There are always peculiar trials in the life of
an only boy in a family of girls. He is expected to act a part in life;
to _do_, while they are only to _be_; and the necessity of their giving
way to him in some things, is too often exaggerated into their giving way
to him in all, and thus rendering him utterly selfish. In the family
about whom I am writing, while the rest were almost ascetic in their
habits, Branwell was allowed to grow up self-indulgent; but, in early
youth, his power of attracting and attaching people was so great, that
few came in contact with him who were not so much dazzled by him as to be
desirous of gratifying whatever wishes he expressed. Of course, he was
careful enough not to reveal anything before his father and sisters of
the pleasures he indulged in; but his tone of thought and conversation
became gradually coarser, and, for a time, his sisters tried to persuade
themselves that such coarseness was a part of manliness, and to blind
themselves by love to the fact that Branwell was worse than other young
men. At present, though he had, they were aware, fallen into some
errors, the exact nature of which they avoided knowing, still he was
their hope and their darling; their pride, who should some time bring
great glory to the name of Bronte.
He and his sister Charlotte were both slight and small of stature, while
the other two were of taller and larger make.
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