If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his kind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe, he wishes only to reform.  Miss Austen being, as you say, without ‘sentiment’, without poetry, maybe is sensible, real (more real than true), but she cannot be great.

I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass over me.  Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that will be, as I have no access to a circulating library), diligently peruse all Miss Austen’s works, as you recommend....  You must forgive me for not always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, Yours gratefully.

TO A FRIEND

Illness and death of Emily Bronte

23 Nov. 1848.

I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter.  She has not rallied yet.  She is very ill.  I believe, if you were to see her, your impression would be that there is no hope.  A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect I have not beheld.  The deep tight cough continues; the breathing after the least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompanied by pains in the chest and side.  Her pulse, the only time she allowed it to be felt, was found to beat 115 per minute.  In this state she resolutely refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation of her feelings, she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to.  Our position is, and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful.  God only knows how all this is to terminate.  More than once, I have been forced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable.  But nature shrinks from such thoughts.  I think Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in the world.

* * * * *

10 Dec.

I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now interests me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I hardly know what to think myself.  Hope and fear fluctuate daily.  The pain in her side and chest is better; the cough, the shortness of breath, the extreme emaciation, continue.  I have endured, however, such tortures of uncertainty on this subject that, at length, I could endure it no longer; and as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continues immutable,—­as she declares ‘no poisoning doctor’ shall come near her,—­I have written, unknown to her, to an eminent physician in London, giving as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as I could draw up, and requesting an opinion.  I expect an answer in a day or two.  I am thankful to say that my own health at present is very tolerable.  It is well such is the case; for Anne, with the best will in the world to be useful, is really too delicate to do or bear much.  She too, at present, has frequent pains in the side.  Papa is also pretty well, though Emily’s state renders him very anxious.