At one time, Charlotte
had the notion of making her living as an artist, and wearied her eyes in
drawing with pre-Raphaelite minuteness, but not with pre-Raphaelite
accuracy, for she drew from fancy rather than from nature.
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.
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