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. (Yorkshire 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--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-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 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 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.

'All earthly hope had pa.s.sed away, And each clock-stroke brought Death more nigh To the still-chamber where she lay, With soul and body calmed to die; But _mine_ was not her heavenward eye When hot tears scorched me, as her doom Made my sick heart throb heavily To give impatient anguish room.

'"Oh now," methought, "a little while, And this great house will hold no more Her whose fond love the gloom could while Of many a long night gone before!"

Oh! all those happy hours were o'er When, seated by our own fireside, I'd smile to hear the wild winds roar, And turn to clasp my beauteous bride.

'I could not bear the thoughts which rose Of what _had_ been, and what _must_ be, And still the dark night would disclose Its sorrow-pictured prophecy; Still saw I--miserable me-- Long, long nights else, in lonely gloom, With time-bleached locks and trembling knee-- Walk aidless, hopeless, to my tomb.

'Still, still that tomb's eternal shade Oppressed my heart with sickening fear, When I could see its shadow spread Over each dreary future year, Whose vale of tears woke such despair That, with the sweat-drops on my brow, I wildly raised my hands in prayer That Death would come and take me now;

'Then stopped to hear an answer given-- So much had madness warped my mind-- When, sudden, through the midnight heaven, With long howl woke the Winter's wind; And roused in me, though undefined, A rushing thought of tumbling seas Whose wild waves wandered unconfined, And, far-off, surging, whispered, "Peace."

'I cannot speak the feeling strange, Which showed that vast December sea, Nor tell whence came that sudden change From aidless, hopeless misery; But somehow it revealed to me A life--when things I loved were gone-- Whose solitary liberty Might suit me wandering tombward on.

''Twas not that I forgot my love-- That night departing evermore-- 'Twas hopeless grief for her that drove My soul from all it prized before; That misery called me to explore A new-born life, whose stony joy Might calm the pangs of sorrow o'er, Might _shrine_ their memory, not destroy.

'I rose, and drew the curtains back To gaze upon the starless waste, And image on that midnight wrack The path on which I longed to haste, From storm to storm continual cast, And not one moment given to view; O'er mind's wild winds the memories pa.s.sed Of hearts I loved--of scenes I knew.

'My mind antic.i.p.ated all The things my eyes have seen since then; I heard the trumpet's battle-call, I rode o'er ranks of bleeding men, I swept the waves of Norway's main, I tracked the sands of Syria's sh.o.r.e, I felt that such strange strife and pain Might me from living death restore.

'Ambition I would make my bride, And joy to see her robed in red, For none through blood so wildly ride As those whose hearts before have bled; Yes, even though _thou_ should'st long have laid Pressed coldly down by churchyard clay, And though I knew thee thus decayed, I _might_ smile grimly when away;

'Might give an opiate to my breast, Might dream:--but oh! that heart-wrung groan Forced from me with the thought confessed That all would go if _she_ were gone; I turned, and wept, and wandered on All restlessly--from room to room-- To that still chamber, where alone A sick-light glimmered through the gloom.

'The all-unnoticed time flew o'er me, While my breast bent above her bed, And that drear life which loomed before me Choked up my voice--bowed down my head.

Sweet holy words to me she said, Of that bright heaven which shone so near, And oft and fervently she prayed That I might some time meet her there;

'But, soon enough, all words were over, When this world pa.s.sed, and Paradise, Through deadly darkness, seemed to hover O'er her half-dull, half-brightening eyes; One last dear glance she gives her lover, One last embrace before she dies; And then, while he seems bowed above her, His _Mary_ sees him from the skies.'

Another poem of Branwell's of this date, the last he ever wrote, is ent.i.tled 'Percy Hall,' which he did not live to complete. The first draft was sent for Leyland's opinion, with the following letter:

'Haworth, Bradford, 'Yorks.

'MY DEAR SIR,

'I enclose the accompanying fragment, which is so soiled that I would have transcribed it, if I had had the heart to exert myself, only in order to get from you an opinion as to whether, when finished, it would be worth sending to some respectable periodical, like "Blackwood's Magazine."

'I trust you got safely home from rough Haworth, and am,

'Dear Sir,

'Your most sincerely,

'P. B. BRONTe.'

At the foot of the page on which the letter is written, is drawn, in pen-and-ink, a low, ma.s.sive, stone cross, inscribed with the word, 'POBRE!' standing on the top of a bleak hill, with a wild sky behind; and Branwell says of it below: 'The best epitaph ever written. It is carved on a rude cross in Spain, over a murdered traveller, and simply means "Poor fellow!"' It will be remembered, in connection with this idea of Branwell's, that Lord Byron, in one of his letters, describes the impression produced upon him by seeing the inscription, 'Implora pace!' upon a tomb at Bologna. The poet says: 'When I die, I should wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my grave--"Implora pace!"' The perusal of this remark induced Mrs. Hemans to write her pathetic little poem which has the Italian epitaph for its t.i.tle.

This letter of Branwell's is particularly interesting, because it shows us that, even in the last year of his life, and when dealing with the last uncompleted poem he ever wrote, he preserved the ambition of appearing in the literary world as a poet; and because he again speaks of 'Blackwood's Magazine,' whose value, it will be remembered, had impressed itself upon the youthful minds of himself and his sisters.

The fragment, 'Percy Hall,' which was enclosed with the letter to Leyland, though still morbid, is one of the most exquisite its author wrote. Here, by a strange and beautiful coincidence--if coincidence it be--we find Branwell, in his latest work, as in his youthful ones, given in the earlier part of this work, occupied with the dread study of a consumptive decline; we find him, in short, tinctured with the shadows of his later career, telling again of the death of that sister, whose memory he cherished with a life-long affection; and perhaps, too, with a deeper insight than the other members of his family possessed, he foretells the end that awaited his sisters Emily and Anne, from that disease, whose poison was working in his own slender frame. The treatment of the subject, indeed, is truly characteristic of Branwell's feelings at the time, and of his impressions engendered by the mournful malady with which his family was afflicted. This poem, like some of those already noticed in the former pages of the present work, is distinguished by images, scenes, and conceptions, almost invariably animated by the instinctive power and originality of genius. His descriptions of the condition of the lady, of the way in which weakness has schooled her to regard the future--the natural expression doubtless of Branwell at the time--of the influences that 'forbade her heart to throb, her spirit to despond,' and of the agonized feelings of the survivor, are all instinct with the living breath of reality; they have the sublime dignity of truth, springing, as they do, from a knowledge far too intimate with the sorrows which inspired the poem. Perhaps, in the gaiety of the affectionate Percy, Branwell depicts, in some sort, his own disposition, though it has never been charged against him that he was beguiled by 'syren smiles,' or seduced by the delights of 'play.'

It seems to me that Branwell's poetical genius is as much higher than that of his sister Emily as hers was superior to the talents of Charlotte and Anne, in their versified productions. Beautiful, wild, and touching, like strains from the harp of aeolus, as are the emanations of Emily's poetical inspiration, they lack the force, depth, and breadth of Branwell's more expansive power of imagination, as displayed in his best productions; though even Branwell's poetical remains contain rather the evidence of power than the full expression of it.