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.
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