Wakes up the storm more madly wild,
The mountain drifts are tossed on high;
Farewell, unbless’d, unfriended child,
I cannot bear to watch thee die!
E. J. Brontë.
Haworth, July 12th, 1839.
The Portent.
I.—ITS LEGEND.
[As the sole return which I have it in my power to make for a friendship and a skill which have greatly alleviated my sufferings, I accede to the request of Dr. —— to commit to writing one or two passages in a history which has had more than the ordinary share of the marvellous in its composition. I write them with reluctance, yet with the feeling that I owe him the narration. It will serve, it may be, if not to explain, yet to account for some of the anomalies which he confesses have perplexed him in the treatment of my case. I leave it entirely to him to direct, by will or otherwise, what is to be the fate of these papers, after his and my decease.]