But Emily—­that free, wild, untameable spirit, never happy nor well but on the sweeping moors that gathered round her home—­that hater of strangers, doomed to live amongst them, and not merely to live but to slave in their service—­what Charlotte could have borne patiently for herself, she could not bear for her sister.  And yet what to do?  She had once hoped that she herself might become an artist, and so earn her livelihood; but her eyes had failed her in the minute and useless labour which she had imposed upon herself with a view to this end.

It was the household custom among these girls to sew till nine o’clock at night.  At that hour, Miss Branwell generally went to bed, and her nieces’ duties for the day were accounted done.  They put away their work, and began to pace the room backwards and forwards, up and down,—­as often with the candles extinguished, for economy’s sake, as not,—­their figures glancing into the fire-light, and out into the shadow, perpetually.  At this time, they talked over past cares and troubles; they planned for the future, and consulted each other as to their plans.  In after years this was the time for discussing together the plots of their novels.  And again, still later, this was the time for the last surviving sister to walk alone, from old accustomed habit, round and round the desolate room, thinking sadly upon the “days that were no more.”  But this Christmas of 1836 was not without its hopes and daring aspirations.  They had tried their hands at story-writing, in their miniature magazine, long ago; they all of them “made out” perpetually.  They had likewise attempted to write poetry; and had a modest confidence that they had achieved a tolerable success.  But they knew that they might deceive themselves, and that sisters’ judgments of each other’s productions were likely to be too partial to be depended upon.  So Charlotte, as the eldest, resolved to write to Southey.  I believe (from an expression in a letter to be noticed hereafter), that she also consulted Coleridge; but I have not met with any part of that correspondence.

On December 29th, her letter to Southey was despatched; and from an excitement not unnatural in a girl who has worked herself up to the pitch of writing to a Poet Laureate and asking his opinion of her poems, she used some high-flown expressions which, probably, gave him the idea that she was a romantic young lady, unacquainted with the realities of life.

This, most likely, was the first of those adventurous letters that passed through the little post-office of Haworth.  Morning after morning of the holidays slipped away, and there was no answer; the sisters had to leave home, and Emily to return to her distasteful duties, without knowing even whether Charlotte’s letter had ever reached its destination.

Not dispirited, however, by the delay, Branwell determined to try a similar venture, and addressed the following letter to Wordsworth.  It was given by the poet to Mr. Quillinan in 1850, after the name of Bronte had become known and famous.  I have no means of ascertaining what answer was returned by Mr. Wordsworth; but that he considered the letter remarkable may, I think, be inferred both from its preservation, and its recurrence to his memory when the real name of Currer Bell was made known to the public.