Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (546 page)

Mr. George Searle Phillips, with whom Branwell became acquainted at Bradford, and who visited him at Haworth, says that he complained sometimes of the way in which he was treated at home; and, as an instance, relates the following:

‘One of the Sunday-school girls, in whom he and all his house took much interest, fell very sick, and they were afraid she would not live. “I went to see the poor little thing,” he said; “sat with her half-an-hour, and read a psalm to her, and a hymn at her request. I felt very like praying with her too,” he added, his voice trembling with emotion; “but, you see, I was not good enough. How dare I pray for another, who had almost forgotten how to pray for myself! I came away with a heavy heart, for I felt sure she would die, and went straight home, where I fell into melancholy musings. I wanted somebody to cheer me. I often do, but no kind word finds its way even to my ears, much less to my heart. Charlotte observed my depression, and asked what ailed me. So I told her. She looked at me with a look I shall never forget — if I live to be a hundred years old — which I never shall. It was not like her at all. It wounded me as if some one had struck me a blow in the mouth. It involved ever so many things in it. It was a dubious look. It ran over me, questioning, and examining, as if I had been a wild beast. It said, ‘Did my ears deceive me, or did I hear aright?’ And then came the painful, baffled expression, which was worse than all. It said, ‘I wonder if that’s true?’ But, as she left the room, she seemed to accuse herself of having wronged me, and smiled kindly upon me, and said, ‘She is my little scholar, and I will go and see her.’ I replied not a word. I was too much cut up. When she was gone, I came over here to the ‘Black Bull,’ and made a note of it in sheer disgust and desperation. Why could they not give me some credit when I was trying to be good?”‘
  

At the beginning of March, Charlotte returned from a visit to a friend, and we hear that she found it very forced work to address her brother when she went into the room where he was; but he took no notice, and made no reply; he was stupefied; she had heard that he had got a sovereign while she was away, on pretence of paying a pressing debt, and had changed it, at a public-house, with the expected result.

Again Charlotte says, on March 31st, 1846: ‘I am thankful papa continues pretty well, though often made very miserable by Branwell’s wretched conduct.
There
— there is no change but for the worse.’

At this time Branwell wrote the following beautiful ode, somewhat incomplete in its expression, yet characteristic of his genius, which seems to have been inspired by the outcast feelings of which he spoke to Mr. Phillips, and to contain some reproach to those who thought him deficient in natural affection. It bears date April 3rd, 1846:

EPISTLE FROM A FATHER TO A CHILD IN HER GRAVE.

‘From Earth, — whose life-reviving April showers

Hide withered grass ‘neath Springtide’s herald flowers,

And give, in each soft wind that drives her rain,

Promise of fields and forests rich again, —

I write to thee, the aspect of whose face

Can never change with altered time or place;

Whose eyes could look on India’s fiercest wars

Less shrinking than the boldest son of Mars;

Whose lips, more firm that Stoic’s long ago,

Would neither smile with joy nor blanch with woe;

Whose limbs could sufferings far more firmly bear

Than mightiest heroes in the storms of war;

Whose frame, nor wishes good, nor shrinks from ill,

Nor feels distraction’s throb, nor pleasure’s thrill.

‘I write to thee what thou wilt never read,

For heed me thou
wilt not
, howe’er may bleed

The heart that many think a worthless stone,

But which oft aches for some belovéd one;

Nor, if that life, mysterious, from on high,

Once more gave feeling to thy stony eye,

Could’st thou thy father know, or feel that he

Gave life and lineaments and thoughts to thee;

For when thou died’st, thy day was in its dawn,

And night still struggled with Life’s opening morn;

The twilight star of childhood, thy young days

Alone illumined, with its twinkling rays,

So sweet, yet feeble, given from those dusk skies,

Whose kindling, coming noontide prophesies,

But tells us not that Summer’s noon can shroud

Our sunshine with a veil of thunder-cloud.

‘If, when thou freely gave the life, that ne’er

To thee had given either hope or fear,

But quietly had shone; nor asked if joy

Thy future course should cheer, or grief annoy;

‘If then thoud’st seen, upon a summer sea,

One, once in features, as in blood, like thee,

On skies of azure blue and waters green,

Melting to mist amid the summer sheen,

In trouble gazing — ever hesitating

‘Twixt miseries each hour new dread creating,

And joys — whate’er they cost — still doubly dear,

Those “troubled pleasures soon chastised by fear;”

If thou
had’st
seen him, thou would’st ne’er believe

That thou had’st yet known what it was to live!

