This was a life-size medallion of him, head and shoulders, which Leyland had modelled. The work was in very high relief, and the likeness was perfect. It was inserted in a deep oval recess, lined with crimson velvet, and this was fixed in a massive oak frame, glazed. It projected, when hung up in the drawing-room of the parsonage at Haworth, some eight inches from the wall; this was the one Mrs. Gaskell saw, of which she says:--'I have seen Branwell's profile; it is what would be generally esteemed very handsome; the forehead is massive, the eye well set, and the expression of it fine and intellectual; the nose, too, is good; but there are coarse lines about the mouth, and the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and thick, indicating self-indulgence, while the slightly retreating chin conveys an idea of weakness of will.'[32] Mrs. Gaskell had only an imperfect view of the work she describes, for it was hung on the wall directly _opposite_ to the windows, so that it was destitute of any side-light. [32] Gaskell's 'Life of Charlotte Brontë,' chap. ix. Again Branwell writes to Leyland, on the 16th of July, now more himself, and anxious to see his friends: 'I enclose the accompanying bill to tempt you to Haworth next Monday.... 'For myself, after a fit of horror inexpressible, and violent palpitation of the heart, I have taken care of myself bodily, but to what good? The best health will not kill _acute_, and _not ideal_, mental agony. 'Cheerful company does me good till some bitter truth blazes through my brain, and then the present of a bullet would be received with thanks. 'I wish I could flee to writing as a refuge, but I cannot; and, as to _slumber_, my mind, whether awake or asleep, has been in incessant action for seven weeks.' Branwell wrote also to Mr. Grundy.[33] [33] 'Pictures of the Past,' p. 89. 'Since I saw Mr. George Gooch, I have suffered much from the accounts of the declining health of her whom I must love most in the world, and who, for my fault, suffers sorrows which surely were never her due. My father, too, is now quite blind, and from such causes literary pursuits have become matters I have no heart to wield. If I could see you it would be a sincere pleasure, but.... Perhaps your memory of me may be dimmed, for you have known little in me worth remembering; but I still think often with pleasure of yourself, though so different from me in head and mind.' 'I invited him,' says Mr. Grundy, 'to come to me at the Devonshire Hotel, Skipton, a distance of some seventeen miles, and in reply received the last letter he ever wrote.' Branwell says, 'If I have strength enough for the journey, and the weather be tolerable, I shall feel happy in visiting you at the Devonshire on Friday, the 31st of this month. The sight of a face I have been accustomed to see and like when I was happier and stronger, now proves my best medicine.'