“Your proposal has almost driven me ’clean daft’—­if you don’t understand that ladylike expression, you must ask me what it means when I see you.  The fact is, an excursion with you anywhere,—­whether to Cleathorpe or Canada,—­just by ourselves, would be to me most delightful.  I should, indeed, like to go; but I can’t get leave of absence for longer than a week, and I’m afraid that would not suit you—­must I then give it up entirely?  I feel as if I could not; I never had such a chance of enjoyment before; I do want to see you and talk to you, and be with you.  When do you wish to go?  Could I meet you at Leeds?  To take a gig from Haworth to B., would be to me a very serious increase of expense, and I happen to be very low in cash.  Oh! rich people seem to have many pleasures at their command which we are debarred from!  However, no repining.

   “Say when you go, and I shall be able in my answer to say decidedly
   whether I can accompany you or not.  I must—­I will—­I’m set upon
   it—­I’ll be obstinate and bear down all opposition.

“P.S.—­Since writing the above, I find that aunt and papa have determined to go to Liverpool for a fortnight, and take us all with them.  It is stipulated, however, that I should give up the Cleathorpe scheme.  I yield reluctantly.”

I fancy that, about this time, Mr. Bronte found it necessary, either from failing health or the increased populousness of the parish, to engage the assistance of a curate.  At least, it is in a letter written this summer that I find mention of the first of a succession of curates, who henceforward revolved round Haworth Parsonage, and made an impression on the mind of one of its inmates which she has conveyed pretty distinctly to the world.  The Haworth curate brought his clerical friends and neighbours about the place, and for a time the incursions of these, near the parsonage tea-time, formed occurrences by which the quietness of the life there was varied, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes disagreeably.  The little adventure recorded at the end of the following letter is uncommon in the lot of most women, and is a testimony in this case to the unusual power of attraction—­though so plain in feature—­which Charlotte possessed, when she let herself go in the happiness and freedom of home.

   “August 4th, 1839.

“The Liverpool journey is yet a matter of talk, a sort of castle in the air; but, between you and me, I fancy it is very doubtful whether it will ever assume a more solid shape.  Aunt—­like many other elderly people—­likes to talk of such things; but when it comes to putting them into actual execution, she rather falls off.  Such being the case, I think you and I had better adhere to our first plan of going somewhere together independently of other people.  I have got leave to accompany you for a week—­at the utmost a fortnight—­but no more.  Where do you wish to go?  Burlington, I should think,