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Emily Brontë and the Haworth Wilderness

Emily Bronte’s hometown is West Riding, Yorkshire, and is the home of the novel Wuthering Heights and Lady Gaskell’s biography Charlotte Bronte. Field scenes from Life of Charlotte Bronte. Emily Bronte was born in Thornton in 1818, but by 1820 the family had moved to Haworth Parsonage, where she died in 1848. Thornton was “desolate and wild, a vast expanse of desolate land, surrounded by stone embankments, throughout Clayton Heights”.

Brontë’s parents had six children, and from a very young age, these children “often held hands and walked toward the beautiful wilderness, which they loved deeply in the years to come. free wilderness”. Emily seldom left Haworth, probably unaware that she was a constant part of it. At the age of seven, she went to school at Cowan’s Bridge with her sisters, and since then, home and the moor have been her school. She and her sisters Anne and Charlotte Bronte, “often set foot on the purplish-black moor, broken up by sporadic quarries; The stream there falls from the rocks to the bottom of the valley.” But they seldom went down through the village.

Emily was “a tall, long-armed girl, taller than Charlotte, full of power, with a somewhat odd figure–slim, tall, angular, with bushy dark brown hair, and deep, beautiful hazel eyes. , gleaming with passion, kind and enthusiastic. The features are sharp and severe, the mouth is protruding and firm, and the manner is very reserved.” The days of the Brontë sisters, and her own walks in the moor with the dog, Emily all happy. But Emily, at 16, left home alone to study at another school, and although she was only three months old, she was extremely distressed.

Charlotte wrote, “My sister Emily loves the moors. Flowers brighter than roses bloom for her in the dark moors; in the gloomy valleys her soul creates a garden of Eden. Here In this desolate solitude, she found many precious pleasures, the most important and favorite of which was freedom. Freedom is the breath of Emily’s nostrils, without which she would die. From home to school, from The change from her own quiet, secluded, but unrestricted way of life to a disciplined routine was unbearable. Her nostalgic nature proved to have a fascination with the Haworth Wilderness. Dreaming. Every morning, when she wakes up with the sights of home and the wasteland flooding her, the day suddenly becomes bleak and sad. No one knows what she is sick with except me, I know all too well. In In this fight, her body broke down very quickly – pale, thin, weak, and on the verge of debilitating. I felt in my heart that if she didn’t come home, she would die. With that in mind, I put She returned to her hometown.”

She went back to Haworth’s house, baked bread, ironed clothes, and took on all the trivial chores at home, but being able to read books and walk in the wilderness in her spare time were her favorites. But when she was 17, she left home again to become a teacher near Halifax. But not long after, homesickness struck again, and she gave up the job again and returned home. The last time Emily left home, at the age of 24, she and Charlotte went to continental Europe to study French at the school of M. Heger in Brussels. There, she developed a deep vision for home, which she recorded in her poem “Ambition of the Heart”:

There is a place, on a desolate mountainside,

Where the winter roars, the rain lingers,

But when a terrible storm roars and roars,

There is always a ray of light that will bring warmth back.

old houses, bare trees,

The moonless sky falls at dusk;

But what is more to desire,

More cherished than the warmth of a fire?

The mute birds land on the stone,

The seepage of wet moss flows along the wall,

The thorn trees are stagnant and thin, the paths are covered with weeds,

I love them, each one deeply!

Quietly, I meditate in the empty room,

The indifferent fire fades away,

Through the gloomy moments,

Finally a sunny day.

A lonely green path,

To the great worlds of other lands;

Distant and dreamy dark blue chain

Circling around the waist of the mountains.

Clear sky, peaceful earth,

The sweet air is gentle and quiet;

The wild sheep of the swamp go about foraging,

This dream-like charm is deepened even more.

