“Haworth, near Bradford,
   “Yorkshire, January 19, 1837.

“Sir,—­I most earnestly entreat you to read and pass your judgment upon what I have sent you, because from the day of my birth to this the nineteenth year of my life, I have lived among secluded hills, where I could neither know what I was, or what I could do.  I read for the same reason that I ate or drank; because it was a real craving of nature.  I wrote on the same principle as I spoke—­out of the impulse and feelings of the mind; nor could I help it, for what came, came out, and there was the end of it.  For as to self-conceit, that could not receive food from flattery, since to this hour, not half a dozen people in the world know that I have ever penned a line.

“But a change has taken place now, sir:  and I am arrived at an age wherein I must do something for myself:  the powers I possess must be exercised to a definite end, and as I don’t know them myself I must ask of others what they are worth.  Yet there is not one here to tell me; and still, if they are worthless, time will henceforth be too precious to be wasted on them.

“Do pardon me, sir, that I have ventured to come before one whose works I have most loved in our literature, and who most has been with me a divinity of the mind, laying before him one of my writings, and asking of him a judgment of its contents.  I must come before some one from whose sentence there is no appeal; and such a one is he who has developed the theory of poetry as well as its practice, and both in such a way as to claim a place in the memory of a thousand years to come.

“My aim, sir, is to push out into the open world, and for this I trust not poetry alone—­that might launch the vessel, but could not bear her on; sensible and scientific prose, bold and vigorous efforts in my walk in life, would give a farther title to the notice of the world; and then again poetry ought to brighten and crown that name with glory; but nothing of all this can be ever begun without means, and as I don’t possess these, I must in every shape strive to gain them.  Surely, in this day, when there is not a writing poet worth a sixpence, the field must be open, if a better man can step forward.

“What I send you is the Prefatory Scene of a much longer subject, in which I have striven to develop strong passions and weak principles struggling with a high imagination and acute feelings, till, as youth hardens towards age, evil deeds and short enjoyments end in mental misery and bodily ruin.  Now, to send you the whole of this would be a mock upon your patience; what you see, does not even pretend to be more than the description of an imaginative child.  But read it, sir; and, as you would hold a light to one in utter darkness—­as you value your own kindheartedness—­return me an answer, if but one word, telling me whether I should write on, or write no more.  Forgive undue warmth, because my feelings in this matter cannot be cool; and believe me, sir, with deep respect,

   “Your really humble servant,
   “P.  B. Bronte”