Volume I Part 10 (1/2)
'”Long years have never worn away The unnatural strangeness of that day, When I beheld--upon the plate Of grim death's mockery of state-- That well-known word, that long-loved name, Now but remembered like the dream Of half-forgotten hymns divine, My sister's name--my Caroline!
Down, down, they lowered her, sad and slow, Into her narrow house below: And deep, indeed, appeared to be That one glimpse of eternity, Where, cut from life, corruption lay, Where beauty soon should turn to clay!
Though scarcely conscious, hotly fell The drops that spoke my last farewell; And wild my sob, when hollow rung The first cold clod above her flung, When glitter was to turn to rust, 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!'
'”How bitter seemed that moment when, Earth's ceremonies o'er, We from the filled grave turned again To leave her evermore; And, when emerging from the cold Of damp, sepulchral air, As I turned, listless to behold The evening fresh and fair, How sadly seemed to smile the face Of the descending sun!
How seemed as if his latest race Were with that evening run!
There sank his...o...b..behind the grove Of my ancestral home, With heaven's unbounded vault above To canopy his tomb.
Yet lingering sadly and serene, As for his last farewell, To s.h.i.+ne upon those wild woods green O'er which he'd loved to dwell.
'”I lost him, and the silent room, Where soon at rest I lay, Began to darken, 'neath the gloom Of twilight's dull decay; So, sobbing as my heart would break, And blind with gus.h.i.+ng eyes, Hours seemed whole nights to me awake, And day as 'twould not rise.
I almost prayed that I might die-- But then the thought would come That, if I did, my corpse must lie In yonder dismal tomb; Until, methought, I saw its stone, By moons.h.i.+ne glistening clear, While Caroline's bright form alone Kept silent watching there: All white with angel's wings she seemed, And indistinct to see; But when the unclouded moonlight beamed I saw her beckon me, And fade, thus beckoning, while the wind Around that midnight wall, To me--now lingering years behind-- Seemed then my sister's call!
'”And thus it brought me back the hours When we, at rest together, Used to lie listening to the showers Of wild December weather; Which, when, as oft, they woke in her The chords of inward thought, Would fill with pictures that wild air, From far off memories brought; So, while I lay, I heard again Her silver-sounding tongue, Rehearsing some remembered strain Of old times long agone!
And, flashed across my spirit's sight, What she had often told me-- When, laid awake on Christmas night, Her sheltering arms would fold me-- About that midnight-seeming day, Whose gloom o'er Calvary thrown, Showed trembling Nature's deep dismay At what her sons had done: When sacred Salem's murky air Was riven with the cry, Which told the world how mortals dare The Immortal crucify; When those who, sorrowing, sat afar, With aching heart and eye, Beheld their great Redeemer there, 'Mid sneers and scoffings die; When all His earthly vigour fled, When thirsty faintness bowed His head, When His pale limbs were moistened o'er With deathly dews and dripping gore, When quivered all His worn-out frame, As Death, triumphant, quenched life's flame, When upward gazed His glazing eyes To those tremendous-seeming skies, When burst His cry of agony-- 'My G.o.d!--my G.o.d!--hast Thou forsaken me!'
My youthful feelings startled then, As if the temple, rent in twain, Horribly pealing on my ear With its deep thunder note of fear, Wrapping the world in general gloom, As if her G.o.d's were Nature's tomb; While sheeted ghosts before my gaze Pa.s.sed, flitting 'mid the dreary maze, As if rejoicing at the day When death--their king--o'er Heaven had sway.
In glistening charnel damps arrayed, They seemed to gibber round my head, Through night's drear void directing me Toward still and solemn Calvary, Where gleamed that cross with steady s.h.i.+ne Around the thorn-crowned head divine-- A flaming cross--a beacon light To this world's universal night!
It seemed to s.h.i.+ne with such a glow, And through my spirit piercing so, That, pantingly, I strove to cry For her, whom I thought slumbered by, And hide me from that awful s.h.i.+ne In the embrace of Caroline!
