Wafting through heaven its mourning knell,
Warns man that life's uncertain day
Like lifeless Nature's must decay;
And tells her that the warning deep
Speaks where her own forefathers sleep,
And where destruction makes a prey
Of what was once this world to her,
But which--like other gods of clay--
Has cheated its blind worshipper:
With swelling breast and shining eyes
That seem to chide the thoughtless skies,
She strives in words to find relief
For long-pent thoughts of mellowed grief.
'"Time's clouds roll back, and memory's light
Bursts suddenly upon my sight;
For thoughts, which words could never tell,
Find utterance in that funeral bell.
My heart, this eve, seemed full of feeling,
Yet nothing clear to me revealing;
Sounding in breathings undefined
AEolian music to my mind:
Then strikes that bell, and all subsides
Into a harmony, which glides
As sweet and solemn as the dream
Of a remembered funeral hymn.
This scene seemed like the magic glass,
Which bore upon its clouded face
Strange shadows that deceived the eye
With forms defined uncertainly;
That Bell is old Agrippa's wand,
Which parts the clouds on either hand,
And shows the pictured forms of doom
Momently brightening through the gloom:
Yes--shows a scene of bygone years--
Opens a fount of sealed-up tears--
And wakens memory's pensive thought
To visions sleeping--not forgot.
It brings me back a summer's day,
Shedding like this its parting ray,
With skies as shining and serene,
And hills as blue, and groves as green.
'"Ah, well I recollect that hour,
When I sat, gazing, just as now,
Toward that ivy-mantled tower
Among these flowers which wave below!
No--not these flowers--they're long since dead,
And flowers have budded, bloomed, and gone,
Since those were plucked which gird the head
Laid underneath yon churchyard stone!
I stooped to pluck a rose that grew
Beside this window, waving then;
But back my little hand withdrew,
From some reproof of inward pain;
For _she who loved it_ was not there
To check me with her dove-like eye,
And something bid my heart forbear
_Her_ favourite rosebud to destroy.
Was it that bell--that funeral bell,
Sullenly sounding on the wind?
Was it that melancholy knell
Which first to sorrow woke my mind?
I looked upon my mourning dress
Till my heart beat with childish fear,
And--frightened at my loneliness--
I watched, some well-known sound to hear.
But all without lay silent in
The sunny hush of afternoon,
And only muffled steps within
Passed slowly and sedately on.
I well can recollect the awe
With which I hastened to depart;
And, as I ran, the instinctive start
With which my mother's form I saw,
Arrayed in black, with pallid face,
And cheeks and 'kerchief wet with tears,
As down she stooped to kiss my face
And quiet my uncertain fears.
'"She led me, in her mourning hood,
Through voiceless galleries, to a room,
'Neath whose black hangings crowded stood,
With downcast eyes and brows of gloom,
My known relations; while--with head
Declining o'er my sister's bed--
My father's stern eye dropt a tear
Upon the coffin resting there.
My mother lifted me to see
What might within that coffin be;
And, to this moment, I can feel
The voiceless gasp--the sickening chill--
With which I hid my whitened face
In the dear folds of her embrace;
For hardly dared I turn my head
Lest its wet eyes should view that bed.
'But, Harriet,' said my mother mild,
'Look at _your_ sister and my child
One moment, ere her form be hid
For ever 'neath its coffin lid!'
I heard the appeal, and answered too;
For down I bent to bid adieu.
But, as I looked, forgot affright
In mild and magical delight.
'"There lay she then, as now she lies--
For not a limb has moved since then--
In dreamless slumber closed, those eyes
That never more might wake again.
She lay, as I had seen her lie
On many a happy night before,
When I was humbly kneeling by--
Whom she was teaching to adore:
Oh, just as when by her I prayed,
And she to heaven sent up my prayer,
She lay with flowers about her head--
Though formal grave-clothes hid her hair!
Still did her lips the smile retain
Which parted them when hope was high,
Still seemed her brow as smoothed from pain
As when all thought she could not die.
And, though her bed looked cramped and strange,
Her _too_ bright cheek all faded now,
My young eyes scarcely saw a change
From hours when moonlight paled her brow.
And yet I felt--and scarce could speak--
A chilly face, a faltering breath,
When my hand touched the marble cheek
Which lay so passively beneath.
In fright I gasped, 'Speak, Caroline!'
And bade my sister to arise;
But answered not her voice to mine,
Nor ope'd her sleeping eyes.
I turned toward my mother then
And prayed on her to call;
But, though she strove to hide her pain,
It forced her tears to fall.
She pressed me to her aching breast
As if her heart would break,
And bent in silence o'er the rest
Of one she could not wake:
The rest of one, whose vanished years
Her soul had watched in vain;
The end of mother's hopes and fears,
And happiness and pain.
'"They came--they pressed the coffin lid
Above my Caroline,
And then, I felt, for ever hid
My sister's face from mine!
There was one moment's wildered start--
One pang remembered well--
When first from my unhardened heart
The tears of anguish fell:
That swell of thought which seemed to fill
The bursting heart, the gushing eye,
While fades all _present_ good or ill
Before the shades of things gone by.
All else seems blank--the mourning march,
The proud parade of woe,
The passage 'neath the churchyard arch,
The crowd that met the show.
My place or thoughts amid the train
I strive to recollect, in vain--
I could not think or see:
I cared not whither I was borne:
And only felt that death had torn
My Caroline from me.
'"Slowly and sadly, o'er her grave,
The organ peals its passing stave,
And, to its last dark dwelling-place,
The corpse attending mourners bear,
While, o'er it bending, many a face
'Mongst young companions shows a tear.
I think I glanced toward the crowd
That stood in musing silence by,
And even now I hear the sound
Of some one's voice amongst them cry--
'I am the Resurrection and the Life--
He who believes in me shall never die!'
'"Long years have never worn away
The unnatural strangeness of that day,
When I beheld--upon the plate
Of grim death's mockery of state--
That well-known word, that long-loved name,
Now but remembered like the dream
Of half-forgotten hymns divine,
My sister's name--my Caroline!
Down, down, they lowered her, sad and slow,
Into her narrow house below:
And deep, indeed, appeared to be
That one glimpse of eternity,
Where, cut from life, corruption lay,
Where beauty soon should turn to clay!
Though scarcely conscious, hotly fell
The drops that spoke my last farewell;
And wild my sob, when hollow rung
The first cold clod above her flung,
When glitter was to turn to rust,
'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!'
'"How bitter seemed that moment when,
Earth's ceremonies o'er,
We from the filled grave turned again
To leave her evermore;
And, when emerging from the cold
Of damp, sepulchral air,
As I turned, listless to behold
The evening fresh and fair,
How sadly seemed to smile the face
Of the descending sun!
How seemed as if his latest race
Were with that evening run!
There sank his orb behind the grove
Of my ancestral home,
With heaven's unbounded vault above
To canopy his tomb.
Yet lingering sadly and serene,
As for his last farewell,
To shine upon those wild woods green
O'er which he'd loved to dwell.
'"I lost him, and the silent room,
Where soon at rest I lay,
Began to darken, 'neath the gloom
Of twilight's dull decay;
So, sobbing as my heart would break,
And blind with gushing eyes,
Hours seemed whole nights to me awake,
And day as 'twould not rise.
I almost prayed that I might die--
But then the thought would come
That, if I did, my corpse must lie
In yonder dismal tomb;
Until, methought, I saw its stone,
By moonshine glistening clear,
While Caroline's bright form alone
Kept silent watching there:
All white with angel's wings she seemed,
And indistinct to see;
But when the unclouded moonlight beamed
I saw her beckon me,
And fade, thus beckoning, while the wind
Around that midnight wall,
To me--now lingering years behind--
Seemed then my sister's call!
'"And thus it brought me back the hours
When we, at rest together,
Used to lie listening to the showers
Of wild December weather;
Which, when, as oft, they woke in her
The chords of inward thought,
Would fill with pictures that wild air,
From far off memories brought;
So, while I lay, I heard again
Her silver-sounding tongue,
Rehearsing some remembered strain
Of old times long agone!
And, flashed across my spirit's sight,
What she had often told me--
When, laid awake on Christmas night,
Her sheltering arms would fold me--
About that midnight-seeming day,
Whose gloom o'er Calvary thrown,
Showed trembling Nature's deep dismay
At what her sons had done:
When sacred Salem's murky air
Was riven with the cry,
Which told the world how mortals dare
The Immortal crucify;
When those who, sorrowing, sat afar,
With aching heart and eye,
Beheld their great Redeemer there,
'Mid sneers and scoffings die;
When all His earthly vigour fled,
When thirsty faintness bowed His head,
When His pale limbs were moistened o'er
With deathly dews and dripping gore,
When quivered all His worn-out frame,
As Death, triumphant, quenched life's flame,
When upward gazed His glazing eyes
To those tremendous-seeming skies,
When burst His cry of agony--
'My God!--my God!--hast Thou forsaken me!'
My youthful feelings startled then,
As if the temple, rent in twain,
Horribly pealing on my ear
With its deep thunder note of fear,
Wrapping the world in general gloom,
As if her God's were Nature's tomb;
While sheeted ghosts before my gaze
Passed, flitting 'mid the dreary maze,
As if rejoicing at the day
When death--their king--o'er Heaven had sway.
In glistening charnel damps arrayed,
They seemed to gibber round my head,
Through night's drear void directing me
Toward still and solemn Calvary,
Where gleamed that cross with steady shine
Around the thorn-crowned head divine--
A flaming cross--a beacon light
To this world's universal night!
It seemed to shine with such a glow,
And through my spirit piercing so,
That, pantingly, I strove to cry
For her, whom I thought slumbered by,
And hide me from that awful shine
In the embrace of Caroline!
I wakened in the attempt--'twas day;
The troubled dream had fled away;
'Twas day--and I, alone, was laid
In that great room and stately bed;
No Caroline beside me! Wide
And unrelenting swept the tide
Of death 'twixt her and me!"
There paused
Sweet Harriet's voice, for such thoughts caused--'
* * * * *
This poem springs from the deepest feelings, and from sorrows the
most poignant. The respective images, tinctured with grief and
despondency, pass before us with weird and vivid reality; and many of
the passages are imbued with great tenderness, beauty, and pathos.
The painful, and, perhaps, too morbid intensity of some of the
pictures, whether of dreams or realities, is painted here with the
skill of no common artist, whatever youthful defects may be observed
in the composition. The poem is one more notable for tender sweetness
than any other that remains from Branwell; but it lacks in places the
vigour and power of his later compositions, and is, in several parts,
of unequal merit. In the earlier portion of it, where he assumes the
iambic measure, it is not difficult to perceive the influence of
Byron on his diction. In this work Branwell again recurs to the time
when tears of anguish flowed from his yet 'unhardened heart,' whose
present woes are forgotten in the swelling thoughts of 'things gone
by.' We recognize with what pathetic feeling he paints in Caroline
all the qualities of instructress, guardian, and friend, which had
characterized his sister Maria. Long afterwards Charlotte Bronte,
inspired by similar feelings, devoted the first chapters of 'Jane
Eyre' to a delineation, in the character of Helen Burns, of the
disposition of her dead sister, whose death, a few days after her
return from Cowan Bridge, she could scarcely ever either forget or
forgive.
