At the end of July, Charlotte, as we have been told, consulted her brother as to the reason why Messrs. Smith and Elder, to whom she had sent ‘The Professor,’ did not reply. He at once set it down to her not having enclosed a postage stamp. On the 2nd of August, she wrote again, and promptly received the considerate answer which encouraged her to send to them, on the twenty-fourth of the same month, her three-volume work, ‘Jane Eyre.’ This was accepted, and given to the world in the following October. Meanwhile, in the beginning of August, ‘E.’ had paid her visit to the parsonage, and the friends had enjoyed the glorious weather in walking on the moors. Charlotte had returned the visit almost immediately, and the proofs of ‘Jane Eyre’ were corrected by her during her absence, sitting even at the same table with her friend, to whom, curiously enough, she said not a word about the work in hand. Upon her return to Haworth, she wrote: ‘I reached home, and found all well. Thank God for it.’ ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Agnes Grey’ still lingered in the hands of the publisher, from whom the authors had obtained but impoverishing terms; ‘a bargain,’ says Mrs. Gaskell, in mentioning the circumstance, ‘to be alluded to further.’ Nothing more, however, appears in the ‘Life of Charlotte’ on the subject; and we may hope that the celebrity which the novels of the ‘Messrs. Bell’ soon acquired, made a substantial difference in the first terms of the agreement. During the next three months, Charlotte was in correspondence with Messrs. Smith and Elder, Mr. G. H. Lewes, and Mr. W. S. Williams, in respect of the reviews of ‘Jane Eyre,’ which were then appearing.
‘Jane Eyre’ came upon the reading world of 1847 as a veritable revelation. It was a tragic story of the feelings, so different in character from the trite affectations of the commonplace novel of the day; it was informed with such a passionate energy, and filled with such soul-absorbing interests, that it was received at once as a monument of great and undoubted genius. Reading the book to-day, we can easily understand why Charlotte Brontë gained such a mastery over the spirits of her time, and earned for herself an imperishable renown. She would do the same now. The strange, lonely, unfriended childhood of Jane Eyre, the experiences she undergoes at Gateshead, and at the Lowood School, and her confidence and self-reliance through them all, mark the story as vitally true; but, when this plain little personage manifests the depths of her feelings, and calls forth our human sympathies in her hopes and her sorrows; when we read the terrific tragedy of her relationship with Rochester, and are shaken with the storm and stress of the feelings that move her; when, above all, we see her come out from the shadow, with her nobility and purity unsullied, though once more she is friendless and alone, we are carried beyond ourselves in admiration of the genius who has painted a picture at once so truly human and so very strange.
‘Jane Eyre,’ the book, was the natural and unforced outcome of its author’s personality, and, though Jane Eyre, the character, is not Charlotte Brontë in the sense in which Lucy Snowe is, yet in Charlotte Brontë were all the powers and capabilities that moved Jane Eyre. This book, then, came upon people in 1847 as a revelation; they felt themselves in the hands of a very Titan, and were carried on by an uncontrollable stream. But there were some amongst them who struggled against its influence, when they found that the shallow bounds of conventionality had been far overpassed, and when they saw that its author was little skilled in the ways of the world. These revolted against the power that made them, perforce, interested in a character, in Rochester, who had fallen away from the high Christian ideal. Hence arose that outcry against what was termed the ‘immorality’ of the book, against its ‘coarseness,’ its ‘laxity of tone,’ and the ‘heathenish doctrine of religion’ that filled it, which gave such pain, in the parsonage at Haworth, to the simple-minded girl, its author, against whom the dictum of the ‘Quarterly Review’ was written: ‘If we ascribe the book to a woman at all, we have no alternative but to ascribe it to one who has for some sufficient reason long forfeited the society of her own sex.’
But such critics as these forgot that the people whom we love most in life, are not those who are supremely noble, absolutely perfect, superhuman, and angelic; but those who are beautiful and true in spite of their failings, and though clogged with all the faults with which our humanity has laden them; those who, like the child in Wordsworth’s ode, live ‘trailing clouds of glory’ with them from divinity, in the midst of the shame and sin of the world. These are the lights which illumine ‘Jane Eyre,’ with a loveliness that is truly and perfectly human. So the book made its way, after the wild fervour of its first reception, to a pinnacle in English literature where it must ever remain, as the work of a great and original genius, and, as we now know, of a true and noble woman.
Small need was there, then, that Mrs. Gaskell should seek to explain those features of Charlotte’s genius, which brought down upon ‘Jane Eyre’ and its author such expressions of blame as these, by references to her brother’s character and history, as she understood them. Whatever may have been the case with the novels of Emily and Anne, those of Charlotte were clearly the outcome of her own nature and of her own experience, and were uninfluenced in one way or other by her brother. If she takes a suggestion from his affairs at all, she deals with it coldly or sternly. Take for instance that passage I have quoted from ‘The Professor,’ where William Crimsworth speaks of his recollection of an instance of domestic treachery.
