Arthur Bell Nicholls.

1855 Charlotte dies of tuberculosis and complications from pregnancy.

1857 Charlotte's The Professor is published.

1861 Rev. Patrick Brontë dies, having outlived his entire family.

Ellen Nussey Remembers

ant bushes which Emily and Anne treasured as their own bit of fruit garden, is now a perfect Arcadia of floral culture and beauty. At first the alteration, despite its improvement, strikes one with heart-ache and regret: for it is quite impossible, even in imagination, to people those rooms with their former inhabitants. But after-thought shows one the folly of such regret,; for what the Brontes cared for and lived in most were the surroundings of nature; the free expanse of hill and mountain, the purple heather, the dells and glens, and brooks and the broad sky-view, the whistling winds, the snowy expanse, the starry heavens, and the charm of that solitude and seclusion that sees things from a distance without the disturbing atmosphere that lesser minds are apt to create. For it is not the seclusion of a solitary person, such as Charlotte endured in after days, which in time becomes awfully oppressive and injurious. It was solitude and seclusion enjoyed with intelligent companionship, and intense family affection.

The Last Sketch by Thackery

The Last Sketch.

Not many days since I went to visit a house where in former years I had received many a friendly welcome. We went into the owner’s—an artist’s—studio. Prints, pictures, and sketches hung on the walls as I had last seen and remembered them. The implements of the painter’s art were there. The light which had shone upon so many, many hours of patient and cheerful toil, poured through the northern window upon print and bust, lay figure and sketch, and upon the easel before which the good, the gentle, the beloved Leslie labored. In this room the busy brain had devised, and the skilful hand executed, I know not how many of the noble works which have delighted the world with their beauty and charming humor. Here the poet called up into pictorial presence, and informed with life, grace, beauty, infinite friendly mirth and wondrous naturalness of expression, the people of whom his dear books told him the stories,—his Shakspeare, his Cervantes, his Moliere, his Le Sage. There was his last work on the easel—a beautiful fresh smiling shape of Titania, such as his sweet guileless fancy imagined the Midsummer Night’s queen to be. Gracious, and pure, and bright, the sweet smiling image glimmers on the canvas. Fairy elves, no doubt, were to have been grouped around their mistress in laughing clusters. Honest Bottom’s grotesque head and form are indicated as reposing by the side of the consummate beauty. The darkling forest would have grown around them, with the stars glittering from the midsummer sky: the flowers at the queen’s feet, and the boughs and foliage about her, would have been peopled with gambolling sprites and fays. They were dwelling in the artist’s mind no doubt, and would have been developed by that patient, faithful, admirable genius: but the busy brain stopped working, the skilful hand fell lifeless, the loving, honest heart ceased to beat. What was she to have been—that fair Titania—when perfected by the patient skill of the poet, who in imagination saw the sweet innocent figure, and with tender courtesy and caresses, as it were, posed and shaped and traced the fair form? Is there record kept anywhere of fancies conceived, beautiful, unborn? Some day will they assume form in some yet undeveloped light? If our bad unspoken thoughts are registered against us, and are written in the awful account, will not the good thoughts unspoken, the love and tenderness, the pity, beauty, charity, which pass through the breast, and cause the heart to throb with silent good, find a remembrance too? A few weeks more, and this lovely offspring of the poet’s conception would have been complete—to charm the world with its beautiful mirth. May there not be some sphere unknown to us where it may have an existence? They say our words, once out of our lips, go travelling in omne oevum, reverberating for ever and ever. If our words, why not our thoughts? If the Has Been, why not the Might Have Been?

Some day our spirits may be permitted to walk in galleries of fancies more wondrous and beautiful than any achieved works which at present we see, and our minds to behold and delight in masterpieces which poets’ and artists’ minds have fathered and conceived only.

With a feeling much akin to that with which I looked upon the friend’s—the admirable artist’s—unfinished work, I can fancy many readers turning to the last pages which were traced by Charlotte Bronte’s hand. Of the multitude that have read her books, who has not known and deplored the tragedy of her family, her own most sad and untimely fate? Which of her readers has not become her friend? Who that has known her books has not admired the artist’s noble English, the burning love of truth, the bravery, the simplicity, the indignation at wrong, the eager sympathy, the pious love and reverence, the passionate honor, so to speak, of the woman? What a story is that of that family of poets in their solitude yonder on the gloomy northern moors! At nine o’clock at night, Mrs. Gaskell tells, after evening prayers, when their guardian and relative had gone to bed, the three poetesses—the three maidens, Charlotte, and Emily, and Anne—Charlotte being the “motherly friend and guardian to the other two”—“began, like restless wild animals, to pace up and down their parlor, ‘making out’ their wonderful stories, talking over plans and projects, and thoughts of what was to be their future life.”

One evening, at the close of 1854, as Charlotte Nicholls sat with her husband by the fire, listening to the howling of the wind about the house, she suddenly said to her husband, “If you had not been with me, I must have been writing now.” She then ran up stairs, and brought down, and read aloud, the beginning of a new tale. When she had finished, her husband remarked, “The critics will accuse you of repetition.” She replied, “Oh! I shall alter that. I always begin two or three times before I can please myself.” But it was not to be. The trembling little hand was to write no more. The heart newly awakened to love and happiness, and throbbing with maternal hope, was soon to cease to beat; that intrepid outspeaker and champion of truth, that eager, impetuous redresser of wrong, was to be called out of the world’s fight and struggle, to lay down the shining arms, and to be removed to a sphere where even a noble indignation cor ulterius nequit lacerare, and where truth complete, and right triumphant, no longer need to wage war.

