Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (555 page)

‘The westering sunbeams smiled on Percy Hall,

And green leaves glittered o’er the ancient wall

Where Mary sat, to feel the summer breeze,

And hear its music mingling ‘mid the trees.

There she had rested in her quiet bower

Through June’s long afternoon, while hour on hour

Stole, sweetly shining past her, till the shades,

Scarce noticed, lengthened o’er the grassy glades;

But yet she sat, as if she knew not how

Her time wore on, with Heaven-directed brow,

And eyes that only seemed awake, whene’er

Her face was fanned by summer evening’s air.

All day her limbs a weariness would feel,

As if a slumber o’er her frame would steal;

Nor could she wake her drowsy thoughts to care

For day, or hour, or what she was, or where:

Thus — lost in dreams, although debarred from sleep,

While through her limbs a feverish heat would creep,

A weariness, a listlessness, that hung

About her vigour, and Life’s powers unstrung —

She did not feel the iron gripe of pain,

But
thought
felt irksome to her heated brain;

Sometimes the stately woods would float before her,

Commingled with the cloud-piles brightening o’er her,

Then change to scenes for ever lost to view,

Or mock with phantoms which she never knew:

Sometimes her soul seemed brooding on to-day,

And then it wildly wandered far away,

Snatching short glimpses of her infancy,

Or lost in day-dreams of what yet might be.

‘Yes — through the labyrinth-like course of thought —

Whate’er might be remembered or forgot,

Howe’er diseased the dream might be, or dim,

Still seemed the
Future
through each change to swim,

All indefinable, but pointing on

To what should welcome her when Life was gone;

She felt as if — to all she knew so well —

Its voice was whispering her to say “farewell;”

Was bidding her forget her happy home;

Was farther fleeting still — still beckoning her to come.

‘She felt as one might feel who, laid at rest,

With cold hands folded on a panting breast,

Has just received a husband’s last embrace,

Has kissed a child, and turned a pallid face

From this world — with its feelings all laid by —

To one unknown, yet hovering — oh! how nigh!

‘And yet — unlike that image of decay —

There hovered round her, as she silent lay,

A holy sunlight, an angelic bloom,

That brightened up the terrors of the tomb,

And, as it showed Heaven’s glorious world beyond,

Forbade her heart to throb, her spirit to despond.

‘But, who steps forward, o’er the glowing green,

With silent tread, these stately groves between?

To watch his fragile flower, who sees him not,

Yet keeps his image blended with each thought,

Since but for
him
stole down that single tear

From her blue eyes, to think how very near

Their farewell hour might be!

‘With silent tread

Percy bent o’er his wife his golden head;

And, while he smiled to see how calm she slept,

A gentle feeling o’er his spirit crept,

Which made him turn toward the shining sky

With heart expanding to its majesty,

While he bethought him how more blest
its
glow

Than
that
he left one single hour ago,

Where proud rooms, heated by a feverish light,

Forced vice and villainy upon his sight;

Where snared himself, or snaring into crime,

His soul had drowned its hour, and lost its count of time.

‘The syren-sighs and smiles were banished now,

The cares of “play” had vanished from his brow;

He took his Mary’s hot hand in his own,

She raised her eyes, and — oh, how soft they shone!

Kindling to fondness through their mist of tears,

Wakening afresh the light of fading years! —

He knew not why she turned those shining eyes

With such a mute submission to the skies;

He knew not why her arm embraced him so,

As if she
must
depart, yet
could not
let him go!

‘With death-like voice, but angel-smile, she said,

“My love, they need not care, when I am dead,

To deck with flowers my capped and coffined head;

For all the flowers which I should love to see

Are blooming now, and will have died with me:

The same sun bids us all revive to-day,

And the same winds will bid us to decay;

When Winter comes we all shall be no more —

Departed into dust — next, covered o’er

By Spring’s reviving green. See, Percy, now

How red my cheek — how red my roses blow!

But come again when blasts of Autumn come;

Then
mark their changing leaves, their blighted bloom;

Then come to my bedside, then look at
me
,

How changed in all —
except my love for thee
!”

