the feeling would be
only temporary; it would last the honeymoon, and then perhaps give
place to disgust. Certainly this would be the case on the man's
part; and on the woman's--God help her if she be left to love
passionately and alone.

"I am tolerably well convinced that I shall never marry at all.
Reason tells me so, and I am not so utterly the slave of feeling
but that I can _occasionally_ hear her voice."

This does not sound much like the woman who could write of Jane Eyre and
Rochester; but there were depths of passion in the little woman,
probably unsuspected by herself.

Again she writes, in 1845:--

"I know that if women wish to escape the stigma of husband-hunting,
they must act and look like marble or clay,--cold, expressionless,
bloodless; for every appearance of feeling, of joy, sorrow,
friendliness, antipathy, admiration, disgust, are alike construed
by the world into an attempt to hook a husband. Never mind!
well-meaning women have their own consciences to comfort them,
after all. Do not therefore be too much afraid of showing yourself
as you are, affectionate and good-hearted; do not harshly repress
sentiments and feelings excellent in themselves, because you fear
that some puppy may fancy you are letting them come out to
fascinate him; do not condemn yourself to live only by halves,
because if you showed too much animation some pragmatical thing in
breeches might take it into his pate to imagine that you desired to
dedicate your life to inanity. Write again soon, for I feel rather
fierce and want stroking down."

That the sisters were not without their own perturbations and heart
troubles, even in the deep seclusion of their lonely home, may be judged
by some extracts from a poem written by Emily, who never confided
anything to any friend but her own sombre muse.

"Cold is the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave.
Have I forgot, my only love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

"Now, when removed, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover
Thy noble heart forever, evermore?

"Cold in the grave, and fifteen wild Decembers
From these brown hills have melted into spring;
Faithful indeed the love is