I can only say of this lady, vidi tantum. I saw her first just as I rose out of an illness from which I had never thought to recover. I remember the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great honest eyes. An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the woman. Twice I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be errors in doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She spoke her mind out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions. (I have smiled at one or two passages in the “Biography,” in which my own disposition or behavior forms the subject of talk.) She formed conclusions that might be wrong, and built up whole theories of character upon them. New to the London world, she entered it with an independent, indomitable spirit of her own; and judged of contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or affectation, with extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with her favorites if their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal. Often she seemed to me to be judging the London folk prematurely: but perhaps the city is rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She gave me the impression of being a very pure, and lofty, and high-minded person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth seemed to be with her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared to me. As one thinks of that life so noble, so lonely—of that passion for truth—of those nights and nights of eager study, swarming fancies, invention, depression, elation, prayer; as one reads the necessarily incomplete, though most touching and admirable history of the heart that throbbed in this one little frame—of this one amongst the myriads of souls that have lived and died on this great earth—this great earth?—this little speck in the infinite universe of God,—with what wonder do we think of today, with what awe await tomorrow, when that which is now but darkly seen shall be clear! As I read this little fragmentary sketch, I think of the rest. Is it? And where is it? Will not the leaf be turned some day, and the story be told? Shall the deviser of the tale somewhere perfect the history of little EMMA’S griefs and troubles? Shall TITANIA come forth complete with her sportive court, with the flowers at her feet, the forest around her, and all the stars of summer glittering overhead?

How well I remember the delight, and wonder, and pleasure with which I read “Jane Eyre,” sent to me by an author whose name and sex were then alike unknown to me; the strange fascinations of the book; and how with my own work pressing upon me, I could not, having taken the volumes up, lay them down until they were read through! Hundreds of those who, like myself, recognized and admired that master-work of a great genius, will look with a mournful interest and regard and curiosity upon the last fragmentary sketch from the noble hand which wrote “Jane Eyre.”

Emily Bronte....a painting by Rosi.....those eyes....

Emily Bronte Coming Out

Emily Bronte comes out in oils for me with her large eyes, strong nose and chin, pout and slender neck. Blackriverrosi.

http://thebrontesoul.wetpaint.com/page/The+Bronte+Image+Collection+by+Rosi

BRONTE IMAGE COLLECTION

Patrick Bronte

Patrick Brontë Biography

(1777-1861)

Patrick Brontë was born at Emdale, Drumballyroney, County Down, Ireland, the eldest of 10 children. He was apprenticed to a blacksmith and then to a linen weaver, but by sixteen, he was Master of the village school. At first self-educated, he was later helped by local clergymen, Revs. Andrew Harshaw and Thomas Tighe. In October 1802 Patrick Brontë, aged 25, registered as a student at St John's College Cambridge. He corrected the spelling of his name from Brunty to Brontë. It is not known for certain why he did this, he may have wished to hide his humble origins. Why Brontë? He would have been familiar with classical Greek and may have chosen the name after the Greek mythological god "Bronte" which translates as "thunder". Another theory is that in 1799 King Ferdinand of Naples bestowed the honour of Duke of Bronte in Sicily to Lord Nelson for fighting off the French Navy. Patrick may have taken the name as respect of Lord Nelson. His time at college, although financially difficult , was successful, and as a scholar he was always in the top group academically. He graduated in April 1806 with a Bachelor of Arts degree and then paid a visit to his family in Northern Ireland. He returned to England and never visited Ireland again.

He was ordained into the Church of England in 1807 and tookup a number of curacies. On 29th December 1812 Patrick Bronte
married Maria Branwell at Guiseley Church. In 1814, their first daughter, Maria, was born and then in 1815 their second daughter Elizabeth was born. In 1815 he was appointed curate at Thornton in Bradford. His three Daughters; Charlotte (1816), Emily (1818), Anne (1820) and his only son Branwell (1817) were all born there. In 1820 Patrick was appointed perpetual curate of Haworth, shortly after in January 1821 his wife Maria died of cancer. Maria's sister Elizabeth moved from Penzance to help Patrick out.

Patrick found the strain of bringing up a family difficult and decided to send Maria, Elizabeth, Charlotte and Emily to the recently opened Clergy Daughters' School at Cowan Bridge. The harsh regime, cold and poor food took their toll on the children who were eventually taken away, however Maria and Elizabeth died soon after returning to Haworth.


Over the next years Mr. Brontë stayed mainly in his study reading up on the latest politics, studying for his Sunday sermons, and teaching his children.

In 1847 Patrick campaigned strongly for improved education in the district and in 1849 for improvements in the water supply. A change in education and bad sanitation for local people was seen in his lifetime.

He saw his children grow up, and all at one point in time left him to pursue work or higher education. Then in late 1848 through May of 1849 hew saw three of his children placed in the vault beneath the church. Fourtanately before his last child, Charlotte, took her final reating place, she married a faithful and kind man, Arthur Bell Nicholls, who took care of Mr Brontë until his death in 1961.

On 30 October 1859 Patrick Bronte preached his last sermon from the pulpit of Haworth Church. On the 7th June 1861 he died aged 84. On the 12th June he was laid to rest in the family vault at Haworth church. He had lived and preached in the parish of Haworth for 41 years, outliving all his children.