CHAPTER XV.
EVENTS AT THE PARSONAGE.
Charlotte's first Offer of Marriage--Her Remarks concerning it--
A second Offer Declined--Anne a Governess--She Moralizes upon
it--Charlotte obtains a Situation--Unsuited to Her--She Leaves
it--Branwell takes Pleasure in Scenery--He Visits Liverpool with his
Friends--Charlotte goes to Easton--Curates at Haworth--Their Visits
to the Parsonage--Public Meetings on Church Rates--Charlotte's
Attempt at a Richardsonian Novel--She sends the Commencement of it
to Wordsworth for his Opinion--Branwell receives an Appointment as
Private Tutor.
After the return of Charlotte and Anne from Dewsbury Moor, whither
Miss Wooler had removed her school, the three sisters were at home
together for some months, and, in this happy, unrestrained
intercourse, with their literary relaxations and their plans for the
future, Charlotte's mind expanded, and her strength returned. There
was Branwell, too, to think about; his venture at Bradford and his
progress with his portraits. Then they would have to go and see the
likeness of Mr. Morgan; and, on such occasions, Branwell would have
much to say of art and literature, and, acquaintances. But Branwell
was usually at Haworth on Sundays, and then he would hear of
Charlotte's visits to her friends, and her adventures on these
occasions. It was shortly before the date of Branwell's return from
Bradford, in the spring of 1839, that Charlotte received her first
offer of marriage. A young clergyman, who had, as Mrs. Gaskell
thought, some resemblance to the St. John in the last volume of 'Jane
Eyre,' had evidently been attracted by Charlotte Bronte; but
matrimony does not seem, at the time, to have seriously entered into
her thoughts. In some respects the proposal might have had strong
temptations for her, and she thought how happy her married life might
be. However, it was not the way with Charlotte Bronte to take the
path of smoothness and comfort, and leave the thorny one untrod; and
she asked herself if she loved the clergyman in question as much as a
woman should love her husband, and whether she was the one best
qualified to make him happy. 'Alas!' she says, 'my conscience
answered "No" to both these questions.' She knew very well that she
had a 'kindly leaning' towards him, but this was not enough for her,
for it was impossible that she could ever feel for him such an
intense attachment as would make her sacrifice her life for him.
Short of such a devotion awakened in herself, she would never marry
anyone. Her comment is characteristic: 'Ten to one I shall never have
the chance again; but _n'importe_.'
Charlotte Bronte felt that there was a want of sympathy between the
young clergyman and herself, for he was a 'grave, quiet young man;'
and she knew that he would be startled, and would think her a wild,
romantic enthusiast, when she showed her character, and laughed, and
satirized, and said whatever came into her head. Nor was her next
offer any more to her taste; for, within a few months, a neighbouring
curate, a young Irishman, fresh from the Dublin University, made her
a proposal. The circumstance amused Charlotte, for it was, on his
part, a case of love at first sight. He came with his vicar to be
introduced to the family, and was speedily struck with Mr. Bronte's
daughter. Charlotte was never troubled at home with the _mauvaise
honte_ that troubled her abroad; and so she talked and jested with
the clergyman, and was much amused at the originality of his
character. A pleasant afternoon was spent, for he made himself at
home, after the fashion of his countrymen, and was witty, lively,
ardent, and clever; but, withal, wanting in the dignity and
discretion of an Englishman. As the evening drew on, Charlotte was
not much pleased with the spice of Hibernian flattery with which he
began to season his discourse, and, as she expresses it, she 'cooled
a little.' The vicar and his curate went away; but what was
Charlotte's astonishment to receive a letter next morning from the
latter containing a proposal of marriage, and filled with ardent
expressions of devotion! 'I hope you are laughing heartily,' she says
to her friend. 'This is not like one of my adventures, is it? It more
nearly resembles Martha's. I am certainly doomed to be an old maid.
Never mind. I have made up my mind to that fate ever since I was
twelve years old. Well! thought I, I have heard of love at first
sight, but this beats all! I leave you to guess what my answer would
be, convinced that you will not do me the injustice of guessing
wrong.'
Although the married state does not appear, from Charlotte's letters
at this time, to have had many attractions for her, we know, from
those she wrote later, and, perhaps, more than all from the
concluding chapters of 'Jane Eyre,' that she could enter into the
joys and sacrifices of domestic life, that she had a correct view of
the affections, and knew how to appreciate conjugal love at its true
value. But, in the present instances--although, at a later period of
her life, when she was on the Continent, she is believed to have felt
the full force of that 'passion of the heart' which those about whom
she wrote had failed to evoke--she declined to sever herself from the
contented circumstances that surrounded her, and in which she was
mistress, for a condition of doubtful peace and certain obedience.
Charlotte's decision was not discordant with the feelings of her
family; for, as she had determined to continue at home, their plans
for the future would not be disconcerted.
Anne was now resolved on making a trial of the life of a governess
for herself, she having completed her education, and being wishful to
exert herself as her sisters had done. Inquiries were made, and at
length a situation was obtained. Anne continued in this kind of
employment during the next six years, and it was her experience that
suggested to her the subject of her first novel, 'Agnes Grey.' If we
may suppose that she has recounted her own experience at this time,
where her heroine describes the circumstances of her preparation and
departure for her first situation, it would appear that she had some
difficulty in convincing her friends of the wisdom of her purpose.
Agnes Grey says, after she has made the suggestion to her family:
'I was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still
I did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her drawing
materials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but, while I
drew, I thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a
governess! To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act
for myself; to exercise my unused faculties; to try my unknown
powers; to earn my own maintenance, and something to comfort and help
my father, mother, and sister, besides exonerating them from the
provision of my food and clothing; to show papa what his little Agnes
could do; to convince mamma and Mary that I was not quite the
helpless, thoughtless being they supposed. And then, how charming to
be entrusted with the care and education of children! Whatever others
said, I felt I was fully competent to the task: the clear remembrance
of my own thoughts in early childhood would be a surer guide than the
instructions of the most mature adviser. I had but to turn from my
little pupils to myself at their age, and I should know at once how
to win their confidence and affections; how to waken the contrition
of the erring; how to embolden the timid and console the afflicted;
how to make virtue practicable, instruction desirable, and religion
lively and comprehensible.'[28]
[28] 'Agnes Grey,' chap. i.
Anne Bronte was of a milder and more cheerful temperament than her
sisters; she had not the fire, the morbid feeling, or the mental
force that characterized Charlotte, yet she had more of the
initiatory faculty than she had hitherto received credit for. But her
gentle nature, her confiding piety, her more equable temper, enabled
her to succeed better in the circumstances she had chosen. She had
her troubles, her timidity, and her diffidence to contend with, but
she made life supportable and even happy. 'Agnes Grey' thus speaks of
her departure, which we cannot doubt is the experience of Anne
Bronte:
'Some weeks more were yet to be devoted to preparation. How long, how
tedious those weeks appeared to me! Yet they were happy ones in the
main, full of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With what
peculiar pleasure I assisted at the making of my new clothes, and,
subsequently, the packing of my trunks! But there was a feeling of
bitterness mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was
done--when all was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last
night at home approached--a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart.
My dear friends looked sad, and spoke so very kindly, that I could
scarcely keep my heart from overflowing; but I still affected to be
gay. I had taken my last ramble with Mary on the moors, my last walk
in the garden and round the house ... I had played my last tune on
the old piano, and sung my last song to papa, not the last, I hoped,
but the last for what appeared to me a very long time.'[29]
[29] 'Agnes Grey,' chap. i.
Charlotte and Emily made themselves busy in assisting Anne with her
preparations for departure, and they were very sad and apprehensive
when she left them on Monday, April 15th, 1839. She went alone, at
her own wish, thinking she could manage better if left to her own
resources, and when her failings were unwitnessed by those whose
hopes she wished to sustain. However, she wrote, expressing
satisfaction with the place she had secured, for the lady of the
house was very kind. She had two of the eldest girls under her
charge, the children being confined to the nursery, with which she
had no concern.
Charlotte, although remarking in a letter to her friend on the
cleverness and sensibility with which Anne could express herself in
epistolary correspondence, had some fear that, such was the natural
diffidence of her manner, her mistress would sometimes believe her to
have an impediment in her speech.
Charlotte's eagerness to obtain a situation was now so great that she
does not seem to have considered well the step she was about to take,
and she obtained one that was not satisfactory to her. It was in the
family of a wealthy Yorkshire manufacturer; and we may well believe
that the stylish surroundings of her employers differed materially
from those of the family at Haworth. Here a large quantity of
miscellaneous work was thrown on Charlotte, which displeased her and
destroyed her comfort. In a letter to Emily, she says she is
'overwhelmed with oceans of needlework; yards of cambric to hem,
muslin night-caps to make, etc.' She found the outside attractions of
the house beautiful in 'pleasant woods, white paths, green lawns, and
blue, sunshiny sky;' but these surroundings did not compensate for
the humiliations which her situation imposed upon her, and her
mistress and she did not like each other; so Charlotte did not return
to the place after the July holidays of 1839.
Branwell was as yet unemployed, and he sought, and took much pleasure
in the scenery, the events and circumstances of the hills and valleys
of the West-Riding of Yorkshire, and was frequently from home. He
went about the country, associating with the people, and revelling in
their ready wit, which enabled him afterwards, by such observations
and experience, to give vivid pictures of life and character. At the
time of the Haworth 'Rushbearing,' of July, 1839, he visited
Liverpool with one or two friends, and, while there, in compliance
with an injunction of his father, made a stenographic report, at St.
Jude's church, of a sermon by the Rev. H. McNeile, the well-known
evangelical preacher. Here, a sudden attack of Tic compelled him to
resort to opium, in some form, as an anodyne, whose soothing effect
in pain he had previously known. Subsequently, passing a music shop,
in one of their rambles through the town, Branwell's attention was
arrested by a copy of the oratorio of 'Samson,' by Handel, displayed
in the window, the performance of which had always excited him to the
highest degree, and he eagerly besought his friend to purchase it, as
well as some Mass, and various oratorio music, which was done.
On their return from Liverpool, Branwell, being under some obligation
to his friend, proffered to paint his portrait, to which Mr. M----
agreed. A sitting once a week was decided upon, to be in the room at
the parsonage where Branwell studied and painted. On his visits, Mr.
M---- invariably noticed a row of potatoes, placed on the uppermost
rib of the range to roast, Branwell being very fond of them done in
this way, even as Jane Eyre was in the novel. 'That night,' she says,
'on going to bed, I forgot to prepare, in imagination, the Barmecide
supper of hot roast potatoes ... with which I was wont to amuse my
inward cravings.' When Mr. M---- paid his weekly visits to the
parsonage he always heard some one speaking aloud in the room
adjoining Branwell's studio; and, at last, his curiosity being
excited, he inquired whom it was. Branwell answered that it was his
father committing his Sunday's sermon to memory. When the portrait
was ready for the finishing touches, Mr. M---- discovered that
Branwell had painted the names of Johann Sebastian Bach, Mozart,
Haydn, and Handel at each corner of the canvas respectively. He
remonstrated, but Branwell was firm, maintaining that, as his friend
was an accomplished musician, and could perform the most elaborate
and difficult compositions of these immortal men, with expression and
ease, he was, in every way, worthy of being associated with them in
the manner he designed. Mr. M---- complied. When the portrait was
finished, Branwell pressed his friend to take a glass of wine; and,
while the two were chatting over the affair, Mr. Bronte and his
daughters entered the room to view Branwell's work on its completion.
