on january 17th… 1820…

Anne Brontë was born into a literary family in Thornton, West Yorkshire, England. Her parents were Patrick, who was a curate at a local church, and Maria. She was the younger sister of Maria, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Emily, and Branwell. Unfortunately, when Anne was just a year old, her mother passed away, possibly as a result of uterine cancer. Anne’s older sisters were sent to a boarding school, where conditions were very harsh and the food was not good and nourishing. In addition, disease was rampant in the school. Both Maria and Elizabeth were sent home during a typhus epidemic. They both died of tuberculosis in 1825. The loss of the two oldest girls was very distressing, and their father chose to educate his surviving children at home. Their instructors were their father and their aunt Elizabeth. The children spent much time creating stories and plays spun from their vivid imaginations. Later, Anne was sent away to school. She took Emily’s place in the school, after Emily, who suffered from severe homesickness, was sent home.

At the age of 19, Anne became a governess. When she wasn’t teaching, she was writing. She wrote a collection of poems, as well as two novels: “Tenant of Wildfell Hall” and “Agnes Gray.” Unfortunately, Anne died of tuberculosis in 1849 at the age of 28. Her writings were not well received, and she was considered to have been without literary genius, unlike her siblings. Many years later, it turned out that Anne was far ahead of her times. Her book, “Tenant of Wildfell Hall,” is now considered to be one of the first truly feminist books. Her main character, Helen Graham, left her abusive and alcoholic husband to protect both herself and her child, which was considered a shocking thing to happen in the nineteenth century.

Anne Brontë was brilliant, although her brilliance was not recognized in her lifetime.

Here is one of her poems, titled “Home.” You can find that poem and other poems by Anne Brontë at this website: http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/anne_bronte/poems/3818.html

How brightly glistening in the sun

The woodland ivy plays!

While yonder beeches from their barks

Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene

From softly smiling skies;

And wildly through unnumbered trees

The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o’er my head,

And now in distance dies.

But give me back my barren hills

Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees

Can yield an answering swell,

But where a wilderness of heath

Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,

With groves of evergreen,

Long winding walks, and borders trim,

And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,

With grey walls compassed round,

Where knotted grass neglected lies,

And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high

Invites the foot to roam,

And though its halls are fair within —

Oh, give me back my HOME!