As Mr. Lewes says, "the tone of this letter is cavalier." But I
thank him for having allowed me to publish what is so
characteristic of one phase of Miss Bronte's mind. Her health,
too, was suffering at this time. "I don't know what heaviness of
spirit has beset me of late" (she writes, in pathetic words,
wrung out of the sadness of her heart), "made my faculties dull,
made rest weariness, and occupation burdensome. Now and then, the
silence of the house, the solitude of the room, has pressed on me
with a weight I found it difficult to bear, and recollection has
not failed to be as alert, poignant, obtrusive, as other feelings
were languid. I attribute this state of things partly to the
weather. Quicksilver invariably falls low in storms and high
winds, and I have ere this been warned of approaching disturbance
in the atmosphere by a sense of bodily weakness, and deep, heavy
mental sadness, such as some would call
PRESENTIMENT,--presentiment indeed it is, but not at all
super-natural. . . . I cannot help feeling something of the
excitement of expectation till the post hour comes, and when, day
after day, it brings nothing, I get low. This is a stupid,
disgraceful, unmeaning state of things. I feel bitterly vexed at
my own dependence and folly; but it is so bad for the mind to be
quite alone, and to have none with whom to talk over little
crosses and disappointments, and to laugh them away. If I could
write, I dare say I should be better, but I cannot write a line.
However (by God's help), I will contend against this folly.

"I had rather a foolish letter the other day from ----. Some
things in it nettled me, especially an unnecessarily earnest
assurance that, in spite of all I had done in the writing line, I