_I am now engaged in writing the fourth volume of
Solala Vernon's Life_.
_For some time I have looked upon_ 25 _as a sort of era in my
existence_. _It may prove a true presentiment_, _or it may be only a
superstitious fancy_; _the latter seems most likely_, _but time will
show_.
_Anne Bronte_.
Let us next take up the other two little scraps of paper. They are dated
July the 30th, 1845, or Emily's twenty-seventh birthday. Many things
have happened, as she says. She has been to Brussels, and she has
settled definitely at home again. They are still keenly interested in
literature, and we still hear of the Gondals. There is wonderfully
little difference in the tone or spirit of the journals. The concluding
'best wishes for this whole house till July the 30th, 1848, and as much
longer as may be,' contain no premonition of coming disaster. Yet July
1848 was to find Branwell Bronte on the verge of the grave, and Emily on
her deathbed. She died on the 14th of December of that year.
_Haworth_, _Thursday_, _July_ 30_th_, 1845.
_My birthday_--_showery_, _breezy_, _cool_. _I am twenty-seven years
old to-day_. _This morning Anne and I opened the papers we wrote
four years since_, _on my twenty-third birthday_.
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