They were pleased with it, and praised it as a truthful likeness and
an excellent picture.
We may well imagine the enthusiasm with which Branwell would recount
his experience of Liverpool. How much he would have to tell of the
wonders of the Mersey, the great ships that rode upon its surface,
and its commerce with the new world, out across the ocean! His visit
seems to have originated a proposal that the family should spend a
week or a fortnight at that sea-port, but, almost at the same moment,
Charlotte's friend suggested to her that they should visit
Cleethorpes together, a suggestion that pleased her very much.
'The idea of seeing the sea,' she says, 'of being near it--watching
its changes by sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and noon-day--in calm,
perhaps in storm--fills and satisfies my mind. I shall be
discontented at nothing. And then I am not to be with a set of people
with whom I have nothing in common--who would be nuisances and
bores.'
The visit of Charlotte to the sea-side seems to have been put off
again and again, by often-recurring obstacles. The irresolution of
her family in regard to the Liverpool project, and the manifest
unwillingness that she should leave home on a visit anywhere else,
put off, from time to time, the pleasure she had anticipated for
herself; but at last she decided to go. Her box was packed and
everything prepared, but no conveyance could be procured. Mr. Bronte
objected to her going by coach, and walking part of the way to meet
her friend, and her aunt exclaimed against 'the weather, and the
roads, and the four winds of heaven,' so Charlotte almost gave up
hope. She told her friend that the elders of the house had never
cordially acquiesced in the measure, and that opposition was growing
more open, though her father would willingly have indulged her. Even
he, however, wished her to remain at home. Charlotte was 'provoked'
that her aunt had deferred opposition until arrangements had been
made. In the end 'E' was asked to pay a visit to the parsonage.
Owing to the circumstances indicated, Charlotte's visit to the
sea-coast was put off until the following September, when an
opportunity occurred favourable to the project, which does not seem
to have been entirely abandoned; and she and her friend visited
Easton where they spent a fortnight. Here for the first time
Charlotte beheld the sea.
Afterwards she wrote, 'Have you forgotten the sea by this time, E.?
Is it grown dim in your mind? Or can you still see it, dark, blue and
green and foam-white, and hear it roaring roughly when the wind is
high, or rushing softly when it is calm?' The Liverpool journey
appears to have been finally abandoned.
It was in a letter, written about this time that Mrs. Gaskell found
the first mention of a succession of curates who henceforth revolved
round Haworth Parsonage. Three years earlier Mr. Bronte had sought
aid from the 'Additional Curates' Society,' or some similar
institution, and was provided at once with assistance. The increasing
duties of his chapelry had rendered this step necessary. It would
seem also that a curate was appointed to Stanbury, while another
became master of the National or Grammar School. These gentlemen were
not infrequent in their visits to the parsonage, and they varied the
life of its inmates, sometimes one way and sometimes another. This
circumstance, at the same time, provided Charlotte Bronte with those
living studies which she did not fail afterwards to remember in her
delineation of the three curates in 'Shirley.' Emily, on the other
hand, invariably avoided these gentlemen.
The arrival of the curates at Haworth was the occasion of increased
activity in the affairs of the chapelry; and, the church-rate
question being uppermost at this juncture, the new-comers entered
into a crusade against the Dissenters who had refused to pay
church-rates. Charlotte wrote a long letter in which she spoke of a
violent public meeting held at Haworth about the affair, and of two
sermons against dissent--one by Mr. W. a 'noble, eloquent,
high-church, apostolical-succession discourse, in which he banged the
Dissenters most fearlessly and unflinchingly;' the other by Mr. C., a
'keener, cleverer, bolder, and more heart-stirring harangue,' than
Charlotte, perhaps, had ever heard from the Haworth pulpit. She,
however, did not entirely agree with either of these gentlemen, and
thought, if she had been a Dissenter, she would have 'taken the first
opportunity of kicking or of horse-whipping both.'
In the winter of 1839-40, Charlotte employed her leisure in the
composition of a story which she had commenced on a scale
commensurate with one of Richardson's novels of seven or eight
volumes. Mrs. Gaskell saw some fragments of the manuscript, written
in a very small hand: but she was less solicitous to decipher it, as
Charlotte had herself condemned it in the preface to 'The Professor.'
Branwell, to whom she submitted it, seems to have understood, at the
time, that in its florid style of composition she was working in
opposition to her genius, and he told her she was making a mistake.
It appears not unlikely that Branwell was himself similarly engaged
on prose writing when he gave her this opinion. A few months later,
however, Charlotte resolved to send the commencement of her tale to
Wordsworth, and that an unfavourable judgment was the result, for
which she was not altogether unprepared, may be gathered from the
following letter she addressed to the poet:--
'Authors are generally very tenacious of their productions, but I am
not so much attached to this but that I can give it up without much
distress. No doubt if I had gone on I should have made quite a
Richardsonian concern of it.... I had materials in my head for
half-a-dozen volumes.... Of course it is with considerable regret I
relinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched. It is
very edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own
brains, and people it with inhabitants who are so many Melchisedecs,
and have no father or mother but your own imagination.... I am sorry
I did not exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the "Ladies' Magazine"
was flourishing like a green bay-tree. In that case, I make no doubt,
my aspirations after literary fame would have met with due
encouragement, and I should have had the pleasure of introducing
Messrs. Percy and West into the best society, and recording all their
sayings and doings in double-columned, close-printed pages.... I
recollect, when I was a child, getting hold of some antiquated
volumes, reading them by stealth with the most exquisite pleasure.
You give a correct description of the patient Grisels of these days.
My aunt was one of them, and to this day she thinks the tales of
the "Ladies' Magazine" infinitely superior to any trash of modern
literature. So do I; for I read them in childhood, and childhood
has a very strong faculty of admiration, but a very weak one of
criticism.... I am pleased that you cannot quite decide whether I
am an attorney's clerk or a novel-reading dressmaker. I will not
help you at all in the discovery....'
In the midst of their literary endeavours, their efforts were not
relaxed to obtain new places. Charlotte was obliged by circumstances
to give up her subscriptions to the Jews, and she determined to force
herself to take a situation, if one could be found, though she says,
'I hate and abhor the very thoughts of governess-ship.' An
alternative which the sisters talked over in these holidays was the
opening of a school at Haworth, for which an enlargement of the
parsonage would be required.
Branwell was more successful in his pursuit of employment than
Charlotte, having procured the place of a tutor; and he was to
commence his duties with the new year. Charlotte says of this event,
'One thing, however, will make the daily routine more unvaried than
ever. Branwell, who used to enliven us, is to leave us in a few days,
and enter the situation of a private tutor in the neighbourhood of
Ulverston. How he will like to settle remains yet to be seen. At
present he is full of hope and resolution. I, who know his variable
nature, and his strong turn for active life, dare not be too
sanguine.'
Branwell seems to have paid a farewell visit to the 'Lodge of the
Three Graces' on the Christmas Day of this year, when he acted as
organist. This is the only occasion on which he is recorded as having
attended at the meetings of the Lodge in 1839, and it is the last on
which his name appears in the minute book of the Haworth masonic
body.
CHAPTER XVI.
BRANWELL AT BROUGHTON-IN-FURNESS.
The District of Black Comb--Branwell's Sonnet--Wordsworth and
Hartley Coleridge--Branwell's Letter to the 'Old Knave of
Trumps'--Its Publication by Miss Robinson in her 'Emily
Bronte'--Branwell's familiar Acquaintance with the People of
Haworth--He could Paint their Characters with Accuracy--His
Knowledge of the Human Passions--Emily's Isolation.
Branwell, being as desirous of employment as his sisters, had sought
for, and obtained, a situation as tutor in the family of Mr.
Postlethwaite, of Broughton-in-Furness. He entered upon his new
duties on the 1st of January, 1840.
Now that he found himself resident near the English lake district,
consecrated as it is by so many poetic memories, and dear to him as
the home of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey he naturally felt an
intense interest in all that surrounded him; and, when he was not
engaged in teaching the sons of his employer, he took occasion to
visit such places as had any attraction for him. On one of his
pedestrian excursions, he had stepped into a wayside inn, and was
seated musing before the parlour fire, when a young gentleman entered
the room. Branwell turned round, and recognized at once a friend of
the name of Ayrton, whose acquaintance he had formed in Leeds. The
surprise and delight at this unexpected meeting was mutual; and
Branwell's friend, who was driving about the country, requested his
company for some distance on the journey, for the purpose of
prolonging the interview, and of continuing the conversation that had
been begun. The young tutor drove some ten miles with his friend,
utterly regardless of the long return walk to Ulverston.
Branwell delighted in the writings of the 'Lake Poets,' and was much
influenced by Southey's prose works. He read the 'Life of Nelson,'
and was himself moved to write a poem illustrative of the life of
that great naval hero. He also read the 'Colloquies on Society,' and
others of Southey's works. But it was Wordsworth who at this moment,
was the object of Branwell's chief admiration. He revelled in that
poet's fine description of the view from the top of Black Comb, and,
perhaps, knew the lines written by his 'deity of the mind' on a stone
on the side of the mountain, and probably had himself looked from its
summit. But Branwell certainly knew Black Comb from afar. Five miles
away he could see it; and he celebrated it in the following sonnet:
BLACK COMB.
'Far off, and half revealed, 'mid shade and light,
Black Comb half smiles, half frowns; his mighty form
Scarce bending into peace--more formed to fight
A thousand years of struggles with a storm
Than bask one hour, subdued by sunshine warm,
To bright and breezeless rest; yet even his height
Towers not o'er this world's sympathies, he smiles--
While many a human heart to pleasures' wiles
Can bear to bend, and still forget to rise--
As though he, huge and heath-clad, on our sight,
Again rejoices in his stormy skies.
Man loses vigour in unstable joys.
Thus tempests find Black Comb invincible,
While we are lost, who should know life so well!'
It was doubtless while Branwell was living at Ulverston that he
obtained the favourable opinion of Wordsworth on some poems which he
submitted for criticism. Probably he found opportunity to visit the
writer whose works he 'loved most in our literature,' and it would be
on some similar excursion that he obtained an encouraging expression
of opinion from Hartley Coleridge. The author of 'The Northern
Worthies' was not unknown to the circle at 'The George,' at Bradford,
and was acquainted with Branwell Bronte and Leyland.
