It cannot be doubted that Branwell, greatly influenced, perhaps, by his sisters, or they, more probably, by him — for they ever regarded his genius as greater than their own — was soon employing his pen as often, and more successfully, than his pencil. Mr. Brontë’s daughters were possessed largely of discriminating and critical powers, sufficient to enable them to judge accurately of the abilities of their brother; and Mrs. Gaskell allows that, to begin with, he was perhaps the greatest genius of this rare family, and this more even in a literary than in an artistic sense. Their favourable judgment was based on evidence they had before them. They were not ignorant of his poetical and prose compositions; and that these showed great beauty of thought and much felicity of expression, as well as considerable power, originality, and freshness of treatment, the evidences will appear in the subsequent pages.
CHAPTER XIII.
EARLY POEMS.
Branwell’s Letter to Wordsworth, with Stanzas — Remarks upon it — No Reply — He Tries Again — His Interest in the Manchester and Leeds Railway — Branwell’s Literary and Artistic Friends at Bradford and Halifax — Leyland’s Works there — Branwell’s great Interest in them — Early Verses — Mrs. Gaskell’s Judgment on his Literary Abilities.
Branwell, even while working at art with great energy, was not, as I have said, oblivious of his literary power. While, however, the work of his sisters was to be conducted with great earnestness of purpose, it was unfortunate that the scintillations of Branwell’s genius were too often fitful, erratic, and uncertain: his mind, indeed, even at this time, was unstable.
It may be noted, as characteristic of all Mr. Brontë’s children, that, united with sterling gifts of intellectual power and literary acumen, there was always some mistrust as to the merit of their own productions, especially of poetical ones. They seem to have felt themselves like travellers wandering in mist, or struggling through a thicket, or toiling on devious paths with no reliable information at hand, until they arrived at a point where progress looked impossible, until they had obtained a guide in whom they had confidence. It appeared, indeed, to the Brontës that, without an opinion on their work, time might be altogether wasted on what was unprofitable. Charlotte, therefore, in the December of 1836, determined to submit some of her poems to the judgment of Southey; and it would seem that she also consulted Hartley Coleridge.
Before, however, Southey had answered his sister’s letter, Branwell ventured, in a similar spirit, to address Wordsworth, for whose writings he had a great admiration. The following is his letter; and, although it has been previously published, it must not be omitted here.
‘Haworth, near Bradford,
‘Yorkshire, January 19th, 1837.
‘Sir,
‘I most earnestly entreat you to read and pass your judgment upon what I have sent you, because from the day of my birth, to this the nineteenth year of my life, I have lived among secluded hills, where I could neither know what I was, or what I could do. I read for the same reason that I ate or drank — because it was a real craving of nature. I wrote on the same principle as I spoke — out of the impulse and feelings of the mind; nor could I help it, for what came, came out, and there was the end of it. For as to self-conceit, that could not receive food from flattery, since to this hour not half-a-dozen people in the world know that I have ever penned a line.
‘But a change has taken place now, sir; and I am arrived at an age wherein I must do something for myself: the powers I possess must be exercised to a definite end, and as I don’t know them myself I must ask of others what they are worth. Yet there is not one here to tell me; and still, if they are worthless, time will henceforth be too precious to be wasted on them.
‘Do pardon me, sir, that I have ventured to come before one whose works I have most loved in our literature, and who most has been with me a divinity of the mind, laying before him one of my writings, and asking of him a judgment of its contents. I must come before some one from whose sentence there is no appeal; and such a one is he who has developed the theory of poetry as well as its practice, and both in such a way as to claim a place in the memory of a thousand years to come.
‘My aim, sir, is to push out into the open world, and for this I trust not poetry alone — that might launch the vessel, but could not bear her on; sensible and scientific prose, bold and vigorous efforts in my walk in life, would give a further title to the notice of the world; and then, again, poetry ought to brighten and crown that name with glory; but nothing of all this can be ever begun without means, and as I don’t possess these, I must in every shape strive to gain them. Surely, in this day, when there is not a writing poet worth a sixpence, the field must be open, if a better man can step forward.
‘What I send you is the Prefatory Scene of a much longer subject, in which I have striven to develop strong passions and weak principles struggling with a high imagination and acute feelings, till, as youth hardens towards old age, evil deeds and short enjoyments end in mental misery and bodily ruin. Now, to send you the whole of this would be a mock upon your patience; what you see, does not even pretend to be more than the description of an imaginative child. But read it, sir; and, as you would hold a light to one in utter darkness — as you value your own kind-heartedness — return me an answer, if but one word, telling me whether I should write on, or write no more. Forgive undue warmth, because my feelings in this matter cannot be cool; and believe me, sir, with deep respect,
‘Your really humble servant,
‘P. B. Brontë.’
Mrs. Gaskell gives the following six stanzas, which are about a third of the whole, and declares them not to be the worst part of the composition: —
‘So where He reigns in glory bright,
Above those starry skies of night,
Amid His Paradise of light,
Oh, why may I not be?
‘Oft when awake on Christmas morn,
In sleepless twilight laid forlorn,
Strange thoughts have o’er my mind been borne
How He has died for me.
