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.  I could only judge of the fidelity with which the other two were depicted, from the striking resemblance which Charlotte, upholding the great frame of canvas, and consequently standing right behind it, bore to her own representation, though it must have been ten years and more since the portraits were taken.  The picture was divided, almost in the middle, by a great pillar.  On the side of the column which was lighted by the sun, stood Charlotte, in the womanly dress of that day of gigot sleeves and large collars.  On the deeply shadowed side, was Emily, with Anne’s gentle face resting on her shoulder.  Emily’s countenance struck me as full of power; Charlotte’s of solicitude; Anne’s of tenderness.  The two younger seemed hardly to have attained their full growth, though Emily was taller than Charlotte; they had cropped hair, and a more girlish dress.  I remember looking on those two sad, earnest, shadowed faces, and wondering whether I could trace the mysterious expression which is said to foretell an early death.  I had some fond superstitious hope that the column divided their fates from hers, who stood apart in the canvas, as in life she survived.  I liked to see that the bright side of the pillar was towards her—­that the light in the picture fell on her:  I might more truly have sought in her presentment—­nay, in her living face—­for the sign of death—­in her prime.  They were good likenesses, however badly executed.  From thence I should guess his family augured truly that, if Branwell had but the opportunity, and, alas! had but the moral qualities, he might turn out a great painter.

The best way of preparing him to become so appeared to be to send him as a pupil to the Royal Academy.  I dare say he longed and yearned to follow this path, principally because it would lead him to that mysterious London—­that Babylon the great—­which seems to have filled the imaginations and haunted the minds of all the younger members of this recluse family.  To Branwell it was more than a vivid imagination, it was an impressed reality.  By dint of studying maps, he was as well acquainted with it, even down to its by-ways, as if he had lived there.  Poor misguided fellow! this craving to see and know London, and that stronger craving after fame, were never to be satisfied.  He was to die at the end of a short and blighted life.  But in this year of 1835, all his home kindred were thinking how they could best forward his views, and how help him up to the pinnacle where he desired to be.  What their plans were, let Charlotte explain.  These are not the first sisters who have laid their lives as a sacrifice before their brother’s idolized wish.  Would to God they might be the last who met with such a miserable return!