The master of the 'Lodge of the Three Graces,' at Haworth, did not,
however, long permit Branwell to forget his old acquaintance there;
for this worthy soon addressed to him a communication which provoked
a reply that Branwell dated from Broughton-in-Furness on the 13th of
the March following his arrival. This unfortunate response, in which
Branwell addressed the masonic sexton of Haworth, with sarcastic
humour, as 'Old Knave of Trumps,' is the one which Miss Robinson has
been so ill advised as to publish in her 'Emily Bronte;' and which
has done not a little to draw down on the head of Branwell the full
and unmitigated volume of Mr. Swinburne's vocabulary of abuse. And,
in fact, if this letter could be taken as the proper and natural
expression of an abject profligate, altogether shameless and
unredeemed, he could find a defender neither here nor elsewhere. But
there are good reasons for hoping that it was otherwise. We have seen
that Branwell had been led to join the rude village society of
Haworth, where, on account of his brilliance, and of his position as
the incumbent's son, he was not a little looked up to. It was
natural, then, that he should be led, foolishly enough, to endeavour
to stand well with the friends he had selected, and his knowledge of
character was sufficiently good to enable him to know what kind of
letter would best suit the tastes and inclinations of many of his
companions of the 'Lodge of the Three Graces.' He assumed in fact,
that bravado of vice, that air of _diablerie_, which was thought
by many people, in those days, and is so yet by not a few, to be the
best proof of manhood, because it betokened a knowledge of the world.
Yet, at the end of the letter,--the passage is not given by Miss
Robinson--Branwell appears to take it as a matter of course that the
sexton will not show it, and he begs him, for 'Heaven's sake,' to
blot out the lines scored in red. Branwell knew the 'Old Knave of
Trumps' well, and he was certain that his letter would cause no
little amusement among his immediate friends to whom the sexton was
sure to read it. He was ashamed of certain passages in it, which is
evidence enough that it was not the outcome of a depraved and
shameless nature, but rather the expression of the _acted_ character
of a vicious and _blase_ worldling. And it is, moreover, inconceivable
that a young man, who was of the sensitive nature betokened by the
contemporary poems we have published, could, at the same time, have
been a hardened and cynical profligate. Indeed, it is evident that the
objectionable allusions were not of his origination, but were called
forth by the remarks of others, for whom Branwell does not fail to
show his contempt.
It has, however, been the misfortune of Branwell Bronte, that a
letter which he wrote in folly, for the eyes of personal friends
alone, has been published to the world as the token and evidence of
his infamy. One use, at any rate, flows from the publication of it,
for it shows us the quick and vivid grasp of character, and the
incisive mode of composition which now began, in his more vigorous
moods, to distinguish its author. The letter is as follows:--
'Broughton-in-Furness,
'March 13, 1840.
'OLD KNAVE OF TRUMPS,
'Don't think I have forgotten you, though I have delayed so long
in writing to you. It was my purpose to send you a yarn as soon
as I could find materials to spin one with, and it is only just
now that I have had time to turn myself round and know where I
am. If you saw me now, you would not know me, and you would laugh
to hear the character the people give me. Oh, the falsehood and
hypocrisy of this world! I am fixed in a little retired town by
the sea-shore, among wild woody hills that rise round me--huge,
rocky, and capped with clouds. My employer is a retired county
magistrate, a large landowner, and of a right hearty and generous
disposition. His wife is a quiet, silent, and amiable woman,
and his sons are two fine, spirited lads. My landlord is a
respectable surgeon, and six days out of seven is as drunk as a
lord! His wife is a bustling, chattering, kind-hearted soul; and
his daughter!--oh! death and damnation! Well, what am I? That is,
what do they think I am? A most calm, sedate, sober, abstemious,
patient, mild-hearted, virtuous, gentlemanly philosopher,--the
picture of good works, and the treasure-house of righteous
thoughts. Cards are shuffled under the table-cloth, glasses are
thrust into the cupboard, if I enter the room. I take neither
spirits, wine, nor malt liquors. I dress in black, and smile like
a saint or martyr. Everybody says, "What a good young gentleman
is Mr. Postlethwaite's tutor!" This is fact, as I am a living
soul, and right comfortably do I laugh at them. I mean to
continue in their good opinion. I took a half year's farewell of
old friend whisky at Kendal on the night after I left. There was
a party of gentlemen at the Royal Hotel, and I joined them. We
ordered in supper and whisky-toddy as "hot as hell!" They thought
I was a physician, and put me in the chair. I gave sundry toasts,
that were washed down at the same time, till the room spun round
and the candles danced in our eyes. One of the guests was a
respectable old gentleman with powdered head, rosy cheeks, fat
paunch, and ringed fingers. He gave "The Ladies," ... after which
he brayed off with a speech; and in two minutes, in the middle of
a grand sentence, he stopped, wiped his head, looked wildly
round, stammered, coughed, stopped again, and called for his
slippers. The waiter helped him to bed. Next a tall Irish squire
and a native of the land of Israel began to quarrel about their
countries; and, in the warmth of argument, discharged their
glasses, each at his neighbour's throat instead of his own. I
recommended bleeding, purging, and blistering; but they
administered each other a real "Jem Warder," so I flung my
tumbler on the floor, too, and swore I'd join "Old Ireland!" A
regular rumpus ensued, but we were tamed at last. I found myself
in bed next morning, with a bottle of porter, a glass, and a
corkscrew beside me. Since then I have not tasted anything
stronger than milk-and-water, nor, I hope, shall, till I return
at Midsummer; when we will see about it. I am getting as fat as
Prince William at Springhead, and as godly as his friend, Parson
Winterbotham. My hand shakes no longer. I ride to the banker's at
Ulverston with Mr. Postlethwaite, and sit drinking tea and
talking scandal with old ladies. As to the young ones! I have one
sitting by me just now--fair-faced, blue-eyed, dark-haired, sweet
eighteen--she little thinks the devil is so near her!
'I was delighted to see thy note, old squire, but I do not
understand one sentence--you will perhaps know what I mean....
How are all about you? I long to hear and see them again. How is
the "Devil's Thumb," whom men call ---- ----, and the "Devil in
Mourning," whom they call ---- ----? How are ---- ----, and ----
----, and the Doctor; and him who will be used as the tongs of
hell--he whose eyes Satan looks out of, as from windows--I mean
---- ----, esquire? How are little ---- ----, ---- "Longshanks,"
---- ----, and the rest of them? Are they married, buried,
devilled, and damned? When I come I'll give them a good squeeze
of the hand; till then I am too godly for them to think of. That
bow-legged devil used to ask me impertinent questions which I
answered him in kind. Beelzebub will make of him a walking-stick!
Keep to thy teetotalism, old squire, till I return; it will mend
thy old body.... Does "Little Nosey" think I have forgotten him?
No, by Jupiter! nor his clock either.[30] I'll send him a
remembrancer some of these days! But I must talk to some one
prettier than thee; so good-night, old boy, and
'Believe me thine,
'THE PHILOSOPHER.
'Write directly. Of course you won't show this letter; and, for
Heaven's sake, blot out all the lines scored with red ink.'
[30] The clock mentioned by Branwell was one that stood in a
corner of the 'Snug' at 'The Bull,' inside the door of which
the landlord--'Little Nosey'--used to chalk up the 'shots' of
his guests.
This letter, as I have intimated, was never intended for more than a
moment's amusement, at most, to a small circle of acquaintances at
Haworth, and was not to exist after having been read. But John
Brown kept the letter, which I saw and copied. It is a curious
circumstance, illustrating the hold which it obtained over the
Haworth circle, that, though the original was lost so long since as
1874, the brother of the sexton knew it by heart, and could repeat it
with considerable accuracy. In this way it has been several times
written down. No allusion would have been made to the letter in the
present work, if Miss Robinson--strange to say--had not thought it a
fitting embellishment for her 'Emily Bronte.' If Branwell had known
its fate at the moment he wrote it, it would never have reached the
'Worshipful Master of the Lodge of the Three Graces,' but would have
been committed to the flames by his own hand; for, as we have seen,
he was ashamed of some expressions scored in red, which he begged
might be obliterated.
This letter, however, is valuable; inasmuch as it shows what
Branwell, at this young period of his life, knew about human nature,
and the depths to which it can descend. He had penetrated into the
passions, feelings, and dispositions of his acquaintances by frequent
intercourse, by keen perception, and by familiar conversation. He had
heard them, noticed them, and could paint their characters with
unerring precision and vivid colouring. He was acquainted with the
ways of society, and the customs of domestic life. The world was to
him a picture-gallery, and all living things in it were studies of
the deepest interest. His knowledge of men and manners, of the hard,
implacable, and selfish, and also of the soft, tender, and gentle
natures of men and women, enabled him to cast their stories of sorrow
and gladness faithfully and well.
At the time when he had attained manhood, when his intellects were
reaching their full development, he had already been drawn into
society, and indoctrinated into the mysteries of Haworth life; and
had become acquainted with the excesses of men older and harder than
himself. It cannot be wondered at that, if he had learned more than
is usual in youth, he did not escape the temptations attendant on the
peculiar knowledge he had acquired. But, while _he_ was thus passing
through the crooked ways and reckless deviations of the world,
obtaining a large crop of experiences, good and bad, his _sisters_
were, for the most part, at home, living like recluses, and, when
away, were still in similar seclusion. Of Emily, Charlotte says, 'I am
bound to avow that she had scarcely more practical knowledge of the
peasantry amongst whom she lived, than a nun has of the country people
who sometimes pass her convent gates. My sister's disposition was not
naturally gregarious; circumstances favoured and fostered her tendency
to seclusion; except to go to church or take a walk on the hills, she
rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though her feeling for the
people round her was benevolent, intercourse with them she never
sought, nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced. And yet she
knew them, knew their ways, their language, their family histories;
she could hear of them with interest, and talk of them _with_
detail, minute, graphic, and accurate; but with them she rarely
exchanged a word.'[31] But Branwell walked and held personal
intercourse, as we have seen, with the people whom Emily shunned; and
his personal knowledge, and his unquestionable genius combined,
enabled him to grasp and appreciate, to dissect with penetrating
skill, and to estimate and define the tendency of the strong and
marked character of the people around him. It is, therefore, doubly
unfortunate that, from Branwell, we have little remaining in the way
of graphic description, and that the rich treasures of observation
which he outpoured have, for the most part, left their impressions
only in the memories of those who were privileged to hear him
discourse.
[31] Charlotte Bronte.--Memoir prefixed to 'Wuthering
Heights.'
CHAPTER XVII.
BRANWELL AT SOWERBY BRIDGE.--CHARLOTTE'S EXERTIONS.
Branwell's Appointment at Ulverston ends--He gets a Situation on
the Railroad at Sowerby Bridge--Branwell at Luddenden Foot--His
Friends' Reminiscences of him--Charlotte and Emily reading French
Novels--Charlotte obtains a Situation--Anxious about Anne--School
Project of the Sisters--Charlotte's keen Desire to visit Brussels
--Her Letter to her Aunt Branwell.
If the performance of the responsible duties of his appointment at
Mr. Postlethwaite's, which ended, at his father's wish, in the June
of 1840, had been felt by Branwell as a banishment from the cheerful
company of his Haworth acquaintances, it had been still greater from
his artistic and literary friends in the neighbourhood of Bradford
and Halifax. Hence he sought, with a perseverance amounting to
anxiety, to obtain a post on the Leeds and Manchester Railway,--to
the opening of which he had looked forward with concern--at some
place in the valley of the Calder, near Halifax; and he received the
appointment of clerk in charge, at the station at Sowerby Bridge.