‘Thine eyes could only see thy mother’s breast;

Thy feelings only wished on that to rest;

That was thy world; — thy food and sleep it gave,

And slight the change ‘twixt it and childhood’s grave.

Thou saw’st this world like one who, prone, reposes,

Upon a plain, and in a bed of roses,

With nought in sight save marbled skies above,

Nought heard but breezes whispering in the grove:

I — thy life’s source — was like a wanderer breasting

Keen mountain winds, and on a summit resting,

Whose rough rocks rose above the grassy mead,

With sleet and north winds howling overhead,

And Nature, like a map, beneath him spread;

Far winding river, tree, and tower, and town,

Shadow and sunlight, ‘neath his gaze marked down

By that mysterious hand which graves the plan

Of that drear country called “The Life of Man.”

‘If seen, men’s eyes would loathing shrink from thee,

And turn, perhaps, with no disgust to me;

Yet thou had’st beauty, innocence, and smiles,

And now hast rest from this world’s woes and wiles,

While I have restlessness and worrying care,

So sure, thy lot is brighter, happier far.

‘So let it be; and though thy ears may never

Hear these lines read beyond Death’s darksome river,

Not vainly from the borders of despair

May rise a sound of joy that thou art freed from care!’

On the 6th of April of this year, Charlotte wrote to Messrs. Aylott & Jones, informing them that ‘the Messrs. Bell’ were preparing for the press a work of fiction, consisting of three distinct and unconnected tales, which might be published either together, as a work of three volumes of the ordinary novel size, or separately, as single volumes. It was not their intention to publish these at their own expense, and they wished to know if Messrs. Aylott would be likely to undertake the work, if approved.

The novels must have been well on towards completion before the sisters ventured on these inquiries. The firm thus addressed kindly offered advice, of which Charlotte gladly availed herself to ask some questions. These were respecting the difficulty which unknown authors find in obtaining assistance from publishers; and Charlotte has indeed informed us that the three tales were going about among them ‘for the space of a year and a half.’ But ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Agnes Grey’ at last found acceptance in the early summer of 1847.

A friendly compact had been made between Branwell and Leyland that the latter should model a medallion of his friend, and that Branwell should write the poem ‘Morley Hall,’ — to which I have had occasion above to allude — a subject in which the sculptor was much interested. Shortly after his sister made the inquiries from Messrs. Aylott, Branwell visited Halifax to sit for his medallion; and, on the 28th of April, he wrote the following letter to his friend: —

‘Haworth, Bradford,
‘Yorks.

‘My dear Sir,

‘As I am anxious — though my return for your kindness will be like giving a sixpence for a sovereign lent — to do my best in my intended lines on Morley, I want answers to the following questions…. If I learn these facts, I’ll do my best, but in all I try to write I desire to stick to probabilities and local characteristics.

‘I cannot, without a smile at myself, think of my stay for three days in Halifax on a business which need not have occupied three hours; but, in truth, when I fall back
on
myself, I suffer so much wretchedness that I cannot withstand any temptation to get
out
of myself — and for that reason, I am prosecuting enquiries about situations suitable to me, whereby I could have a voyage abroad. The quietude of home, and the inability to make my family aware of the nature of most of my sufferings, makes me write:

‘Home thoughts are not with me,

Bright, as of yore;

Joys are forgot by me,

Taught to deplore!

My home has taken rest

In an afflicted breast,

Which I have often pressed,

But may no more.

‘Troubles never come alone — and I have some little troubles astride the shoulders of the big one.

‘Literary exertion would seem a resource; but the depression attendant on it, and the almost hopelessness of bursting through the barriers of literary circles, and getting a hearing among publishers, make me disheartened and indifferent, for I cannot write what would be thrown unread into a library fire. Otherwise, I have the materials for a respectably sized volume, and, if I were in London personally, I might, perhaps, try —
 
—
 
—
 
— , a patronizer of the sons of rhyme; though I daresay the poor man often smarts for his liberality in publishing hideous trash. As I know that, while here, I might send a manuscript to London, and say good-bye to it, I feel it folly to feed the flames of a printer’s fire. So much for egotism!

‘I enclose a horribly ill-drawn daub done to while away the time this morning. I meant it to represent a very rough figure in stone.

‘When all our cheerful hours seem gone for ever,

All lost that caused the body or the mind

To nourish love or friendship for our kind,