ABSTRACT
THE next year opened with a spell of cold dreary weather, which told severely on a constitution already tried by anxiety and care. Miss Brontë describes herself as having utterly lost her appetite, and as looking ‘grey, old, worn and sunk,’ 26 from her sufferings during the inclement season. The cold brought on severe toothache; toothache was the cause of a succession of restless miserable nights; and long wakefulness told acutely upon her nerves, making them feel with redoubled sensitiveness all the harass of her oppressive life. Yet she would not allow herself to lay her bad health to the change of a an uneasy mind; ‘for after all,’ said she at this time. ‘I have many, many things to be thankful for.’ 27 But the real state of things may be gathered from the following extracts from her letters.