I wakened in the attempt--'twas day; The troubled dream had fled away; 'Twas day--and I, alone, was laid In that great room and stately bed; No Caroline beside me! Wide And unrelenting swept the tide Of death 'twixt her and me!”
There paused Sweet Harriet's voice, for such thoughts caused--'
This poem springs from the deepest feelings, and from sorrows the most poignant. The respective images, tinctured with grief and despondency, pa.s.s before us with weird and vivid reality; and many of the pa.s.sages are imbued with great tenderness, beauty, and pathos.
The painful, and, perhaps, too morbid intensity of some of the pictures, whether of dreams or realities, is painted here with the skill of no common artist, whatever youthful defects may be observed in the composition. The poem is one more notable for tender sweetness than any other that remains from Branwell; but it lacks in places the vigour and power of his later compositions, and is, in several parts, of unequal merit. In the earlier portion of it, where he a.s.sumes the iambic measure, it is not difficult to perceive the influence of Byron on his diction. In this work Branwell again recurs to the time when tears of anguish flowed from his yet 'unhardened heart,' whose present woes are forgotten in the swelling thoughts of 'things gone by.' We recognize with what pathetic feeling he paints in Caroline all the qualities of instructress, guardian, and friend, which had characterized his sister Maria. Long afterwards Charlotte Bronte, inspired by similar feelings, devoted the first chapters of 'Jane Eyre' to a delineation, in the character of Helen Burns, of the disposition of her dead sister, whose death, a few days after her return from Cowan Bridge, she could scarcely ever either forget or forgive.
CHAPTER XV.
EVENTS AT THE PARSONAGE.
Charlotte's first Offer of Marriage--Her Remarks concerning it-- A second Offer Declined--Anne a Governess--She Moralizes upon it--Charlotte obtains a Situation--Unsuited to Her--She Leaves it--Branwell takes Pleasure in Scenery--He Visits Liverpool with his Friends--Charlotte goes to Easton--Curates at Haworth--Their Visits to the Parsonage--Public Meetings on Church Rates--Charlotte's Attempt at a Richardsonian Novel--She sends the Commencement of it to Wordsworth for his Opinion--Branwell receives an Appointment as Private Tutor.
After the return of Charlotte and Anne from Dewsbury Moor, whither Miss Wooler had removed her school, the three sisters were at home together for some months, and, in this happy, unrestrained intercourse, with their literary relaxations and their plans for the future, Charlotte's mind expanded, and her strength returned. There was Branwell, too, to think about; his venture at Bradford and his progress with his portraits. Then they would have to go and see the likeness of Mr. Morgan; and, on such occasions, Branwell would have much to say of art and literature, and, acquaintances. But Branwell was usually at Haworth on Sundays, and then he would hear of Charlotte's visits to her friends, and her adventures on these occasions. It was shortly before the date of Branwell's return from Bradford, in the spring of 1839, that Charlotte received her first offer of marriage. A young clergyman, who had, as Mrs. Gaskell thought, some resemblance to the St. John in the last volume of 'Jane Eyre,' had evidently been attracted by Charlotte Bronte; but matrimony does not seem, at the time, to have seriously entered into her thoughts. In some respects the proposal might have had strong temptations for her, and she thought how happy her married life might be. However, it was not the way with Charlotte Bronte to take the path of smoothness and comfort, and leave the th.o.r.n.y one untrod; and she asked herself if she loved the clergyman in question as much as a woman should love her husband, and whether she was the one best qualified to make him happy. 'Alas!' she says, 'my conscience answered ”No” to both these questions.' She knew very well that she had a 'kindly leaning' towards him, but this was not enough for her, for it was impossible that she could ever feel for him such an intense attachment as would make her sacrifice her life for him.
