Volume Ii Part 12 (1/2)

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,[44] 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.[45]

[44] Inquisition _post mortem_ of Thomas Leyland of the Morleys, co. Lanc., Esq. (Yorks.h.i.+re lands) taken at Bradford, co. York, 11th Sept., 6 Eliz.

[45] 'The White Rose of York,' 1834, pp. 226-229.

It is remarkable that, while Thomas Leyland had a legitimate son and heir in Robert Leyland, the manor-house of Morley and its demesnes pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstance Branwell alludes in his poem. The fragment is as follows:--

MORLEY HALL,

LEIGH--LANCAs.h.i.+RE.

'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 Lancas.h.i.+re 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-built 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 Lancas.h.i.+re may fondly look upon Her wrecks fast vanis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed by, Should we not think of what ourselves shall be, And view our coffins in the stones of Leigh.

For what within yon s.p.a.ce was once the abode Of peace or war to man, and fear of G.o.d, Is now the daily sport of shower or wind, And no acquaintance holds with human kind.

Some who can be loved, and love can give, While brain thinks, pulses beat, and bodies live, Must, in death's helplessness, lie down with those Who find, like us, the grave their last repose, When Death draws down the veil and Night bids Evening close.

'King Charles, who, fortune falling, would not fall, Might glance with saddened eyes on Morley Hall, And, while his throne escaped misfortune's wave, Remember Tyldesley died that throne to save.'

Branwell's next poem of this period is ent.i.tled the 'End of All,'

which is complete, and is one of the most pathetic he ever wrote. It const.i.tutes a true picture of his mood, and ill.u.s.trates, at this time, the sombre and troubled nature of his thoughts. He pourtrays, in shades of great depth, his reflections on the death of one dear to him, whose loss leaves his soul a blank and desolate void, an evil which nothing can alleviate or remove. But he dreams for a moment that a life of peril in far-off lands, and in battle, strife, and danger, that the 'stony joys' of solitary ambition, may shrine the memory of sorrows which cannot be destroyed. Yet, even from this cold dream, this cruel opiate of the heart, he is recalled by the groans of her who is dying, to the consciousness that, with her departure, all will go. The bereaved is Branwell himself, and his 'Mary' is doubtless the lady of his misplaced affection, over whose loss he still broods in melancholy and afflicted language, each pathetic chord vibrating with intense mental anguish, as he contemplates the future years of desolation in which he is left to wander tombward unaided and alone.

Here, as in his other poems, the rhythmic sweetness of Branwell's verse flows on in words well chosen to express the idea he intends to convey, which itself is worked out with great suggestiveness of power.

THE END OF ALL.

'In that unpitying Winter's night, When my own wife--my Mary--died, I, by my fire's declining light, Sat comfortless, and silent sighed, While burst unchecked grief's bitter tide, As I, methought, when she was gone, Not hours, but years, like this must bide, And wake, and weep, and watch alone.