In December, 1847, appeared the works of Ellis and Acton Bell. The Christmas of that year found the three sisters noted in the world of authors — Currer Bell, famous. Not often can so much be recorded of a family. Branwell seems to have been considerably elated by their success, and the festivities of the season were indulged in by him to his injury. His feeble health was soon affected by things that would have had little influence upon ordinarily strong men, and he suffered the consequences. On the 11th of January, 1848, Charlotte writes: — ‘We have not been very comfortable here at home lately. Branwell has, by some means, continued to get more money from the old quarter, and has led us a sad life…. Papa is harassed day and night; we have little peace; he is always sick; has two or three times fallen down in fits; what will be the ultimate end, God knows. But who is without their drawback, their scourge, their skeleton behind the curtain? It remains only to do one’s best, and endure with patience what God sends.’ In this month the second edition of ‘Jane Eyre’ appeared.
It must have been in reference to this period that Mrs. Gaskell has said it might well have happened that Branwell had shot his father. But the statement is an exaggeration; and, indeed, I have been told, both by Martha Brown and Nancy Wainwright, that Branwell was not nearly so bad as Mrs. Gaskell has made him appear. ‘If he had wanted to shoot his father,’ says my informant, ‘he could easily have done it, for there were loaded guns and pistols hung over the bed-room door constantly.’ She relates that, on one occasion, she was occupied in tidying up the bed-room, and had just taken down the fire-arms to dust, when Mr. Brontë entered the room in great consternation, forbidding her, at any time thenceforth, on any account whatever, to meddle with them, for they were loaded even then, and might have been accidentally discharged to her own danger. He again hung up the arms himself. Mr. Brontë carried on this singular practice, and could not be induced to discontinue it; and, as the reader is aware, Branwell and his father occupied this bed-room.
Branwell himself was very conscious of his failings at this time, and somewhat ashamed of them. He writes to Leyland during the January of 1848: ‘I was really far enough from well when I saw you last week at Halifax; and, if you should happen to see Mrs. — — of — — , you would greatly oblige me by telling her that I consider her conduct towards me as most kind and motherly, and that, if I did anything during temporary illness, to offend her, I deeply regret it, and beg her to take my regret as my apology till I see her again; which I trust will be ere long.’ He continues, speaking in general terms of his literary work, and his poems, mentioning especially the poem of ‘Caroline,’ which he had writt
en a long time before, and concludes by promising a longer letter later on.
There is prefixed to this letter a drawing, one of the strangest that Branwell ever made, — which he advises his friend to destroy, — a portrait of himself, head and shoulders, vigorously executed with the pen, and an admirable likeness too, in profile, grave and thoughtful, wearing his spectacles, but a portrait of Branwell in what a plight! For, just as the martyrs of old are represented with the knife planted in their breast, and the rope placed round their neck, so has Branwell pictured himself, with the halter about his throat, in the morbid martyrdom of his feverish imagination.
CHAPTER XIII.
BRANWELL’S LATER POETICAL WORKS.
Branwell’s Poetical Work — Sketch of the Materials which he intended to use in the Poem of ‘Morley Hall’ — The Poem — The Subject left Incomplete — Branwell’s Poem, ‘The End of All’ — His Letter to Leyland asking an Opinion on his Poem, ‘Percy Hall’ — Observations — The Poem.
Branwell’s poetical work in this period, when his health was failing, is incomplete, for there remain two pieces from his hand, both of which are fragments only. The first of these is ‘Morley Hall,’ which he was writing for his friend Leyland, but which he never lived to finish. He designed it to be an epic, in several cantos, dealing with a succession of romantic episodes, of which an elopement that actually took place, as I have previously had occasion to mention, was the chief feature. The part he completed was the introductory canto, or rather a portion of it, which is given below; but, since this was a work into which he entered with much spirit, and which would have been a long and important one, had it been completed, it may not be amiss here to sketch briefly the materials with which he proposed to work.
Morley Hall, or all that remains of it, is situated in the parish of Leigh, in the county of Lancaster; and was the residence of two families in succession, which became allied by marriage, and attained some celebrity. The first family was that of Leyland, originally of the place of that name in Lancashire, and afterwards, for many generations preceding the reign of King Henry VIII., residing at Morley Hall.
In Henry VIII.’s time the mansion was owned by Sir William Leyland, or Leland, whose family consisted of Thomas, his son and heir, and his daughters Anne and Elizabeth, by his marriage with Anne, daughter and heiress of Allan Syngleton of Whitgill, in Craven, Esq. Living in great opulence at Morley, Sir William was visited by the learned antiquary, his friend, and probably his relative, John Leland. This writer says of his visit: ‘Cumming from Manchestre towards Morle, Syr William Lelande’s howse, I passid by enclosid grounde, … leving on the left hand a mile and more of, a fair place of Mr. Langforde’s caulled Agecroft…. Morle, Mr. Lelande’s Place, is buildid, saving the Fundation, of stone squarid that risith within a great Moote a vi foot above the water, al of tymbre, after the commune sort of building of Houses of the Gentilmen for most of Lancastreshire. Ther is as much Plesur of Orchardes, of great Varite of Frute and fair made Walkes and Gardines as ther is in any Place of Lancastreshire.’