Charlotte says of Branwell's determination: 'a distant relation of
mine, one Patrick Branwell, has set off to seek his fortune in the
wild, wandering, adventurous, romantic, knight-errant-like capacity
of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railroad.'[32] Branwell commenced
his new occupation at Sowerby Bridge on the 1st of October, 1840,
just before the opening of the line from Hebden Bridge to Normanton.
[32] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap. ix.
As has been already seen, an acquaintance had existed between
Branwell and Leyland; but now that the former had become a resident
in the immediate neighbourhood, after his visits to the artist's
studio had been interrupted for six months, or more, by his stay at
Broughton-in-Furness, a more frequent intercourse followed between
the two. It was on a bright Sunday afternoon in the autumn of 1840,
at the desire of my brother, the sculptor, that I accompanied him to
the station at Sowerby Bridge to see Branwell. The young railway
clerk was of gentleman-like appearance, and seemed to be qualified
for a much better position than the one he had chosen. In stature he
was a little below the middle height; not 'almost insignificantly
small,' as Mr. Grundy states, nor had he 'a downcast look;' neither
was he 'a plain specimen of humanity.'[33] He was slim and agile in
figure, yet of well-formed outline. His complexion was clear and
ruddy, and the expression of his face, at the time, lightsome and
cheerful. His voice had a ringing sweetness, and the utterance and
use of his English were perfect. Branwell appeared to be in excellent
spirits, and showed none of those traces of intemperance with which
some writers have unjustly credited him about this period of his
life.
[33] 'Pictures of the Past,' by Francis H. Grundy, C.E. (1879)
p. 75.
My brother had often spoken to me of Branwell's poetical abilities,
his conversational powers, and the polish of his education; and, on a
personal acquaintance, I found nothing to question in this estimate
of his mental gifts, and of his literary attainments.
Branwell stayed at Sowerby Bridge some months, whence he was
transferred, in 1841, to Luddenden Foot, a place about a mile further
up the valley, where a station had been recently fixed. Mr. Grundy,
who was an assistant-engineer on the line, became acquainted with
Branwell at the latter place; and says of it, 'there was no village
near at hand,' and that, 'had a position been chosen for this strange
creature, for the express purpose of driving him several steps to the
bad, this must have been it.'[34]
[34] 'Pictures of the Past,' p. 75.
Mr. Grundy must have spoken from memory only. The ancient village
of Luddenden Foot, within two minutes' walk of the station, with
its population employed in the mills and manufactories of the
neighbourhood, together with its two old hostelries of the 'Red
Lion,' and the 'Shuttle and Anchor,' was surely sufficient to banish
all solitude and wildness from the neighbourhood of Branwell's
sojourn. Yet the change was scarcely a desirable one, and doubtless
helped to disgust Branwell with his employment. It is to be regretted
that the respective occupations of Branwell and Mr. Grundy were of
such a nature as to prevent a regular and continual intercourse, and
that distance of time and place have so far dimmed Mr. Grundy's
reminiscences of his friend, that, valuable though the letters he
has wisely preserved are, many inaccuracies have entered into his
recollections of him, and Mrs. Gaskell's exaggerated account has had
undue weight in the picture he has drawn.
Mr. William Heaton, author of a minor volume of poems entitled the
'Flowers of Caldervale,' knew Branwell Bronte well when he was at
Luddenden Foot. He wrote to me a letter in which occurred the
following description of his mind and character, and also of his
conversation when at one of the village inns, where they sometimes
met:--
'He was,' says Heaton, 'blithe and gay, but at times appeared
downcast and sad; yet, if the subject were some topic that he was
acquainted with, or some author he loved, he would rise from his
seat, and, in beautiful language, describe the author's character,
with a zeal and fluency I had never heard equalled. His talents were
of a very exalted kind. I have heard him quote pieces from the bard
of Avon, from Shelley, Wordsworth, and Byron, as well as from
Butler's "Hudibras," in such a manner as often made me wish I had
been a scholar, as he was. At that time I was just beginning to write
verses. It is true I had written many pieces, but they had never seen
the light; and, on a certain occasion, I showed him one, which he
pronounced very good. He lent me books which I had never seen before,
and was ever ready to give me information. His temper was always mild
towards me. I shall never forget his love for the sublime and
beautiful works of Nature, nor how he would tell of the lovely
flowers and rare plants he had observed by the mountain stream and
woodland rill. All these had excellencies for him; and I have often
heard him dilate on the sweet strains of the nightingale, and on the
thoughts that bewitched him the first time he heard one.'
During Branwell's twelvemonths' stay at Luddenden Foot, he formed new
acquaintances, but the avocations, tastes, and pursuits of the
well-to-do inhabitants did not accord with his; and he, perhaps, more
frequently than was compatible with his duties, visited Halifax to
seek the intellectual enjoyment which his own narrow occupation and
the society of Luddenden Foot did not afford.
While he was occupied in the service of the railway company at this
place, we hear nothing relating to him, of moment, in Charlotte's
correspondence. Happy that he was employed, his sisters engaged
eagerly and earnestly in devising schemes for obtaining a livelihood
that might enable them to work together for their mutual assistance
in literary labour.
Charlotte was still at home with Emily, reading French novels, of
which, we learn, she had got another bale, 'containing upwards of
forty volumes.' 'I have read about half,' she says. 'They are like
the rest, clever, wicked, sophistical, and immoral. The best of it
is, they give one a thorough idea of France and Paris, and are the
best substitute for French conversation.' We scarcely recognize, in
this employment, the Charlotte Bronte of three years before, whose
religious mania was driving her to despair, unless, indeed, it be in
the force with which she pursues the new bent of her inclination. She
has read twenty volumes of this, the second, batch, and was proposing
to read twenty more. It was her expectation that, by this process,
she would become sufficiently familiar with the language to enable
her to teach it to others.
In the letter in which she announced that Branwell had gone to his
post on the railway--written in good spirits, when she saw everything
_couleur-de-rose_, which, however, she attributes to the high
wind blowing over the 'hills of Judea' at Haworth--she says: 'A woman
of the name of Mrs. B----, it seems, wants a teacher. I wish she
would have me; and I have written to Miss Wooler to tell her so.
Verily, it is a delightful thing to live at home, at full liberty to
do just what one pleases. But I recollect some scrubby old fable
about grasshoppers and ants, by a scrubby old knave, yclept AEsop; the
grasshoppers sang all the summer, and starved all the winter.'
Branwell was proving himself no grasshopper, for, if he sang, he was
anxious to exert himself in a practical way at the same time; and, so
far, he was doing well at Luddenden Foot. Charlotte, too, was
resolved to be employed, but the negotiation with Mrs. B---- failed.
The lady expressed herself pleased with the frankness with which
Charlotte stated her qualifications, but she required some one who
could undertake to give instruction in music and singing. This Miss
Bronte could not do. She does not appear to have had the musical
taste which her brother and sisters had inherited from the Branwell
family. She resembled her father, perhaps, more closely than did any
of the other children. At last, however, in March, 1841, she entered
her second situation as a private governess. 'I told you, some time
since,' she writes to her friend, 'that I meant to get a situation,
and, when I said so, my resolution was quite fixed. I felt that,
however often I was disappointed, I had no intention of relinquishing
my efforts. After being severely baffled two or three times--after a
world of trouble, in the way of correspondence and interviews--I have
at length succeeded, and am fairly established in my new place.'
Charlotte found her residence not very large, but the grounds were
fine and extensive. She had made some sacrifice to secure comfort, as
she says, not good living, but cheerful faces and warm hearts. Her
pupils were two in number, one a girl of eight, and the other a boy
of six. Though always more or less afflicted with home-sickness,
whenever she was at a distance from her father's house, with its
familiar and affectionate ways, she enjoyed, in her new place,
considerable relief from it, owing to the spontaneous generosity and
kindliness of her employers. She says, indeed, 'My earnest wish and
endeavour will be to please them. If I can but feel that I am giving
satisfaction, and if, at the same time, I can keep my health, I
shall, I hope, be moderately happy. But no one but myself can tell
how hard a governess's work is to me--for no one but myself is aware
how utterly averse my whole mind and nature are for the employment.
Do not think that I fail to blame myself for this, or that I leave
any means unemployed to conquer this feeling. Some of my greatest
difficulties lie in things that would appear to you comparatively
trivial. I find it so hard to repel the rude familiarity of children.
I find it so difficult to ask either servants or mistress for
anything I want, however much I want it. It is less pain for me to
endure the greatest inconvenience than to go into the kitchen to
request its removal. I am a fool. Heaven knows I cannot help it.'
Charlotte found matters a little easier after the first month of her
stay, and her home-sickness became less oppressive. Though her time
was much occupied, great kindness was shown towards her, and her
father and her friend were invited to come to see her.
In June she wrote, in the absence of her employer, 'You can hardly
fancy it possible, I dare say, that I cannot find a quarter-of-an-hour
to scribble a note in; but so it is; and when a note is written, it
has to be carried a mile to the post, and that consumes nearly an
hour, which is a large portion of the day. Mr. and Mrs. ---- have
been gone a week. I heard from them this morning. No time is fixed
for their return, but I hope it will not be delayed long, or I shall
miss the chance of seeing Anne this vacation. She came home, I
understand, last Wednesday, and is only to be allowed three weeks'
vacation, because the family she is with are going to Scarborough.
_I should like to see her_, to judge for myself of the state of
her health. I dare not trust any other person's report, no one seems
minute enough in their observations. I should very much have liked
you to have seen her. I have got on very well with the servants and
children so far; yet it is dreary, solitary work. You can tell as
well as me the lonely feeling of being without a companion.'[35]
[35] 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap. x.
The delicate Anne, struggling with all the troubles, the indignities,
of the life of a governess, was a picture that was naturally
distressing enough to Charlotte, ever anxious, ever watchful over the
welfare of her youngest sister, and she would, perhaps, be apt, in
her imagination, to exaggerate her sister's difficulties in the
light of her own. In truth the sisters had qualities of mind and
heart which did much to unfit them for the enjoyment of content or
happiness amongst strangers. Charlotte, in particular, with a nature,
sensitive, observant, and tenacious; an imagination highly wrought,
active, and fertile, but too often morbid; with a will, powerful, yet
constrained by the nervous weakness of an excitable constitution,
could with difficulty conform inclination to the necessities of such
a career; she longed for freedom. It was not surprising, then, that
when Charlotte reached Haworth--which she did before Anne's
return--there was a revival of the project I have before mentioned of
the opening of a school, wherein they could enjoy the liberty of
home.
Mr. Bronte and Miss Branwell were not unfavourably disposed towards
the project, and they conversed now and then, at the breakfast-table
or in the evenings, as to how they could best help the girls into the
position they so much coveted. The sisters must always have had a
friend in their father in these matters; he could not but be pleased
and interested in struggles and expectations which reproduced so
closely the hopeful days of his own early life, and we learn, as the
result of the deliberations of the elders, that the aunt offered a
loan, or intimated that she would, perhaps, offer one, in case her
nieces could give some assurance of the solidity of their plans in
the shape of a situation decided upon and of pupils promised. The
East-Riding was thought to be not so well provided with schools as
the West, and the favourite idea of the sisters was to open their
projected academy in the neighbourhood of Burlington, where the
health, both of themselves and of their pupils, might be hoped for.
