Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes

by Bronte Sisters

  ‘“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. Brontë.”‘

  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 Brontë 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.’

  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!’ Let us look further.

  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 impressiv
e 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. Brontë 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. Brontë’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. 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.

  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.’

  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 carr
y 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.’