Sir William was succeeded by Thomas, his son, who had married Anne, daughter of Sir John Atherton, and had issue Robert, his son and heir, and two daughters, Anne and Alice. Anne married Edward Tyldesley, of Tyldesley, with whom the legend, versified by Mr. Peters, and on which Branwell intended to write at greater length, alleges that she eloped. The tradition of this event still lingers at Morley Hall. It is said that when the attachment sprang up between Anne, the eldest daughter of Thomas Leyland, and Edward Tyldesley, the connection was forbidden by the lady’s father. It is further said that, regardless of this prohibition, a night was fixed upon for an elopement, and that, when the inmates of the house were buried in sleep, it was arranged she should tie a rope round her waist, the loose end of which she should throw across the moat to Tyldesley, who was to be in waiting, and, with another, should lower herself into the water, and be drawn to the land by him. The legend says this was successfully accomplished, and that the marriage was celebrated before the elopement was known to the family.
It is remarkable that, while Thomas Leyland had a legitimate son and heir in Robert Leyland, the manor-house of Morley and its demesnes passed into the family of Tyldesley by marriage alone, as if there had been no such person.
There are other stories relating to this family, of wild and weird interest, with which Branwell was acquainted; but this passing allusion is all that the scope of the present work will allow.
Of the family of Tyldesley of Morley was the brave Sir Thomas, a major-general in the royal army, who was slain at Wigan on the 25th of August, 1651. To this circumstance Branwell alludes in his poem. The fragment is as follows: —
MORLEY HALL,
LEIGH — LANCASHIRE.
‘When Life’s youth, overcast by gathering clouds
Of cares that come like funeral-following crowds,
Wearying of that which is, and cannot see
A sunbeam burst upon futurity,
It tries to cast away the woes that are
And borrow brighter joys from times afar.
For what our feet tread may have been a road
By horses’ hoofs pressed ‘neath a camel’s load;
But what we ran across in childhood’s hours
Were fields, presenting June with May-tide flowers:
So what was done and borne, if long ago,
Will satisfy our heart, though stained by tears of woe.
‘When present sorrows every thought employ,
Our father’s woes may take the garb of joy,
And, knowing what our sires have undergone,
Ourselves can smile, though weary, wandering on.
For if our youth a thunder-cloud o’ershadows,
Changing to barren swamps Life’s flowering meadows,
We know that fiery flash and bursting peal
Others, like us, were forced to hear and feel;
And while they moulder in a quiet grave,
Robbed of all havings — worthless all they have —
We still, with face erect, behold the sun —
Have bright examples in what has been done
By head or hand — and, in the times to come,
May tread bright pathways to our gate of doom.
‘So, if we gaze from our snug villa’s door,
By vines or honeysuckles covered o’er,
Though we have saddening thoughts, we still can smile
In thinking our hut supersedes the pile
Whose turrets totter ‘mid the woods before us,
And whose proud owners used to trample o’er us;
All now by weeds and ivy overgrown,
And touched by Time, that hurls down stone from stone.
We gaze with scorn on what is worn away,
And never dream about our own decay.
Thus, while this May-day cheers each flower and tree,
Enlivening earth and almost cheering me,
I half forget the mouldering moats of Leigh.
‘Wide Lancashire has changed its babyhood,
As Time makes saplings spring to timber wood;
But as grown men their childhood still remember,
And think of Summer in their dark December,
So Manchester and Liverpool may wonder,
And bow to old halls over which they ponder,
Unknowing that man’s spirit yearns to all
Which — once lost — prayers can never more recall.
The storied piles of mortar, brick, and stone,
Where trade bids noise and gain to struggle on,
Competing for the prize that Mammon gives —
Youth killed by toil and profits bought with lives —
Will not prevent the quiet, thinking mind
From looking back to years when Summer wind
Sang, not o’er mills, but round ancestral halls,
And, ‘stead of engine’s steam, gave dews from waterfalls.
‘He who by brick-buil
t houses closely pent,
That show nought beautiful to sight or scent,
Pines for green fields, will cherish in his room
Some pining plant bereft of natural bloom;
And, like the crowds which yonder factories hold,
Withering ‘mid warmth, and in their spring-tide old,
So Lancashire may fondly look upon
Her wrecks fast vanishing of ages gone,
And while encroaching railroad, street, and mill
On every side the smoky prospect fill,
She yet may smile to see some tottering wall
Bring old times back, like ancient Morley Hall.
But towers that Leland saw in times of yore
Are now, like Leland’s works, almost no more —
The antiquarian’s pages, cobweb-bound,
The antique mansion, levelled with the ground.
‘When all is gone that once gave food to pride,
Man little cares for what Time leaves beside;
And when an orchard and a moat, half dry,
Remain, sole relics of a power passed by,
Should we not think of what ourselves shall be,
And view our coffins in the stones of Leigh.
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 475