But there was a question how much their aunt would be disposed to
advance them. Charlotte did not think she would sink more than L150
in such a venture, and she doubted if this would be a sufficient sum
with which to establish a school and commence house-keeping, on
however modest a scale. These were reflections which damped a little
the excitement of hopeful expectation in which the sisters,
especially Charlotte, revolved these plans. She anxiously awaited the
coming of her friend, on the day she was expected to visit them
during their holidays at the parsonage, wearying her eyes with
watching from the window, eye-glass in hand, and, sometimes,
spectacles on nose, eager to talk over her schemes with some one else
than her sisters and to hear a new opinion. But her friend could not
come, and she says, 'a hundred things I had to say to you will now be
forgotten, and never said.' Charlotte began to fear some time must
elapse before her plans could be executed, and she resolved not to
relinquish her situation till something was assured. But this
expectation of keeping a school, cherished through long years, was
never realized by the sisters; ever and anon the shifting sands of
circumstance, the changing currents of life, moved them away, even
while they believed themselves approaching the goal of their hopes.
Charlotte returned to her situation, and she tells her friend, in a
letter dated August the 7th, 1841, that she 'felt herself' again. Mr.
and Mrs. ---- were from home, and she takes the opportunity of saying
that to be solitary there was to her the happiest part of her time.
She enters into particulars of the household: the children were under
decent control, and the servants were observant and attentive to her;
she says of herself, moreover, that the absence of the master and
mistress relieved her from the duty of always putting on the
appearance of being cheerful and conversable.
Her friends, Martha and Mary T----, were enjoying great advantages on
the Continent, where they had gone to stay a month with their
brother. Charlotte had had a long letter from Mary, and a packet
enclosing a handsome black silk scarf, and a pair of beautiful kid
gloves bought in Brussels as a present. She was pleased with them,
and that she had been remembered so far off, amidst the excitement of
'one of the most splendid capitals of Europe.' Mary's letters spoke
of 'some of the pictures and cathedrals she had seen--pictures the
most exquisite, cathedrals the most venerable.' Something swelled to
the throat of Charlotte as she read this account. She was seized with
a 'vehement impatience of restraint and steady work; such a strong
wish for wings--wings such as wealth can furnish; such an urgent
thirst to see, to know, to learn; something internal seemed to expand
bodily for a minute.' She was tantalized for a time by the
consciousness of faculties unexercised; then all collapsed. She
considered these emotions, momentary as they were, rebellious and
absurd, and they were speedily quelled by the resolute spirit they
had disturbed. She hoped they would not revive, as they had been
acutely painful. The school project, instead of at all fading, was
gaining strength, and the three sisters kept it in view as the
pole-star round which all their other schemes, as of lesser
importance, revolved. To this they looked in their despondency.
Charlotte was haunted, sometimes, and dismayed, at the conviction
that she had no natural knack for her occupation. She says that, if
teaching only were requisite, all would be smooth and easy; and she
adds, 'but it is the living in other people's houses--the
estrangement from one's real character--the adoption of a cold,
rigid, apathetic exterior, that is painful.'
It appears that Miss Wooler was about this time intending to give up
her school at Dewsbury Moor, and had offered it to the Misses Bronte.
One or two disadvantages had to be set against the favourable terms
on which they might have the school. The situation could not commend
itself to Charlotte, anxious as she was concerning Anne's health; the
number of pupils had also diminished, and it would be necessary to
offer special advantages in the way of education before they could
hope to have a prosperous establishment--so their friends argued. But
Charlotte had resolved to take the school. The sisters, however,
could not feel confident that their qualifications were such as would
render success certain. Hence, a suggestion that was made to
Charlotte which would provide her with the necessary powers, was at
once taken up with all the energy of her nature; she thus writes to
her aunt, on whom all must depend:
'September 29th, 1841.
'DEAR AUNT,
'I have heard nothing of Miss Wooler yet since I wrote to her,
intimating that I would accept her offer. I cannot conjecture the
reason of this long silence, unless some unforeseen impediment
has occurred in concluding the bargain. Meantime a plan has been
suggested and approved by Mr. and Mrs. ----' (the father and
mother of her pupils) 'and others, which I wish now to impart to
you. My friends recommend me, if I desire to secure permanent
success, to delay commencing the school for six months longer,
and by all means to contrive, by hook or by crook, to spend the
intervening time in some school on the continent. They say
schools in England are so numerous, competition so great, that
without some such step towards attaining superiority, we shall
probably have a very hard struggle, and may fail in the end. They
say, moreover, that the loan of L100, which you have been so kind
as to offer us, will, perhaps, not be all required now, as Miss
Wooler will lend us the furniture; and that, if the speculation
is intended to be a good and successful one, half the sum, at
least, ought to be laid out in the manner I have mentioned,
thereby insuring a more speedy repayment both of interest and
principal.
'I would not go to France or to Paris. I would go to Brussels in
Belgium. The cost of the journey there, at the dearest rate of
travelling, would be L5; living there is little more than half as
dear as it is in England, and the facilities for education are
equal or superior to any other place in Europe. In half a year, I
could acquire a thorough familiarity with French. I could improve
greatly in Italian, and even get a dash of German; _i.e._,
provided my health continued as good as it is now. Mary is now
staying at Brussels, at a first-rate establishment there. I
should not think of going to the Chateau de Kokleberg, where she
is resident, as the terms are much too high; but if I wrote to
her, she, with the assistance of Mrs. Jenkins, the wife of the
British Chaplain, would be able to secure me a cheap, decent
residence and respectable protection. I should have the
opportunity of seeing her frequently; she would make me
acquainted with the city; and, with the assistance of her
cousins, I should probably be introduced to connections far more
improving, polished, and cultivated, than any I have yet known.
'These are advantages which would turn to real account, when we
actually commenced a school; and, if Emily could share them with
me, we could take a footing in the world afterwards which we can
never do now. I say Emily instead of Anne; for Anne might take
her turn at some future period, if our school answered. I feel
certain, while I am writing, that you will see the propriety of
what I say. You always like to use your money to the best
advantage. You are not fond of making shabby purchases; when you
do confer a favour, it is often done in style; and depend upon
it, L50 or L100, thus laid out, would be well employed. Of course
I know no other friend in the world to whom I could apply on this
subject except yourself. I feel an absolute conviction that, if
this advantage were allowed us, it would be the making of us for
life. Papa will, perhaps, think it a wild and ambitious scheme;
but whoever rose in the world without ambition? When he left
Ireland to go to Cambridge University, he was as ambitious as I
am now. I want us all to get on. I know we have talents, and I
want them to be turned to account. I look to you, aunt, to help
us. I think you will not refuse. I know, if you consent, it shall
not be my fault if you ever repent your kindness.'
Charlotte had some time to wait for an answer, but it came at last;
her enthusiasm had carried the day. The answer was favourable: she
and Emily were to go to Brussels.
At times, during his stay with the railway company, Branwell would
drive over from Luddenden Foot to visit his family at the Haworth
parsonage, having hired a gig for the purpose. Mr. Grundy sometimes
accompanied him, and they would escape to the moors together, or pay
curious visits to the old fortune-teller, with the curates. Then,
says his friend, he was 'at his best, and would be eloquent and
amusing, though, on returning sometimes, he would burst into tears,
and swear he meant to mend.' This last statement is favourable to
Branwell's calm judgment upon himself. Few--and Branwell was one of
the last--drift deliberately into wrong-doing. He was, like most
other men, often placed under influences which a habit of attention
and self-control would have enabled him to resist. He knew, perhaps,
in a desultory way, what he ought to do, and what he ought not; but,
owing to his inattention to consequences, he might, now and then, go
wrong, sometimes yielding to whatever illusion was paramount within,
acting in concert with whatever was most alluring without; yet he
could draw his mental forces together, and review his past actions
with keen and painful accuracy. Hence he was not destitute of the
faculty of analyzing his acts in the light of their moral quality,
and, when his sober judgment enabled him to see them in their true
bearing, he exhibited a due contrition.
On Branwell's visits home, he learned much of the exertions, the
projects, and the resolves of his sisters. He was aware of their
aims, and how important were the steps being taken to qualify them
the better for teaching others, more especially in perfecting their
knowledge of the French language and of music. He also knew of the
ultimate hope of his sisters--that, were the future secure, they
would have leisure to realize their early dream of one day becoming
authors, never relinquished, even when distance divided, and when
absorbing tasks occupied them. He had the highest appreciation of
their genius; and, although he had his times of hilarity, indulgence,
and enjoyment, he was certainly never forgetful of his own hopes and
aspirations in the same direction.
CHAPTER XVIII.
BRANWELL'S POETRY, 1842.
Situation of Luddenden Foot--Branwell visits Manchester--The Sultry
Summer--He visits the Picturesque Places adjacent--His impromptu
Verses to Mr. Grundy--He leaves the Railway Company--Miss Robinson's
unjust Comments--His three Sonnets--His poem 'The Afghan War'--
Branwell's letter to Mr. Grundy--His Self-depreciation.
Luddenden Foot--the second place of Branwell Bronte's appointment as
clerk in charge on the Leeds and Manchester Railway--was a village
about equi-distant between Sowerby Bridge and Mytholmroyd, situated
in a fertile and moderately-wooded valley, on the left bank of
the Calder as it descends from its source in Cliviger Dean. The
cultivated hills rise to a considerable height on both sides of the
river, and are very romantic in character. Among the manufacturers
and gentry of the neighbourhood, Branwell found few to welcome him,
and from these he turned to the artists and literary men he had
previously known at Halifax.
But Branwell, in addition, made excursions up the valley (Mr. W----,
his fellow-assistant, acting for him in his absence) in the direction
of Hebden Bridge, Heptonstall, the Ridge, Todmorden, and the heights
of Wadsworth. There were, indeed, many places of marvellous beauty
and interest near, that have long been the theme of artists and
poets, with which he did not fail to make himself acquainted.
The huge, rounded hills, which border this valley, are intersected in
places by lovely cloughs and glens, whose peat-stained streams rush
over their rocky beds, from the elevated grouse-moors around, to pour
their waters into the Calder. From Luddenden Dean, between the
townships of Warley and Midgley, a brook makes its way to Luddenden
Foot, through a glen on whose verdant slopes stand several ancient
houses of architectural and historic interest. Among these are Ewood
Hall, where Bishop Farrer was born, and Kershaw House, a beautiful
Jacobean mansion. Crag Valley, which descends to the Calder on the
opposite bank, a mile or more from Luddenden Foot, is deeper and more
thickly wooded. On one hand lies Sowerby--with Haugh End, the
birthplace of Archbishop Tillotson--and, on the other, Erringden,
which was a royal deer-park in the days of the Plantagenets. But the
loveliest of the valleys through which the confluent streams of
the Calder run, is that of Hebden, a romantic glen, winding between
the wooded and precipitous slopes of Heptonstall--crowned with the
ancient and now ruined church of St. Thomas a Becket--and of
Wadsworth, with its narrow dell of Crimsworth, which gave Charlotte
Bronte a name for the hero of the earliest of her novels. Between
these solemn heights the stream flows beneath the huge crags of
Hardcastle, and roars over many a rocky obstruction in its channel
before it reaches the Calder at Hebden Bridge. This was a district to
which picnic-parties from Haworth often came, there being a direct
road over the hills.