After returning to Haworth, she never left Haworth, and although for a while she was without her sister or brother Branwell, she had her bulldog, Anne’s spaniel and Companionship of domestic cats. Mrs. Gaskell compared Emily and Charlotte’s love for animals, and further revealed Emily’s hidden temperament, “The helplessness of animals is a passport to Charlotte’s soul; , wildness, tameness, is the deep inner reason why Emily likes them.” Shelly, the heroine of Charlotte’s “Shellie”, whose temperament is characterized by Emily’s portrayal. Like Shelly lying on the rug reading, wrapping her arms around the neck of her rough bulldog. Shelly (Emily) feeds a mad dog water, gets bitten by it, sterilizes it with a red-hot soldering iron, and doesn’t tell anyone. She loves her bulldog dearly and punishes him without fear.

She was part of the moor, she was part of it, like the curlew and the heather, and she knew it herself. The wasteland is inseparable to her, her pleasure and joy. Her poetry always implies this, and often expresses it. These lines are her most blunt and soulful declarations of wilderness:

In my lovely moorland,

Guangrong Rong wakes up proudly!

O please from the heights and valleys,

Call me to wander the mountain stream!

After the first snow, the mountain stream was full,

The rock is covered with ice, and is gray;

Where the heather grows the water is dim,

The fern leaves no longer have the brilliance of the sun.

There is no yellow star grass on the high mountains,

The bellflower has already withered and died,

Around the moss-covered spring,

On that winter hillside—

More beautiful than the wind-swept wheat fields,

Showing a pure green, bright red, golden yellow,

On the hillside where the north wind blows

Dark valley, where I roamed.

Her love for the wasteland is so great that the genius of the wasteland expresses it in a poem:

There are very few people in the world

someone so desperately desires;

But no one will ask for it

A better paradise than your home.

When Emily lived in the moor moors, she wanted nothing but her own soul and freedom. In fact, her poetry and her life reveal a wild and unruly soul within her; as Byron shows in his poetry, when his natural background is mountains and thunder and lightning, he Also wild. Her background is the Eternal Wilderness itself and “Wuthering Heights,” and she “rides the wind” with the wilderness in the countryside depicted in the first chapter of the novel:

Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr Heathcliff’s residence. The word “whistling” has a special meaning in the local area. It describes the howling winds and rains that this villa experienced in the stormy weather. Of course, living here, the fresh and pure air flow is absolutely indispensable throughout the year. Just look at the ill-grown, overly sloping fir trees at the end of the house, and the slender row, all sticking out in one direction, like thorns begging the sun for alms, and you can tell. How powerful must the north wind blowing past be.

Sometimes she would let in “a gentle breeze, a warm sun”—”I saw only two white spots in the whole field. The sky was blue, the larks were singing, and the rivers and the mountain streams were full.” This is the paradise Emily imagined herself:

We will never leave our homeland,

Relocate anywhere except a grave.

No – rather in your caring breast,

settle down and sleep forever;

Or wake up just for you to share

The common immortality and longevity are boundless.

Rossetti remarked, “The plot of Wuthering Heights was put into hell.” Charlotte Brontë pretends her sister is “Ellis Bell”; the pseudonym is Ellis Millie took it herself, Ellis is a man’s name, referring to the Eighteenth Highness of the Magic World. Charlotte commented affectionately:

The sculptor found a piece of granite in a desolate wilderness. He stared at the rock and saw how a savage, shrewd, sinister head, at least a mighty figure, had been carved out of it. He works with a crude chisel and has no models other than his meditative visions. After a period of time and a lot of hard work, the rock finally took on a human form. It stood there, huge, dark, frowning, half statue, half rock. The former feels terrifying, goblin-like; the latter feels almost beautiful. For its colour is mellow grey, covered with the moss of the moor; the heather, with its blooming bells and fragrance, grows faithfully at the feet of the giants.

Not even Charlotte Bronte could see that the rock carved not only the shape of a tough human being, but an immortal mountain goddess, Emily Bronte herself.

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