Volume I Part 11 (1/2)
Branwell was more successful in his pursuit of employment than Charlotte, having procured the place of a tutor; and he was to commence his duties with the new year. Charlotte says of this event, 'One thing, however, will make the daily routine more unvaried than ever. Branwell, who used to enliven us, is to leave us in a few days, and enter the situation of a private tutor in the neighbourhood of Ulverston. How he will like to settle remains yet to be seen. At present he is full of hope and resolution. I, who know his variable nature, and his strong turn for active life, dare not be too sanguine.'
Branwell seems to have paid a farewell visit to the 'Lodge of the Three Graces' on the Christmas Day of this year, when he acted as organist. This is the only occasion on which he is recorded as having attended at the meetings of the Lodge in 1839, and it is the last on which his name appears in the minute book of the Haworth masonic body.
CHAPTER XVI.
BRANWELL AT BROUGHTON-IN-FURNESS.
The District of Black Comb--Branwell's Sonnet--Wordsworth and Hartley Coleridge--Branwell's Letter to the 'Old Knave of Trumps'--Its Publication by Miss Robinson in her 'Emily Bronte'--Branwell's familiar Acquaintance with the People of Haworth--He could Paint their Characters with Accuracy--His Knowledge of the Human Pa.s.sions--Emily's Isolation.
Branwell, being as desirous of employment as his sisters, had sought for, and obtained, a situation as tutor in the family of Mr.
Postlethwaite, of Broughton-in-Furness. He entered upon his new duties on the 1st of January, 1840.
Now that he found himself resident near the English lake district, consecrated as it is by so many poetic memories, and dear to him as the home of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey he naturally felt an intense interest in all that surrounded him; and, when he was not engaged in teaching the sons of his employer, he took occasion to visit such places as had any attraction for him. On one of his pedestrian excursions, he had stepped into a wayside inn, and was seated musing before the parlour fire, when a young gentleman entered the room. Branwell turned round, and recognized at once a friend of the name of Ayrton, whose acquaintance he had formed in Leeds. The surprise and delight at this unexpected meeting was mutual; and Branwell's friend, who was driving about the country, requested his company for some distance on the journey, for the purpose of prolonging the interview, and of continuing the conversation that had been begun. The young tutor drove some ten miles with his friend, utterly regardless of the long return walk to Ulverston.
Branwell delighted in the writings of the 'Lake Poets,' and was much influenced by Southey's prose works. He read the 'Life of Nelson,'
and was himself moved to write a poem ill.u.s.trative of the life of that great naval hero. He also read the 'Colloquies on Society,' and others of Southey's works. But it was Wordsworth who at this moment, was the object of Branwell's chief admiration. He revelled in that poet's fine description of the view from the top of Black Comb, and, perhaps, knew the lines written by his 'deity of the mind' on a stone on the side of the mountain, and probably had himself looked from its summit. But Branwell certainly knew Black Comb from afar. Five miles away he could see it; and he celebrated it in the following sonnet:
BLACK COMB.
'Far off, and half revealed, 'mid shade and light, Black Comb half smiles, half frowns; his mighty form Scarce bending into peace--more formed to fight A thousand years of struggles with a storm Than bask one hour, subdued by suns.h.i.+ne warm, To bright and breezeless rest; yet even his height Towers not o'er this world's sympathies, he smiles-- While many a human heart to pleasures' wiles Can bear to bend, and still forget to rise-- As though he, huge and heath-clad, on our sight, Again rejoices in his stormy skies.
Man loses vigour in unstable joys.
Thus tempests find Black Comb invincible, While we are lost, who should know life so well!'
It was doubtless while Branwell was living at Ulverston that he obtained the favourable opinion of Wordsworth on some poems which he submitted for criticism. Probably he found opportunity to visit the writer whose works he 'loved most in our literature,' and it would be on some similar excursion that he obtained an encouraging expression of opinion from Hartley Coleridge. The author of 'The Northern Worthies' was not unknown to the circle at 'The George,' at Bradford, and was acquainted with Branwell Bronte and Leyland.
The master of the 'Lodge of the Three Graces,' at Haworth, did not, however, long permit Branwell to forget his old acquaintance there; for this worthy soon addressed to him a communication which provoked a reply that Branwell dated from Broughton-in-Furness on the 13th of the March following his arrival. This unfortunate response, in which Branwell addressed the masonic s.e.xton of Haworth, with sarcastic humour, as 'Old Knave of Trumps,' is the one which Miss Robinson has been so ill advised as to publish in her 'Emily Bronte;' and which has done not a little to draw down on the head of Branwell the full and unmitigated volume of Mr. Swinburne's vocabulary of abuse. And, in fact, if this letter could be taken as the proper and natural expression of an abject profligate, altogether shameless and unredeemed, he could find a defender neither here nor elsewhere. But there are good reasons for hoping that it was otherwise. We have seen that Branwell had been led to join the rude village society of Haworth, where, on account of his brilliance, and of his position as the inc.u.mbent's son, he was not a little looked up to. It was natural, then, that he should be led, foolishly enough, to endeavour to stand well with the friends he had selected, and his knowledge of character was sufficiently good to enable him to know what kind of letter would best suit the tastes and inclinations of many of his companions of the 'Lodge of the Three Graces.' He a.s.sumed in fact, that bravado of vice, that air of _diablerie_, which was thought by many people, in those days, and is so yet by not a few, to be the best proof of manhood, because it betokened a knowledge of the world.
