I feel to
my deep sorrow, to my humiliation, that it is not in my power to bear
the canker of constant solitude. I had calculated that when shut out
from every enjoyment, from every stimulus but what could be derived
from intellectual exertion, my mind would rouse itself perforce. It
is not so. Even intellect, even imagination, will not dispense with
the ray of domestic cheerfulness, with the gentle spur of family
discussion. Late in the evenings, and all through the nights, I fall
into a condition of mind which turns entirely to the past--to memory;
and memory is both sad and relentless. This will never do, and will
produce no good. I tell you this that you may check false
anticipations. You cannot help me, and must not trouble yourself in
any shape to sympathise with me. It is my cup, and I must drink it,
as others drink theirs.--Yours sincerely,
'C. BRONTE.'
Among Miss Bronte's papers I find the following letter to Miss Martineau,
written with a not unnatural resentment after the publication of a severe
critique of _Shirley_.
TO MISS HARRIET MARTINEAU.
'MY DEAR MISS MARTINEAU,--I think I best show my sense of the tone
and feeling of your last, by immediate compliance with the wish you
express that I should send your letter.
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