‘She spoke, and laid her hot hand on his own;

But he nought answered, save a heart-wrung groan;

For oh! too sure, her voice prophetic sounded

Too clear the proofs that in her face abounded

Of swift Consumption’s power! Although each day

He’d seen her airy lightness fail away,

And gleams unnatural glisten in her eye;

He had not dared to dream that she could die,

But only fancied his a causeless fear

Of losing something which he held so dear;

Yet — now — when, startled at her prophet-cries,

To hers he turned his stricken, stone-like eyes,

And o’er her cheek declined his blighted head.

He saw Death write on it the
fatal red
—

He saw, and straightway sank his spirit’s light

Into the sunless twilight of the starless night!

‘While he sat, shaken by his sudden shock,

Again — and with an earnestness — she spoke,

As if the world of her Creator shone

Through all the cloudy shadows of her own:

“Come grieve not — darling — o’er my early doom;

‘Tis well that Death no drearier shape assume

Than this he comes in — well that widowed age

Will not extend my friendless pilgrimage

Through Life’s dim vale of tears — ‘tis well that Pain

Wields not its lash nor binds its burning chain,

But leaves my death-bed to a mild decline,

Soothed and supported by a love like thine!”‘

My copy of the poem is illustrated with a portrait, by J. B. Leyland, in pen-and-ink, of the ideal Percy. The drawing is bold and effective; and, though not intended for an exact portrait of Branwell, bears some resemblance to him in general character. The sketch is signed, ‘Northangerland,’ at the top; and, at the bottom, ‘Alexander Percy, Esq.;’ while the artist’s name is discerned among the shadows which fall from the figure of Percy.

CHAPTER XIV.

FAME AT HAWORTH.

Charlotte Corresponds on Literary Subjects — Novels — Confession of Authorship — Branwell’s Failing Health — He Writes to Leyland — Branwell and Mr. George Searle Phillips — Branwell’s Intellect Retains its Power — His Description of ‘Professor Leonidas Lyon’ — The latter Gentleman’s Account of his Reading of ‘Jane Eyre’ — Branwell’s Remarks on Charlotte and the Work.

The early months of the year 1848 proved a severe trial for the Brontë family, as they did to the whole of the Haworth villagers. Influenza and other ailments were prevalent, and the sisters did not escape the former: Anne, indeed, suffered from a severe cough, with some fever, and her friends became alarmed. The position of the parsonage in relation to the churchyard rendered it unhealthy; but, at the instance of Mr. Brontë, a new grave-yard was opened in another place. He did not, however, succeed in his attempt to get a good supply of water laid on to each house.

Charlotte, at the time, was still in correspondence with Mr. Lewes and Mr. Williams, about the review of ‘Jane Eyre’ in ‘Fraser’s Magazine,’ and about other literary subjects. She was still keeping the secret of the authorship of her book from her friends, putting off ‘E.’ with evasive letters, and wishing her to ‘laugh or scold A —
 
— out of the publishing notion.’ ‘Wuthering Heights’ had not been received by the public with much favour, and we do not hear of any further literary work by Emily. But Charlotte was writing ‘Shirley,’ and Anne was going on with ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,’ despite a consumptive listlessness that was upon her, such as Branwell describes in the wife of ‘Percy;’ and, in her letter written in January, Anne told ‘E.’ that they had done nothing ‘to speak of’ since she was at Haworth; yet they contrived to be busy from morning till night. In the spring, however, when this friend visited the Brontës again, full confession of authorship was made, and the poems and novels were shown to her. The identity of Mr. Brontë’s daughters with the ‘Messrs. Bell,’ had, however, been known to some, in connection with the poems, at an earlier date, and was occasionally spoken of, though the fact was not made public. Branwell himself was at home, quieter, but still failing in health and strength, for the constitutional taint, aided by his low spirits, and a bronchitis which had become chronic, was telling upon him.

‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,’ was submitted to the publisher of ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Agnes Grey,’ and accepted by him in the June of this year. If the first works of Ellis and Acton Bell were undervalued because they were believed to be the earlier productions of the author of ‘Jane Eyre,’ Acton’s new volume derived enhanced importance from being thought to be a production of the same hand. ‘Jane Eyre’ had had a great run in America, and a publisher there had offered Messrs. Smith and Elder a high price for early sheets of the next work of its author, which they accepted. But the publishers of ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,’ believing that Acton Bell was but a second name assumed by Currer Bell, made a similar offer to another American house. This circumstance led to questions and explanations; and Charlotte and Anne determined to visit London, in order to assure Messrs. Smith and Elder that they were indeed distinct persons. The publishers were very much astonished to see the two delicate ladies, and they made them very welcome. Charlotte and Anne went to the Opera, they went to the Royal Academy and the National Gallery, and they visited Mr. Smith and Mr. Williams before returning to Haworth.