Yet, at the end of the letter,--the pa.s.sage is not given by Miss Robinson--Branwell appears to take it as a matter of course that the s.e.xton will not show it, and he begs him, for 'Heaven's sake,' to blot out the lines scored in red. Branwell knew the 'Old Knave of Trumps' well, and he was certain that his letter would cause no little amus.e.m.e.nt among his immediate friends to whom the s.e.xton was sure to read it. He was ashamed of certain pa.s.sages in it, which is evidence enough that it was not the outcome of a depraved and shameless nature, but rather the expression of the _acted_ character of a vicious and _blase_ worldling. And it is, moreover, inconceivable that a young man, who was of the sensitive nature betokened by the contemporary poems we have published, could, at the same time, have been a hardened and cynical profligate. Indeed, it is evident that the objectionable allusions were not of his origination, but were called forth by the remarks of others, for whom Branwell does not fail to show his contempt.
It has, however, been the misfortune of Branwell Bronte, that a letter which he wrote in folly, for the eyes of personal friends alone, has been published to the world as the token and evidence of his infamy. One use, at any rate, flows from the publication of it, for it shows us the quick and vivid grasp of character, and the incisive mode of composition which now began, in his more vigorous moods, to distinguish its author. The letter is as follows:--
'Broughton-in-Furness,
'March 13, 1840.
'OLD KNAVE OF TRUMPS,
'Don't think I have forgotten you, though I have delayed so long in writing to you. It was my purpose to send you a yarn as soon as I could find materials to spin one with, and it is only just now that I have had time to turn myself round and know where I am. If you saw me now, you would not know me, and you would laugh to hear the character the people give me. Oh, the falsehood and hypocrisy of this world! I am fixed in a little retired town by the sea-sh.o.r.e, among wild woody hills that rise round me--huge, rocky, and capped with clouds. My employer is a retired county magistrate, a large landowner, and of a right hearty and generous disposition. His wife is a quiet, silent, and amiable woman, and his sons are two fine, spirited lads. My landlord is a respectable surgeon, and six days out of seven is as drunk as a lord! His wife is a bustling, chattering, kind-hearted soul; and his daughter!--oh! death and d.a.m.nation! Well, what am I? That is, what do they think I am? A most calm, sedate, sober, abstemious, patient, mild-hearted, virtuous, gentlemanly philosopher,--the picture of good works, and the treasure-house of righteous thoughts. Cards are shuffled under the table-cloth, gla.s.ses are thrust into the cupboard, if I enter the room. I take neither spirits, wine, nor malt liquors. I dress in black, and smile like a saint or martyr. Everybody says, ”What a good young gentleman is Mr. Postlethwaite's tutor!” This is fact, as I am a living soul, and right comfortably do I laugh at them. I mean to continue in their good opinion. I took a half year's farewell of old friend whisky at Kendal on the night after I left. There was a party of gentlemen at the Royal Hotel, and I joined them. We ordered in supper and whisky-toddy as ”hot as h.e.l.l!” They thought I was a physician, and put me in the chair. I gave sundry toasts, that were washed down at the same time, till the room spun round and the candles danced in our eyes. One of the guests was a respectable old gentleman with powdered head, rosy cheeks, fat paunch, and ringed fingers. He gave ”The Ladies,” ... after which he brayed off with a speech; and in two minutes, in the middle of a grand sentence, he stopped, wiped his head, looked wildly round, stammered, coughed, stopped again, and called for his slippers. The waiter helped him to bed. Next a tall Irish squire and a native of the land of Israel began to quarrel about their countries; and, in the warmth of argument, discharged their gla.s.ses, each at his neighbour's throat instead of his own. I recommended bleeding, purging, and blistering; but they administered each other a real ”Jem Warder,” so I flung my tumbler on the floor, too, and swore I'd join ”Old Ireland!” A regular rumpus ensued, but we were tamed at last. I found myself in bed next morning, with a bottle of porter, a gla.s.s, and a corkscrew beside me. Since then I have not tasted anything stronger than milk-and-water, nor, I hope, shall, till I return at Midsummer; when we will see about it. I am getting as fat as Prince William at Springhead, and as G.o.dly as his friend, Parson Winterbotham. My hand shakes no longer. I ride to the banker's at Ulverston with Mr. Postlethwaite, and sit drinking tea and talking scandal with old ladies. As to the young ones! I have one sitting by me just now--fair-faced, blue-eyed, dark-haired, sweet eighteen--she little thinks the devil is so near her!
'I was delighted to see thy note, old squire, but I do not understand one sentence--you will perhaps know what I mean....
How are all about you? I long to hear and see them again. How is the ”Devil's Thumb,” whom men call ---- ----, and the ”Devil in Mourning,” whom they call ---- ----? How are ---- ----, and ---- ----, and the Doctor; and him who will be used as the tongs of h.e.l.l--he whose eyes Satan looks out of, as from windows--I mean ---- ----, esquire? How are little ---- ----, ---- ”Longshanks,”
---- ----, and the rest of them? Are they married, buried, devilled, and d.a.m.ned? When I come I'll give them a good squeeze of the hand; till then I am too G.o.dly for them to think of. That bow-legged devil used to ask me impertinent questions which I answered him in kind. Beelzebub will make of him a walking-stick!
Keep to thy teetotalism, old squire, till I return; it will mend thy old body.... Does ”Little Nosey” think I have forgotten him?