Branwell also visited Manchester on one occasion; and, on his
return, he gave an account to a young clergyman, then living in the
neighbourhood of Mytholmroyd, who sometimes went to his wooden shanty
at Luddenden Foot to hear his conversation, of how he had been
impressed with the architecture of the parish church at Manchester,
as he stood under the arched portal, and beheld the long lines of
pillars and arches, and the fretted roof, the lightsome details of
which had charmed him. He went forward on that occasion to the choir
of the church, and saw the Lady Chapel--which still retained its
beautiful screen, with its Perpendicular tracery and shafts of that
period--occupied by the gravedigger's implements, which reminded
him of the 'Worshipful Master of the Lodge of the Three Graces,'
consisting of crowbar, mattock, spade, barrow, planks and ropes; for
the Lady Chapel had been made a convenient receptacle for these
dismal chattels.
The summer of 1841 was a somewhat monotonous time for Branwell and
his friend at the quiet station. Here, in the intervals of the
trains, scarcely anything was heard except the occasional hum of a
bee or a wasp, or the drone of a blue-bottle, while the almost
vertical rays of a summer sun darted down on the roof of the wooden
hut, and made the place unendurable. It was in moments of weary
lassitude, or in hours of drowsy leisure, that Branwell whiled away
the time by sketching carelessly on the margins of the books--for
the amusement of himself and his friend--free-hand portraits of
characters of the neighbourhood, and of the celebrated pugilists of
the day.
But about Hebden Bridge there were people known to Branwell, and he
did not fail to visit them. His sister, Charlotte, in after-years,
sometimes came to Hanging Royd, Hebden Bridge, the house of my late
friend, the Rev. Sutcliffe Sowden, then incumbent of Mytholm--the
gentleman who afterwards performed the marriage ceremony between the
gifted lady and Mr. Nicholls. The friendship of the latter and Mr.
Sowden dated from earlier years, and to them Branwell was known when
he was at Luddenden Foot. He had, indeed, sometimes clerical visitors
at his 'wooden shanty' to hear his conversation. Mr. Sowden was an
enthusiastic lover of scenery, and the sphere of his duties abounded
in moors, wilds, crags, rivers, brooks, and dells, which he often
visited. Branwell's tastes accorded with his, but these attractions
clearly drew Branwell's attention, too often and too far, from the
imperative duties of his situation, comparatively light though they
were. As might be expected, therefore, the work of this talented but
changeful young man was found unsatisfactory, and explanations were
demanded. About the time of the close of his twelve months' official
duties at Luddenden Foot, an examination of his books was made, and
they were found to be confused and incomplete. The irregularity and
the defects of his returns had also been remarked, and an inquiry was
set on foot respecting them. The officials, in looking over the
books, discovered the pen-and-ink sketches on the margins of the
pages, which I have already mentioned; and these were taken as
conclusive evidence of carelessness and indifference on the part of
the unfortunate Branwell in the performance of his duties and the
keeping of his accounts.
He had been made aware, by unwelcome inquiries and remonstrances,
that his position with the railway company was precarious, and he
was filled with apprehension as to the ultimate consequences. He
was requested finally to appear at the audit of the company, and
his friend W---- accompanied him.
It was at the Christmas of 1841, that the Brontes expected to meet
at home together, in anticipation of Charlotte and Emily's journey to
Brussels; but Charlotte had not found her brother there in the January
of 1842, for she writes on the 20th of that month and year: 'I have
been every week, since I came home, expecting to see Branwell, and he
has never been able to get over yet. We fully expect him, however,
next Saturday.'[36] Branwell certainly returned home, but only when it
had been intimated to him that his services were no longer required by
the railway company. How far he had felt the duties of his post
irksome, and the power of perseverance required inconsistent with his
tastes and pursuits, does not appear, though the inference that they
were so will scarcely be doubted. But the humiliation and sorrow he
felt on the loss of his employment plunged him, for a time, into
despair; and the natural gloom of his disposition, caused him to
magnify the common pleasures and enjoyments of his leisure hours into
crimes and omissions of duty of no ordinary magnitude. But the
erroneous recollections of Mr. Grundy, respecting the situation of the
station at Luddenden Foot, and its supposed deleterious influence on
Branwell's manners and obligations, may justify a doubt as to the
particular accuracy of many of his reminiscences of his friend.
[36] 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap. x.
The following incident of Branwell's stay at that place, which Mr.
Grundy gives, may be regarded as affording a valuable contribution to
his writings; for, although impromptu, the verses show that he could,
even on unexpected occasions, bring into play his innate faculty of
verse with no mean grasp of his subject, and a certain harmony of
rhythmical expression.
Mr. Grundy says, 'On one occasion he (Branwell) thought I was
disposed to treat him distantly at a party, and he retired in great
dudgeon. When I arrived at my lodgings the same evening, I found the
following, necessarily an impromptu:--
'"The man who will not know another,
Whose heart can never sympathize,
Who loves not comrade, friend, or brother,
Unhonoured lives--unnoticed dies:
His frozen eye, his bloodless heart,
Nature, repugnant, bids depart.
'"O, Grundy! born for nobler aim,
Be thine the task to shun such shame;
And henceforth never think that he
Who gives his hand in courtesy
To one who kindly feels to him,
His gentle birth or name can dim.
'"However mean a man may be,
Know man _is_ man as well as thee;
However high thy gentle line,
Know he who writes can rank with thine;
And though his frame be worn and dead,
Some light still glitters round his head.
'"Yes! though his tottering limbs seem old,
His heart and blood are not yet cold.
Ah, Grundy! shun his evil ways,
His restless nights, his troubled days;
But never slight his mind, which flies,
Instinct with noble sympathies,
Afar from spleen and treachery,
To thought, to kindness, and to thee.
'"P. B. BRONTE."'[37]
[37] 'Pictures of the Past,' pp. 78-79.
Branwell's extreme sensibility caused him, indeed, to exaggerate both
the lights and the shadows of his existence. He was gleeful, as I
found, full of fun, jest, and anecdote, in social circles, or where
literature and art were the theme; and then, almost involuntarily,
would rise to his feet, and, with a beaming countenance, treat the
subject with a vivid flow of imagination, displaying the rich stores
of his information with wondrous and enthralling eloquence. But, under
disappointment or misfortune, he fell a prey to gloomy thoughts, and
reached a state often near akin to despair. It was at such moments
that he usually took up his pen to express, in poetry, the fulness of
his feelings and the depth of his sorrow; and it is to this fact that
the pathetic sadness of most of his writings is due. I have had
occasion already to speak of the melancholy tone which characterized
also the minds of his sisters.
The worth of Branwell's poetic genius about this time,--the year of
1842,--has been unfairly commented upon. Miss Robinson, questioning
the judgment of the Bronte sisters, undertakes to doubt if Branwell's
mental gifts were any better than his moral qualities, and says: 'It
is doubtful, judging from Branwell's letters and his verses, whether
anything much better than his father's "Cottage in the Wood" would
have resulted from his following the advice of James Montgomery.
Fluent ease, often on the verge of twaddle, with here and there a
bright felicitous touch, with here and there a smack of the
conventional hymn-book and pulpit twang--such weak and characterless
effusions are all that is left of the passion-ridden pseudo-genius of
Haworth.'[38]
[38] 'Emily Bronte,' p. 97.
Miss Robinson's ignorance of Branwell's more matured poems and
writings has caused her, in company with others, to fall into very
grave errors regarding him; and she,--with extreme bitterness, it must
be said,--has embellished her biography of Emily with elaborate
censures of his misdeeds, and with accounts of his imputed glaring
inferiority to his sisters in intellectual power. It is pitiable,
indeed, that Miss Robinson,--and not she alone,--in the want of
Branwell's true life and remains, with nothing to set against the
primary errors of Mrs. Gaskell,--should have joined the hue and cry
against him, and have essayed, almost as of set purpose, to write down
the gifted brother of the author whose life she was giving to the
world.
In 1842 Branwell began to feel more perceptibly the development of his
intellectual powers, and to discern more clearly his natural ability
to define, in poetic and felicitous language, his thoughts, feelings,
and emotions. While under the depression and gloom consequent upon his
disgrace, and the recent loss of his employment, he wrote the three
following sonnets. The profound depth of feeling, expressed with
mournful voice, which pervades them, the full consciousness of woe by
which they are informed, leave nothing wanting in their expression of
pathetic beauty; and they are distinguished by much sweetness of
diction. These sonnets favourably show the poetical genius of
Branwell. His soul is carried beyond his frail mortality; but sadness
and sorrow, enshrouding his imagination, bind it to the precincts of
the tomb. Here, with pessimistic and gloomy philosophy, he bids us,
impressed with the slender sum of human happiness, to recognize the
constant recurrence of the misery to which we are born, and to discern
how little there is beneficent in nature or mankind.
SONNET I.
ON LANDSEER'S PAINTING.
_'The Shepherd's Chief Mourner'--A Dog Keeping Watch at Twilight
over its Master's Grave._
The beams of Fame dry up affection's tears;
And those who rise forget from whom they spring;
Wealth's golden glories--pleasure's glittering wing--
All that we follow through our chase of years--
All that our hope seeks--all our caution fears,
Dim or destroy those holy thoughts which cling
Round where the forms we loved lie slumbering;
But, not with _thee_--our slave--whose joys and cares
We deem so grovelling--power nor pride are thine,
Nor our pursuits, nor ties; yet, o'er this grave,
Where lately crowds the form of mourning gave,
I only hear _thy_ low heart-broken whine--
I only see _thee_ left long hours to pine
For _him_ whom thou--if love had power--would'st save!
SONNET II.
ON THE CALLOUSNESS PRODUCED BY CARE.
Why hold young eyes the fullest fount of tears?
And why do youthful hearts the oftenest sigh,
When fancied friends forsake, or lovers fly,
Or fancied woes and dangers wake their fears?
Ah! he who asks has known but spring-tide years,
Or Time's rough voice had long since told him why!
Increase of days increases misery;
And misery brings selfishness, which sears
The heart's first feelings: 'mid the battle's roar,
In Death's dread grasp, the soldier's eyes are blind
To comrades dying, and he whose hopes are o'er
Turns coldest from the sufferings of mankind;
A bleeding spirit oft delights in gore:
A tortured heart oft makes a tyrant mind.
SONNET III.
_On Peaceful Death and Painful Life._
Why dost thou sorrow for the happy dead?
For, if their life be lost, their toils are o'er,
And woe and want can trouble them no more;
Nor ever slept they in an earthly bed
So sound as now they sleep, while dreamless laid
In the dark chambers of the unknown shore,
Where Night and Silence guard each sealed door.
