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Updated: June 6, 2025
Leyland's theory is that Branwell Brontë wrote the first seventeen chapters of Wuthering Heights. It has very little beyond Leyland's passionate conviction to support it. There is a passage in a letter of Branwell's to Leyland, the sculptor, written in 1845, where he says he is writing a three-volume novel of which the first volume is completed.
My sisters likewise are pretty well." But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed household, and gathering blackness every hour. On October the 9th, she thus writes: "The past three weeks have been a dark interval in our humble home. Branwell's constitution had been failing fast all the summer; but still, neither the doctors nor himself thought him so near his end as he was.
That soon the wicked shall at last Be fitted for the skies; And when their dreadful doom is past To light and life arise. I very much suspect that Anne's melancholy, like Branwell's passion, was pathological, and that what her soul suffered from was religious doubt. She could not reach that height where Emily moved serenely; she could not see that
Profoundly, piteously alienated, she must have felt that Anne and Charlotte were in league with death; that they fought with her and bound her down; and that in her escape from them she conquered. Another month and Anne sickened. As Emily died of Branwell's death, so Emily's death hastened Anne's.
All that is left to us is a merciful understanding of his case. Branwell's case, once for all, was purely pathological. There was nothing great about him, not even his passion for Mrs. Robinson. Properly speaking, it was not a passion at all, it was a disease. Branwell was a degenerate, as incapable of passion as he was of poetry.
Long-continued ill health, a deranged condition of the liver, her close application to minute drawing and writing in her younger days, her now habitual sleeplessness at nights, the many bitter noiseless tears she had shed over Branwell's mysterious and distressing conduct all these causes were telling on her poor eyes; and about this time she thus writes to M. Heger:
It was enough for his sisters and it should be enough for anybody that his madness left him with the onset of his illness, and that he went from them penitent and tender, purified by the mystery and miracle of death. That was on Sunday, the twenty-fourth of September. From that day Emily sickened. She caught cold at Branwell's funeral.
Since then I have been a governess at Blake Hall, left it, come to Thorp Green, and seen the sea and York Minster."... "We have got Keeper, got a sweet little cat and lost it, and also got a hawk. Got a wild goose which has flown away, and three tame ones, one of which has been killed." It is Emily who lets out the dreary secret of the dream the debts which could not be paid; probably Branwell's.
Above Bronte's study was his chamber; the adjoining children's study was later Branwell's apartment and the theater of the most terrible tragedies of the stricken family; here that ill-fated youth writhed in the horrors of mania-a-potu; here Emily rescued him stricken with drunken stupor from his burning couch, as "Jane Eyre" saved Rochester; here he breathed out his blighted life erect upon his feet, his pockets filled with love-letters from the perfidious woman who brought his ruin.
But they all thought there could be no doubt about Branwell's talent for drawing. I have seen an oil painting of his, done I know not when, but probably about this time. It was a group of his sisters, life-size, three-quarters' length; not much better than sign-painting, as to manipulation; but the likenesses were, I should think, admirable.
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