‘And oft, within my chamber lying,
Have I awaked myself with crying,
From dreams, where I beheld Him dying
Upon the accursed tree.
‘And often has my mother said,
While on her lap I laid my head,
She feared for time I was not made,
But for Eternity.
‘So “I can read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
And let me bid farewell to fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes.”
‘I’ll lay me down on this marble stone,
And set the world aside,
To see upon her ebon throne
The Moon in glory ride.’
Branwell’s letter to Wordsworth is, for the most part, well written, and breathes an eager spirit, which shows the anxiety he was under to know the opinion of a high and competent judge as to how he stood with the Nine. It tells us the ardour with which he read and wrote, the ambitious turn of his mind, and the special aims which he then had in the literary world. But the verses, although imbued with a fervent spirit of early piety, were such as Wordsworth could not justly review without giving discouragement, and it seems probable he preferred to keep silence rather than, by an open avowal, to give pain — if pain must be given — as the lesser evil of the two. Or, perhaps, he took amiss the ready frankness and apparent self-esteem which, notwithstanding the disavowal, would probably seem present to him in the letter of the young stranger who addressed him, without sending any evidence of the powers of which he expressed himself so confidently. But, at any rate, Mrs. Gaskell informs us that the letter and verses were preserved by the poet till the Brontës became celebrated, and that he gave the communication to his friend, Mr. Quillinan, in 1850, when the real name of ‘Currer Bell’ became known.
It must not be overlooked that, in the verses which Mrs. Gaskell has printed, we have no opportunity of studying Branwell’s dramati
c powers, which apparently found scope in the poem he had written. In them is no development of the effect of the passionate feelings which Branwell describes: ‘struggling with a high imagination and acute feelings,’ and ending ‘in mental misery and bodily ruin.’
However, discouraged by long waiting, or assisted by friendly advice and criticism, he toiled on in silence at his literary work, as he did at art. The year 1837 turned out an important one for Charlotte. In March, she at last received the answer from Southey, which she considered a ‘little stringent,’ and from which she declared she had derived good. She says, in her reply to the Laureate, ‘I trust I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in print…. That letter is consecrated; no one shall ever see it, but papa, and my brother and my sisters.’
It would seem that Branwell, notwithstanding the failure of his first venture with Wordsworth, tried again, at a later date, with some other, and more matured, compositions, which he submitted to that poet and to Hartley Coleridge, ‘who both,’ says Mrs. Gaskell, ‘expressed kind and laudatory opinions.’ But, perhaps, the fact that, to the letter quoted above, Wordsworth sent no answer, and did not tell him whether he should ‘write on, or write no more,’ discouraged Branwell for a time; and he may have been led to suspect that his productions were worthless, and that time might ‘henceforth be too precious to be wasted upon them.’ In this way, perhaps, he was induced to turn with greater energy to his profession of art, as a means of getting on, of which I spoke in a former chapter, though we shall see that he did not abandon his literary work.
Branwell also now found opportunities of making himself acquainted with the grand and wild scenery of the mountainous borders of the counties of York and Lancaster, a wider district than his sisters could well survey.
The Manchester and Leeds Railway was, at the time, in course of construction below Littleborough, passing through the picturesque and romantic vale of Todmorden. Branwell became greatly interested in the work; and as stores, and other things for the completion of the line to Hebden Bridge, were forwarded from Littleborough by canal, having been previously sent to that place from Manchester by train, he soon ingratiated himself with the boatmen, and was frequently seen in their boats. It was on one of these occasions that Mr. Woolven, previously mentioned, who was officially employed on the works, recognized at once the clever young man who had surprised the company at the ‘Castle Tavern,’ Holborn, and entered into conversation with him. These incidents led to a friendly intercourse between them, which continued for some years.
Among his Bradford acquaintances, Branwell numbered, in addition to Geller, the mezzotinto-engraver, previously mentioned, Wilson Anderson, an admirable landscape-painter, whose productions are valued as truthful pictures of the places they represent, and on account of the skilfulness of their manipulation and colouring; and also Richard Waller, a well-known and excellent portrait-painter. To these may be added Edward Collinson, a local poet; Robert Story; and John James, the future historian of Bradford. All these were personal acquaintances of Branwell, as well as of Leyland, and the intercourse between them was frequent. For more than twenty years a party of these friends was accustomed to meet, from time to time, at the ‘George Hotel,’ Bradford, under the auspices of Miss Rennie, who greatly prided herself on seeing at her house, in their hours of leisure, the artistic and literary celebrities of the neighbourhood. Leyland was at Halifax, being there to erect certain monuments, which he had executed in London for various patrons in his native town. While there, he modelled, in the upper room of an ancient house, his colossal group of ‘African Bloodhounds,’ his model being a living specimen of the breed; and the group, which was exhibited in London, was favourably noticed. Landseer regarded it as the ‘noblest modern work of its kind.’ It is now in the Salford Museum. The progress of this group intensely interested Branwell and his Bradford friends; and they frequently visited Leyland’s temporary studio. It also formed the subject of a poem by Dearden. Finding this studio of insufficient height for a great work he contemplated — a colossal group of ‘Thracian Falconers’ — Leyland afterwards took a suitable place in another part of the town, which, likewise, became a meeting-place of the local literati. The new work was to consist of three figures, the centre one being seated, and having upon his right fore-finger a hawk; while his left hand rested on the shoulder of a youth just roused, as if by some sudden sound; and, on his right, was a similar youth, half-recumbent, and also in a listening attitude. The centre figure was alone completed, and is now in the Salford Museum.