They found Branwell at home, physically the same as when they left him, gradually failing from the chronic bronchitis which had lasted through the summer, and with the perceptible wasting away of decline. Writing to his friend Leyland on July 22nd, he speaks of ‘five months of utter sleeplessness, violent cough, and frightful agony of mind.’ ‘Long have I resolved,’ he continues, ‘to write to you a letter of five or six pages, but intolerable mental wretchedness and corporeal weakness have utterly prevented me.’ The letter is signed, ‘Yours sincerely, but nearly worn out, P. B. Brontë.’ Charlotte attributed his illness to indulgence solely, and she had no suspicion that the end was but two months away. She writes on July 28th: ‘Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems much shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us, have sad nights with him. He sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night. But has not every house its trial?’
 
 
But Branwell’s condition of health was not such as to keep him within doors, and there were revivals, as in Anne’s case also, which permitted him to visit his friends. I spoke to him once in Halifax at the time, and he was often seen in the village of Haworth.

An interesting episode occurred in August or September, for an account of which we are indebted to Mr. George Searle Phillips.
 
 
We learn from it that, in the midst of physical decay and mental distress, Branwell’s intellect retained its power to the last; and we learn also what pride he took in the works of his sisters, and in the reputation they had made. I can myself, from personal knowledge, endorse all that Mr. Phillips says as to Branwell’s brilliancy of intellect at this time. When Charlotte and Anne went to London, they had assumed the name of Brown; but their real name and the place of their residence were communicated to some people, and it was not long before it became quietly known. Then began the stream of pilgrims to the shrine of genius at Haworth, which has continued from that day to this, and will for many more. One gentleman, indeed, at the time, stayed three days at Haworth, maintaining a close intimacy with Branwell, and we know, from Mr. Phillips’ narrative, in what light Branwell looked upon the first-comers.

‘Branwell,’ says his friend, ‘during the latter part of my acquaintance with him, was much altered for the worse, in his personal appearance; but if he had altered in the same direction mentally, as his biographer says he had, then he must have been a man of immense and brilliant intellect. For I have rarely heard more eloquent and thoughtful discourse, flashing so brightly with random jewels of wit, and made more sunny and musical with poetry, than that which flowed from his lips during the evenings I passed with him at the “Black Bull,” in the village of Haworth. His figure was very slight, and he had, like his sister Charlotte, a superb forehead. But, even when pretty deep in his cups, he had not the slightest appearance of the sot that Mrs. Gaskell says he was. “His great tawny mane” — meaning thereby the hair of his head — was, it is true, somewhat dishevelled; but, apart from this, he gave no sign of intoxication. His eye was as bright, and his features were as animated, as they very well could be; and, moreover, his whole manner gave indications of intense enjoyment.’

Branwell described some of the characters in the novels, and talked much about his sisters, and especially about Charlotte, whose celebrity, he said, had already attracted more strangers to the village than had been known before; and Mr. Phillips gives the following account of the visit of one gentleman, an enthusiastic admirer of ‘Jane Eyre,’ whose somewhat eccentric personality he has veiled under the style and title of ‘Leonidas Lyon, Professor of Greek in the London University’: —

‘One evening, as we sat together in the little parlour of the Inn, the landlord entered, and asked Branwell if he would see a gentleman who wanted to make his acquaintance.

‘“He’s a funny fellow,” said the landlord; “and is somebody, I dare swear, with lots of money.”

‘As the landlord spoke, a squat little dapper fellow, with a white fur hat on his head, an umbrella under his arm, and a pair of blue spectacles on his nose, strutted into the room
sans cérémonie
. He approached the table in a very fussy and excited manner, exclaiming:

‘“Landlord, bring us some brandy. I must have the pleasure of drinking a glass with the brother of that distinguished lady, who wrote the great book that made London blaze. Three glasses, — landlord — do you hear? And you, sir, are the great lady’s brother, I presume? Professor Leonidas Lyon, sir, has the honour of introducing himself to your distinguished notice.”

‘Branwell responded, gravely:

‘“Patrick Branwell Brontë, sir, has the honour of welcoming you to Haworth, and begging you to be seated.”

