re un siecle a l'Angleterre
pour qu'elle connaise la valeur de son heros. Dans un siecle,
l'Europe entiere saura combien Wellington a des droits a sa
reconnaissance."

How often in writing this paper "in a strange land," must Miss Bronte
have thought of the old childish disputes in the kitchen of Haworth
parsonage, touching the respective merits of Wellington and Buonaparte!
Although the title given to her _devoir_ is, "On the Death of Napoleon,"
she seems yet to have considered it a point of honour rather to sing
praises to an English hero than to dwell on the character of a foreigner,
placed as she was among those who cared little either for an England or
for Wellington. She now felt that she had made great progress towards
obtaining proficiency in the French language, which had been her main
object in coming to Brussels. But to the zealous learner "Alps on Alps
arise." No sooner is one difficulty surmounted than some other desirable
attainment appears, and must be laboured after. A knowledge of German
now became her object; and she resolved to compel herself to remain in
Brussels till that was gained. The strong yearning to go home came upon
her; the stronger self-denying will forbade. There was a great internal
struggle; every fibre of her heart quivered in the strain to master her
will; and, when she conquered herself, she remained, not like a victor
calm and supreme on the throne, but like a panting, torn, and suffering
victim. Her nerves and her spirits gave way. Her health became much
shaken.

"Brussels, August 1st, 1843.

"If I complain in this letter, have mercy and don't blame me, for, I
forewarn you, I am in low spirits, and that earth and heaven are
dreary and empty to me at this moment. In a few days our vacation
will begin; everybody is joyous and animated at the prospect, because
everybody is to go home. I know that I am to stay here during the
five weeks that the holidays last, and that I shall be much alone
during that time, and consequently get downcast, and find both days
and nights of a weary length. It is the first time in my life that I
have really dreaded the vacation. Alas! I can hardly write, I have
such a dreary weight at my heart; and I do so wish to go home. Is not
this childish? Pardon me, for I cannot help it. However, though I am
not strong enough to bear up cheerfully, I can still bear up; and I
will continue to stay