So, turn from such as these thy drooping head,
And mourn the _Dead Alive_--whose spirit flies--
Whose life departs, before his death has come;
Who knows no Heaven beneath Life's gloomy skies,
Who sees no Hope to brighten up that gloom,--
'Tis _He_ who feels the worm that never dies,--
The _real_ death and darkness of the tomb.
It is painful to find the writer of these sad and beautiful sonnets
spoken of in terms of reprobation, as being, at the time he wrote
them, and when asking Mr. Grundy's aid while seeking a situation,
'sunk and contemptible.'
'Alas,' says Miss Robinson, 'no helping hand rescued the sinking
wretch from the quicksands of idle sensuality which slowly engulfed
him!'[39] Let us look further.
[39] 'Emily Bronte,' p. 99.
The Afghan War, which commenced in 1838, and had secured for the
English arms what seemed at the time a complete conquest, was followed
by the conspiracy of Akbar Khan, the son of Dost Mohammed, which
occurred at the beginning of winter, when help from India was
hopeless. There was an uprising at Cabul, and several officers and men
were slain, which compelled Major Pottinger to submit to humiliating
conditions. The British left Cabul; and the disastrous retreat to
India, through the Khyber Pass, which commenced on January 6th, 1842,
will long be sadly remembered. Of sixteen thousand troops--accompanied
by women and children to the number of ten thousand more--who were
continually harassed by hostile tribes on the way, and benumbed by the
severity of the winter, only one man, Doctor Brydon, survived to tell
the tidings. Branwell, overwhelmed by these horrors, published the
following powerful and impressive poem in the 'Leeds Intelligencer,'
on May the 7th of the same year.
THE AFGHAN WAR.
'Winds within our chimney thunder,
Rain-showers shake each window-pane,
Still--if nought our household sunder--
We can smile at wind or rain.
Sickness shades a loved one's chamber,
Steps glide gently to and fro,
Still--'mid woe--our hearts remember
_We_ are there to soothe that woe.
'Comes at last the hour of mourning,
Solemn tolls the funeral bell;
And we feel that no returning
Fate allows to such farewell:
Still a holy hope shines o'er us;
We wept by the One who died;
And 'neath earth shall death restore us;
As round hearthstone--side by side.
'But--when all at eve, together,
Circle round the flickering light,
While December's howling weather
Ushers in a stormy night:
When each ear, scarce conscious, listens
To the outside Winter's war,
When each trembling eyelash glistens
As each thinks of _one_ afar--
Man to chilly silence dying,
Ceases story, song, and smile;
Thought asks--"Is the loved one lying
Cold upon some storm-beat isle?"
And with death--when doubtings vanish,
When despair still hopes and fears--
Though our anguish toil may banish,
Rest brings unavailing tears.
'So, Old England--when the warning
Of thy funeral bells I hear--
Though thy dead a host is mourning,
Friends and kindred watch each bier.
But alas! Atlantic waters
Bear another sound from far!
Unknown woes, uncounted slaughters,
Cruel deaths, inglorious war!
'Breasts and banners, crushed and gory,
That seemed once invincible;
England's children--England's glory,
Moslem sabres smite and quell!
Far away their bones are wasting,
But I hear their spirits call--
"Is our Mighty Mother hasting
To avenge her children's fall?"
'England rise! Thine ancient thunder
Humbled mightier foes than these;
Broke a whole world's bonds asunder,
Gave thee empire o'er the seas:
And while yet one rose may blossom,
Emblem of thy former bloom,
Let not age invade thy bosom--
Brightest shine in darkest gloom!
'While one oak thy homes shall shadow,
Stand like it as thou hast stood;
While a Spring greets grove and meadow,
Let not Winter freeze thy blood.
Till this hour St. George's standard
Led the advancing march of time;
England! keep it streaming vanward,
Conqueror over age and clime!'
In this poem Branwell prefaces his subject with a picture of domestic
suffering--one with which he is familiar--and compares the consolation
which accompanies the affectionate attentions of those present, with
the hopeless fate and untended deaths of such as perish in the storms
and wars of distant places, far away from their homes and friends. In
the true, loyal, and national spirit which animates him, his manly
appeal to England, comprised principally in the last two verses, is
perhaps one of the noblest and most vigorous ever written.
In the May of 1842, Leyland was commissioned to execute certain
monuments for Haworth and its neighbourhood; and, on the 15th of that
month, Branwell wrote to him, in reference to a design for a monument
which he had sent for submission to a committee of which the Rev. P.
Bronte was chairman, and invited him to the parsonage on the 20th of
the month, being sure his father would be pleased to see him. Leyland
visited Haworth and partook of Mr. Bronte's hospitality; and in the
evening, accompanied by the incumbent and his son, appeared before the
monument committee.
Branwell also wrote an interesting letter to Mr. Grundy on May 22nd,
1842, which that gentleman erroneously assigns to 1845.[40] In it he
says that he cannot avoid the temptation, while sitting alone, all the
household being at church, and he being the sole occupant of the
parsonage, to scribble a few lines to cheer his spirits. He alludes to
the extreme pain, illness, and mental depression he has endured since
his dismissal. He describes himself, while at Luddenden Foot, as a
'miserable wreck,' as requiring six glasses of whisky to stimulate
him, as almost insane! And he feels his recovery from this last stage
of his condition to be retarded by 'having nothing to listen to except
the wind moaning among old chimneys and older ash trees,--nothing to
look at except heathery hills, walked over when life had all to hope
for, and nothing to regret.' He reproaches himself, in bitter terms,
with seeking indulgence, while at Luddenden Foot, in failings which
formed, he declares, the black spot on his character. His sister
Charlotte's mind appears to have been cast in the same gloomy mould;
for, when suffering under bodily ailment, or the despondency and
hopelessness which overshadowed her soul, she was impelled, as we have
seen, to make confessions to her friend 'E' of her 'stings of
conscience,' her 'visitings of remorse.' She hates her 'former
flippancy and forwardness.' She is in a state of 'horrid, gloomy
uncertainty,' and clouds are 'gathering darker,' and a more depressing
despondency weighs upon her spirits.[41]
[40] 'Pictures of the Past,' p. 84.
[41] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Bronte,' chap. viii.
In another letter to her friend, Charlotte says she is 'in a strange
state of mind--still gloomy, but not despairing. I keep trying to do
right.... I abhor myself, I despise myself.' And again, later, she
wonders if the new year will be 'stained as darkly as the last with
all our sins, follies, secret vanities, and uncontrolled passions and
propensities,' saying 'I trust not; but I feel in nothing better,
neither humbler nor purer.'[42]
[42] 'Unpublished letters of Charlotte Bronte,' _Hours at
Home_, vol. xi.
Branwell, however, while making, in a like tone, his unnecessarily
exaggerated confession to his friend, sets forth his renovation of
soul and body. He has, at length, acquired health, strength, and
soundness of mind far superior to anything he had known at Luddenden
Foot. He can speak cheerfully, and enjoy the company of another,
without his former stimulus. He can write, think, and act, with some
apparent approach to resolution, and he only wants a motive for
exertion to be happier than he has been for years. He has still
something left in him which might do him service. He thinks he ought
not to live too long in solitude, as the world soon forgets those who
wish it 'Goodbye.' Then, although ashamed of it, he asks for answers
to some inquiries he had made about obtaining a new situation,
evidently thinking Mr. Grundy's influence of importance in the matter.
This letter must receive a passing notice. It shows Branwell's mind
vigorous and healthy, although it had been disordered by physical
illness accompanied by brooding melancholy. His picture of the lonely
parsonage and the solitude of the surrounding country, combined with
the expression of his own sad emotions, is graphic enough. His sisters
wrote with the same power and the same artistic feeling. The occasion
of his writing this letter to Mr. Grundy was his wish to obtain some
employment in connection with the railway, and he made this overdrawn
confession of his habits and indulgences when at Luddenden Foot, and
contrasted them with the great mental, moral, and bodily improvement
he had acquired since he left. It was his hope that by this contrast
he might make a favourable impression, and that Mr. Grundy's position
with the Messrs. Stephenson might be a means of helping him to some
employment suited to his tastes and abilities. But Mr. Grundy could
not aid him in this object, which he pursued with all the feverish
eagerness of his urgent and impetuous nature. With great vigour of
expression he declares, 'I would rather give my hand than undergo
again the grovelling carelessness, the malignant yet cold debauchery,
the determination to find how far mind could carry body without both
being chucked into hell.'
But Branwell, at the time of which I speak, was full of energy and
industry; indeed, he could not be idle. He wrote another letter in
reply to one he had received from Mr. Grundy, dated June the 9th,
1842. From this we learn that his friend had either not entertained
his applications, or was unable to further his interests in the
quarter from which employment could come, for he had given
discouraging answers. Branwell felt the disappointment keenly, but
says that it was allayed by Mr. Grundy's kind and considerate tone.
His friend had asked why he did not turn his attention elsewhere. To
this Branwell replies that most of his relations are clergymen, and
others of them, by a private life, removed from the busy world. As for
the church, he declares he has not one mental qualification, 'save,
perhaps, hypocrisy,' which might make him 'cut a figure in its
pulpits.' He informs Mr. Grundy that Mr. James Montgomery and another
literary gentleman, who had lately seen something of his work, wished
him to turn his attention to literature. He declares that he has
little conceit of himself, but that he has a great desire for
activity. He is somewhat changed, yet, although not possessed of the
buoyant spirits of his friend, he might, in dress and appearance,
emulate something like ordinary decency.
In Leyland's art commissions at Haworth, Branwell took great interest,
and in his correspondence considerable activity and industry appear.
He wrote, on June the 29th, 1842, to the sculptor, a letter, in which
he alludes to the conduct of some gentlemen of the committee at
Haworth, who had acted in an unfair way to his friend on a
professional matter. He says:--
'I have not often felt more heartily ashamed than when you left the
committee at Haworth; but I did not like to speak on the subject then,
and I trusted that you would make that allowance, which you have
perhaps often ere now had to do, for gothic ignorance and ill
breeding; and one or two of the persons present afterwards felt that
they had left by no means an enviable impression on your mind.
'Though it is but a poor compliment,--I long much to see you again at
Haworth, and forget for half-a-day the amiable society in which I am
placed, where I never hear a word more musical than an ass's bray.
When you come over, bring with you Mr. Constable, but leave behind
Father Matthew, as his conversation is too cold and freezing for
comfort among the moors of Yorkshire.'
At the bottom of the sheet on which this letter is written, Branwell
has drawn a pen-and-ink sketch of rare merit. The weird waste, which
stretches to the horizon, may represent well the lonely wilds of
Haworth, overshadowed by the clouds of approaching night, and
interspersed with streaks of fading day, among which the crescent moon
appears. In the foreground is a group of monuments, one a tomb sunk on
its side; and, of the head-stones, one is inscribed with the word
'Resurgam.' Branwell was no mean draughtsman, and that his hand did
not shake with the excesses he is represented to have gone through at
this period of his life, the delicacy of this elaborate drawing is
sufficient proof.
Mr. Constable, mentioned in the letter, was an acquaintance of the
sculptor, a gentleman of considerable ability in art and poetry. The
conviviality, which Branwell did not consider altogether a dereliction
of moral duty, led him to make his quiet and humorous allusion to
Father Matthew.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.