reams of verse he sent to Leyland the sculptor. There was something
brilliant and fantastic about the boy that fascinated Leyland. But a
studio costs money, and Branwell had to give his up and go back to
Haworth and the society of John Brown the stone-mason and grave-digger.
That John Brown was a decent fellow you gather from the fact that on a
journey to Liverpool he had charge of Branwell, when Branwell was at his
worst. They had affectionate names for each other. Branwell is the
Philosopher, John Brown is the Old Knave of Trumps. The whole trouble
with Branwell was that he could not resist the temptation of impressing
the grave-digger. He himself was impressed by the ironic union in the
Worshipful Master of conviviality and a sinister occupation.

A letter of Branwell's (preserved by the grave-digger in a quaint
devotion to his friend's memory) has achieved an immortality denied to
his "Effusions". Nothing having come of the "Effusions", Branwell, to
his infinite credit, followed his sisters' example, and became tutor
with a Mr. Postlethwaite. The irony of his situation pleased him, and
he wrote to the Old Knave of Trumps thus: "I took a half-year's farewell
of old friend whisky at Kendal on the night after I left. There was a
party of gentlemen at the Royal Hotel, and I joined them. We ordered in
supper and whisky-toddy as hot as hell! They thought I was a physician,
and put me in the chair. I gave several toasts that were washed down at
the same time till the room spun round and the candles danced in our
eyes.... I found myself in bed next morning with a bottle of porter, a
glass, and a corkscrew beside me. Since then I have not tasted anything
stronger than milk-and-water, nor, I hope, shall, till I return at
midsummer; when we will see about it. I am getting as fat as Prince
William at Springhead, and as godly as his friend Parson Winterbotham.
My hand shakes no longer. I ride to the banker's at Ulverston with Mr.
Postlethwaite, and sit drinking tea, and talking scandal with old
ladies. As for the young ones! I have one sitting by me just
now--fair-faced, blue-eyed, dark-haired, sweet eighteen--she little
thinks the devil is so near her!"--and a great deal more in the same
silly, post-Byronic strain.

In his postscript Branwell says: "Of course you won't show this letter",
and of course John Brown showed it all round. It was far too good to be
kept to himself; John Brown's brother thought it so excellent that he