Branwell, on his visits to the artist’s studio, often lamented the dissipation of his high artistic hopes, and confessed that he saw with pain how misplaced his confidence in his own powers had been. But the sculptor was a poet also, and thus Branwell and he worked in the same field. Many of Leyland’s poems were published in the Yorkshire papers, and also in the ‘Morning Chronicle,’ and were always considered to be of true poetic excellence. Branwell relied much on the artist’s judgment in literary matters, and often submitted his productions to him.
Although Brontë had, as we have seen, abandoned the hope of a high artistic career, he still clung to the practice of portrait-painting, and this gave him leisure to court the muse. The following are the earliest of his poems, of which the MSS. are in my possession; and these are fragments only. The first is a verse of eleven lines, dated January 23rd, 1838, which originally concluded a poem of sixty; —
‘There’s many a grief to shade the scene,
And hide the starry skies;
But all such clouds that intervene
From mortal life arise.
And — may I smile — O God! to see
Their storms of sorrow beat on me,
When I so surely know
That Thou, the while, art shining on;
That I, at last, when they are gone,
Shall see the glories of Thy throne,
So far more bright than now.’
This fragment, written by Branwell at the age of twenty-one, is characteristic of the early tone of his mind. His naturally amiable and susceptible disposition had soon become imbued with the spirit of Christian piety which surrounded his life. He was, too, at the time, full of noble impulses and high aspirations; but the shade of melancholy implanted in his constitution had begun to influence his writings. The following, which is the beginning of another poem, must have been written in some such thoughtful mood, though the title is not borne out in the portion I am able to give.
DEATH TRIUMPHANT.
May, 1838.
‘Oh! on this first bright Mayday morn,
That seems to change our earth to Heaven,
May my own bitter thoughts be borne,
With the wild winter it has driven!
Like this earth, may my mind be made
To feel the freshness round me spreading,
No other aid to rouse it needing
Than thy glad light, so long delayed.
Sweet woodland sunshine! — none but thee
Can wake the joys of memory,
Which seemed decaying, as all decayed.
‘O! may they bud, as thou dost now,
With promise of a summer near!
Nay — let me feel my weary brow —
Where are the ringlets wreathing there?
Why does the hand that shades it tremble?
Why do these limbs, so languid, shun
Their walk beneath the morning sun?
Ah, mortal Self! couldst thou dissemble
Like Sister-Soul! But forms refuse
The real and unreal to confuse.
But, with caprice of fancy, She
Joins things long past with things to be,
Till even I doubt if I have told
My tale of woes and wonders o’er,
Or think Her magic can unfold
A phantom path of joys before —
Or, laid beneath this Mayday blaze —
Ask, “Live I o’er departed days?”
<
br /> Am I the child by Gambia’s side,
Beneath its woodlands waving wide?
Have I the footsteps bounding free,
The happy laugh of infancy?’
In this beautiful fragment we have the first passionate out-pouring of the self-imposed woes, which, proceeding from within, were thereafter to overspread and tincture with darkest colours every thought of Branwell’s mind. We see him here for a moment, standing in incipient melancholia, in what appears to him to be a desert of mental despondency; but, turning back with a fond affection for the past, and recalling, in plaintive words, the joys of ‘departed days.’ He seems here, indeed, to seek in the mysteries of the soul those pleasures and hopes which his mortal self cannot afford him. Branwell never appears to have forgotten, as I have previously suggested, the sad circumstances of the death of his sisters; and his solitary broodings over these visitations gave a morbid tone to his writings. It was in 1838 that he adopted the pseudonym of ‘Northangerland.’ His earlier poems, although occasionally showing some power, were not sufficiently gifted to add to the lustre of Brontë literature.
Mrs. Gaskell, alluding to Branwell’s literary abilities about this time, says: ‘In a fragment of one of his manuscripts which I have read, there is a justness and felicity of expression which is very striking. It is the beginning of a tale, and the actors in it are drawn with much of the grace of characteristic portrait-painting, in perfectly pure and simple language, which distinguishes so many of Addison’s papers in the “Spectator.” The fragment is too short to afford the means of judging whether he had much dramatic talent, as the persons of the story are not thrown into conversation. But, altogether, the elegance and composure of style are such as one would not have expected from this vehement and ill-fated young man. ‘He had,’ continues Mrs. Gaskell, ‘a stronger desire for literary fame burning in his heart than even that which occasionally flashed up in his sisters’.’ She says also that, ‘He tried various outlets for his talents … and he frequently contributed verses to the “Leeds Mercury.”‘ The latter statement, however, is incorrect, for nothing of Branwell’s appears in that journal.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 455
