She told us a tale out of it.  No one wrote in it, and no one read it, but herself, her brother, and two sisters.  She promised to show me some of these magazines, but retracted it afterwards, and would never be persuaded to do so.  In our play hours she sate, or stood still, with a book, if possible.  Some of us once urged her to be on our side in a game at ball.  She said she had never played, and could not play.  We made her try, but soon found that she could not see the ball, so we put her out.  She took all our proceedings with pliable indifference, and always seemed to need a previous resolution to say ‘No’ to anything.  She used to go and stand under the trees in the play-ground, and say it was pleasanter.  She endeavoured to explain this, pointing out the shadows, the peeps of sky, &c.  We understood but little of it.  She said that at Cowan Bridge she used to stand in the burn, on a stone, to watch the water flow by.  I told her she should have gone fishing; she said she never wanted.  She always showed physical feebleness in everything.  She ate no animal food at school.  It was about this time I told her she was very ugly.  Some years afterwards, I told her I thought I had been very impertinent.  She replied, ‘You did me a great deal of good, Polly, so don’t repent of it.’  She used to draw much better, and more quickly, than anything we had seen before, and knew much about celebrated pictures and painters.  Whenever an opportunity offered of examining a picture or cut of any kind, she went over it piecemeal, with her eyes close to the paper, looking so long that we used to ask her ‘what she saw in it.’  She could always see plenty, and explained it very well.  She made poetry and drawing at least exceedingly interesting to me; and then I got the habit, which I have yet, of referring mentally to her opinion on all matters of that kind, along with many more, resolving to describe such and such things to her, until I start at the recollection that I never shall.”

To feel the full force of this last sentence—­to show how steady and vivid was the impression which Miss Bronte made on those fitted to appreciate her—­I must mention that the writer of this letter, dated January 18th, 1856, in which she thus speaks of constantly referring to Charlotte’s opinion has never seen her for eleven years, nearly all of which have been passed among strange scenes, in a new continent, at the antipodes.

“We used to be furious politicians, as one could hardly help being in 1832.  She knew the names of the two ministries; the one that resigned, and the one that succeeded and passed the Reform Bill.  She worshipped the Duke of Wellington, but said that Sir Robert Peel was not to be trusted; he did not act from principle like the rest, but from expediency.  I, being of the furious radical party, told her ’how could any of them trust one another; they were all of them rascals!’ Then she would launch out into praises of the Duke of Wellington, referring to his actions; which I could not contradict, as I knew nothing about him.  She said she had taken interest in politics ever since she was five years old.  She did not get her opinions from her father—­that is, not directly—­but from the papers, &c., he preferred.”