“One day in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. volume of verse, in my sister Emily’s handwriting.  Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and did write verse:  I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me—­a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write.  I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine.  To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, melancholy, and elevating.  My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, nor one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those nearest and dearest to her could, with impunity, intrude unlicensed:  it took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication . . .  Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that since Emily’s had given me pleasure, I might like to look at hers.  I could not but be a partial judge, yet I thought that these verses too had a sweet sincere pathos of their own.  We had very early cherished the dream of one day being authors.  We agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if possible, get them printed.  Averse to personal publicity, we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell; the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names, positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because—­without at the time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called ‘feminine,’ we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice; we noticed how critics sometimes use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise.  The bringing out of our little book was hard work.  As was to be expected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted; but for this we had been prepared at the outset; though inexperienced ourselves, we had read the experience of others.  The great puzzle lay in the difficulty of getting answers of any kind from the publishers to whom we applied.  Being greatly harassed by this obstacle, I ventured to apply to the Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, for a word of advice; they may have forgotten the circumstance, but I have not, for from them I received a brief and business-like, but civil and sensible reply, on which we acted, and at last made way.”

I inquired from Mr. Robert Chambers, and found, as Miss Bronte conjectured, that he had entirely forgotten the application which had been made to him and his brother for advice; nor had they any copy or memorandum of the correspondence.

There is an intelligent man living in Haworth, who has given me some interesting particulars relating to the sisters about this period.  He says:—­