Wedding proposal Charlotte Bronte nr II. I have heard of love at first sight, but this beats all.

 

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘August 4th, 1839.

‘My dearest Ellen,—I have an odd circumstance to relate to you—prepare for a hearty laugh!  The other day Mr. Hodgson, papa’s former curate, now a vicar, came over to spend the day with us, bringing with him his own curate.  The latter gentleman, by name Mr. Price, is a young Irish clergyman, fresh from Dublin University.  It was the first time we had any of us seen him, but, however, after the manner of his countrymen, he soon made himself at home.  His character quickly appeared in his conversation: witty, lively, ardent, clever too, but deficient in the dignity and discretion of an Englishman.  At home, you know, Ellen, I talk with ease, and am never shy, never weighed down and oppressed by that miserable mauvaise honte which torments and constrains me elsewhere.  So I conversed with this Irishman and laughed at his jests, and though I saw faults in his character, excused them because of the amusement his originality afforded.  I cooled a little, indeed, and drew in towards the latter part of the evening, because he began to season his conversation with something of Hibernian flattery, which I did not quite relish.  However, they went away, and no more was thought about them.  A few days after I got a letter,  of which puzzled me, it being in a hand I was not accustomed to see.  Evidently, it was neither from you nor Mary Taylor, my only correspondents.  Having opened and read it, it proved to be a declaration of attachment and proposal of matrimony, expressed in the ardent language of the sapient young Irishman!  Well! thought I, I have heard of love at first sight, but this beats all.  I leave you to guess what my answer would be, convinced that you will not do me the injustice of guessing wrong.  When we meet I’ll show you the letter.  I hope you are laughing heartily.  This is not like one of my adventures, is it?  It more nearly resembles Martha Taylor’s.  I am certainly doomed to be an old maid.  Never mind, I made up my mind to that fate ever since I was twelve years old.  Write soon.

‘C. Brontë

 

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘January 24th, 1840.

‘My dear Ellen,—Mr. Price is dead.  He had fallen into a state of delicate health for some time, and the rupture of a blood-vessel carried him off.  He was a strong, athletic-looking man when I saw him, and that is scarcely six months ago.  Though I knew so little of him, and of course could not be deeply or permanently interested in what concerned him, I confess, when I suddenly heard he was dead, I felt both shocked and saddened: it was no shame to feel so, was it?  I scold you, Ellen, for writing illegibly and badly, but I think you may repay the compliment with cent per cent interest.  I am not in the humour for writing a long letter, so good-bye.  God bless you.

‘C. B.’