Short of such a devotion awakened in herself, she would never marry anyone. Her comment is characteristic: 'Ten to one I shall never have the chance again; but _n'importe_.'
Charlotte Bronte felt that there was a want of sympathy between the young clergyman and herself, for he was a 'grave, quiet young man;'
and she knew that he would be startled, and would think her a wild, romantic enthusiast, when she showed her character, and laughed, and satirized, and said whatever came into her head. Nor was her next offer any more to her taste; for, within a few months, a neighbouring curate, a young Irishman, fresh from the Dublin University, made her a proposal. The circ.u.mstance amused Charlotte, for it was, on his part, a case of love at first sight. He came with his vicar to be introduced to the family, and was speedily struck with Mr. Bronte's daughter. Charlotte was never troubled at home with the _mauvaise honte_ that troubled her abroad; and so she talked and jested with the clergyman, and was much amused at the originality of his character. A pleasant afternoon was spent, for he made himself at home, after the fas.h.i.+on of his countrymen, and was witty, lively, ardent, and clever; but, withal, wanting in the dignity and discretion of an Englishman. As the evening drew on, Charlotte was not much pleased with the spice of Hibernian flattery with which he began to season his discourse, and, as she expresses it, she 'cooled a little.' The vicar and his curate went away; but what was Charlotte's astonishment to receive a letter next morning from the latter containing a proposal of marriage, and filled with ardent expressions of devotion! 'I hope you are laughing heartily,' she says to her friend. 'This is not like one of my adventures, is it? It more nearly resembles Martha's. I am certainly doomed to be an old maid.
Never mind. I have made up my mind to that fate ever since I was twelve years old. Well! thought I, I have heard of love at first sight, but this beats all! I leave you to guess what my answer would be, convinced that you will not do me the injustice of guessing wrong.'
Although the married state does not appear, from Charlotte's letters at this time, to have had many attractions for her, we know, from those she wrote later, and, perhaps, more than all from the concluding chapters of 'Jane Eyre,' that she could enter into the joys and sacrifices of domestic life, that she had a correct view of the affections, and knew how to appreciate conjugal love at its true value. But, in the present instances--although, at a later period of her life, when she was on the Continent, she is believed to have felt the full force of that 'pa.s.sion of the heart' which those about whom she wrote had failed to evoke--she declined to sever herself from the contented circ.u.mstances that surrounded her, and in which she was mistress, for a condition of doubtful peace and certain obedience.
Charlotte's decision was not discordant with the feelings of her family; for, as she had determined to continue at home, their plans for the future would not be disconcerted.
Anne was now resolved on making a trial of the life of a governess for herself, she having completed her education, and being wishful to exert herself as her sisters had done. Inquiries were made, and at length a situation was obtained. Anne continued in this kind of employment during the next six years, and it was her experience that suggested to her the subject of her first novel, 'Agnes Grey.' If we may suppose that she has recounted her own experience at this time, where her heroine describes the circ.u.mstances of her preparation and departure for her first situation, it would appear that she had some difficulty in convincing her friends of the wisdom of her purpose.
Agnes Grey says, after she has made the suggestion to her family:
'I was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still I did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her drawing materials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but, while I drew, I thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a governess! To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act for myself; to exercise my unused faculties; to try my unknown powers; to earn my own maintenance, and something to comfort and help my father, mother, and sister, besides exonerating them from the provision of my food and clothing; to show papa what his little Agnes could do; to convince mamma and Mary that I was not quite the helpless, thoughtless being they supposed. And then, how charming to be entrusted with the care and education of children! Whatever others said, I felt I was fully competent to the task: the clear remembrance of my own thoughts in early childhood would be a surer guide than the instructions of the most mature adviser. I had but to turn from my little pupils to myself at their age, and I should know at once how to win their confidence and affections; how to waken the contrition of the erring; how to embolden the timid and console the afflicted; how to make virtue practicable, instruction desirable, and religion lively and comprehensible.'[28]