‘Whereupon the little man bowed and scraped, and laughed a good-humoured laugh all over his good, round face, and said it was an honour he could not have hoped for, to sit as a guest at the same board, as he might say, “with the brother, the very flesh and blood, of the great lady who wrote the book.”

‘Here the brandy and water came in, and the little man grew merrier still, and more communicative. He was a Professor of Greek at the London University, and, chancing to be at Smith’s, the London publisher’s, whose friend Williams was a “wonderful man of letters — a very wonderful man indeed!” — Williams asked the Professor if he had seen the book of the season — “the immense book,” he called it — which was going to make one good reputation, and half a dozen fortunes. Mr. Williams praised it so highly that he (the Professor) grew wild about it, and asked where it could be got. Upon this, he threw a sovereign to pay for it, and ran home without his change, to read it. “It was prodigious, sir,” he exclaimed.’

The Professor went on in high praise of ‘Jane Eyre,’ and told Branwell and Mr. Phillips that his bed-time was ten o’clock, but that, when reading the book, he had sat on, completely absorbed, until six o’clock in the morning, when the housemaid came. Then he had retired to his own room, but, instead of going to bed, had sat on the edge of it, until he finished the story at ten A.M. Branwell said this history of a Professor’s reading of ‘Jane Eyre’ made him laugh ‘as if he would split his sides.’ And when he told Charlotte about it the next day, she laughed heartily, too, as did the other sisters, when she went up stairs to tell them, and their laughter moved Branwell to renewed merriment.

‘When the Professor’s story was ended,’ continues Mr. Phillips, ‘he tried to cajole Branwell into introducing him to the “great lady” who wrote the book. He was dying to see her, he said, and had come all the way down into Yorkshire, from London, in the fond hope of getting a glimpse of her, and perhaps of touching the hem of her garment. When he found that Branwell fought shy of the proposition he actually offered him a large sum of money, and then, taking from his fob a valuable gold watch, laid it on the table, and said he would throw that in to boot, if he would only let him see her and shake hands with her….

‘Poor Branwell spoke of his sister in most affectionate terms, such as none but a man of deep feeling could utter. He knew her power, and what tremendous depths of passion and pathos lay hid in her great surging heart, long before she gave expression to them in “Jane Eyre.” When she wrote the first chapters of her Richardsonian novel, he condemned the work as in opposition to her genius — which is good proof of his discrimination and critical judgment. But when “The Professor” was written, he said that was better, but that she could do better still; and, although it is not equal to “Jane Eyre,” yet it is a work of great originality and dramatic interest.

‘“I know,” said Branwell, after speaking of Charlotte’s talents, “that I also had stuff enough in me to make popular stories; but the failure of the Academy plan ruined me. I was felled, like a tree in the forest, by a sudden and strong wind, to rise no more. Fancy me, with my education, and those early dreams, which had almost ripened into realities, turning counter-jumper, or a clerk in a railway-office, which last was, you know, my occupation for some time. It simply degraded me in my own eyes, and broke my heart.”

‘It was useless,’ says Mr. Phillips, ‘to remonstrate with him, and yet I could not help it, and did my best to rouse the sleeping energies within him to noble action once more.

‘“It is too late,” he said; “and you would say so, too, if you knew all.” He used to be the oracle of the secluded household in earlier days — before the love of drink mastered him. His opinion was invariably sought for upon the literary performances of his sisters; but at the time I am now speaking of, he was a cipher in the house.’

Such is the account given by Mr. Phillips of his friend; so different in its character from that which Mr. Grundy, and, following him, Miss Robinson, offer, in the incredible episode of the carving-knife and the slaying of the devil, unless we believe the incident — which that gentleman states to have taken place at this period, how erroneously we have seen — to have been acted, as is most probable, in grotesque humour.

During the last two months of his life, Branwell became the object of much interest and received some homage; for, his sisters living secluded lives, he was generally the only member of the family accessible to the public. When he met with strangers, he invariably comported himself with becoming dignity, and did not lay himself open to the effects of their curiosity. Those who made his acquaintance were impressed, as Mr. Phillips was, with his great mental calibre, and with the grace and wit of his conversation. One gentleman — himself at the present time in the first place in one of the professions — who knew Branwell intimately, declares to me that he always believed the abilities of Charlotte’s brother were such as might have placed him in the very front rank of literature.