Volume I Part 13 (1/2)
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 Bronte 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 tw.a.n.g--such weak and characterless effusions are all that is left of the pa.s.sion-ridden pseudo-genius of Haworth.'[38]
[38] 'Emily Bronte,' p. 97.
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 sh.o.r.e, 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!'[39] Let us look further.
[39] 'Emily Bronte,' p. 99.
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 Pa.s.s, 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 hara.s.sed 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 impressive 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 s.h.i.+nes o'er us; We wept by the One who died; And 'neath earth shall death restore us; As round hearthstone--side by side.