Everything seemed simple and happy, and I do
not wonder that the Brontes loved their home, with its little garden of
lilac bushes, the old church in front, and the sweeping moors stretching
far behind. On many a Sunday morning like this they had trodden the very
path I then was treading, and had entered the church-door; but how few of
these simple villagers knew the treasures of genius showered on these
quiet, reserved sisters!
The church inside is old, and quaint, and simple; it can neither be called
elegant, comfortable, spacious nor antique. Old Mr. Bronte was to preach,
and the Rev. Mr. Nicholls read the service. As a compliment to a stranger,
I had been invited by the organist of the church to play the organ--a neat
little instrument of some eight or ten stops; and it was while "giving
out" the familiar tune of Antioch that I noticed, in the reflection of a
little mirror placed above the keyboard, that Mr. Bronte had entered the
church, and was passing up the aisle. He wore the customary black gown,
and the lower part of his face was quite buried in an enormous white
neckcloth--the most monstrous article of the kind I had ever beheld. The
reflection in that little mirror I shall never forget.
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