Babes in Britain: Emily Bronte's aunt's slippers

It’s just baffling to think of the kind of influence one would have to have—I mean, think about it: whatever she touched turned to gold. The tiniest scrap of paper that she scribbled on as a child, her playthings, her brushes, her pens: all immortalized. Their hometown of Haworth is completely in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by moors (a deceptive name for grassy hills). I’m convinced it has about two streets. But people from all over the world visit this small town because of the Bronte sisters, to see their home, their father’s church, and the graveyard behind it. The Brontes not only put Howarth on the map, but put it into the itinerary’s of thousands of travelers.

I don’t always get why we’ve decided to keep all of this memorabilia, or why we’re so obsessive about it. Yes, we love their books, but some of this just has nothing to do with literature. Why, for example, did we save Dorothea Wordsworth’s braid of hair in a box? I vote we throw that one away. In the case of the Bronte sisters, scientists actually have analyzed strands of their hair in order to determine the adequacy of their diet—to see whether or not their father, Patrick, treated them to just potatoes or provided more substantial varieties. Hmm. I’m not too sure about that one.

I mean, I understand: I can’t throw things away either (If you want to see what one second grade girl says to another in the event of a barbie birthday, I can give you a pretty fair sampling). And I understand the thrill of discovery: when I was about twelve, I found some scraps of newspaper and odd bits of paper lodged behind the mirror of my desk/vanity set. This desk my grandma had in her house when she was a little girl. They were some cut out obituaries and a business card for a hair salon, with an appointment time hand written on the front. I was ecstatic. Haircuts have never been more magical.

It’s easy to be cynical about the clutter of museums. It’s hard to take ownership, I guess, of some of these treasures—these bits from another’s life. Being out on the moors: that I understand. We walked where Emily Bronte would have walked—saw her land. But her aunt’s slippers? I don’t think anyone in Wuthering Heights ever mentions slippers.

I suppose I must give allowances. I mean, I still have the hair salon card (not to mention the birthday cards). Sometimes, I think to myself “I hope she made her appointment on time.” And in a small way, it matters.

Here are some more pictures. Cheers.