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#1 Letter with pen and ink sketch entitled 'Myself'.
#2 Letter with pen and ink sketch entitled 'Myself'.
#3 Letter with pen and ink sketch entitled 'Myself'.
#4 Letter with pen and ink sketch entitled 'Myself'.
© University of Leeds

Letter 11: Letter from Branwell Brontë to Joseph Bentley Leyland, June 1846 (BC MS 19c Brontë/02/01/11)

147 75 Dear Sir,I sh …

Note: 147 75 Dear Sir,

I should have sent you "Morley
Hall" ere now, but I am unable to finish it at
present from agony to which the grave would be
far preferable.

Mr Robinson of Thorp Green is dead , and he has
left his widow in a dreadful state of health, she
sent the Coachman over to me yesterday, and the
account which he gave of her sufferings was enough
to burst my heart.

Through the will she is left quite powerless, and
her eldest daughter who married independently, is cut off
without a shilling.

The Executing Trustees detest me, and one declares
that if he sees me he will shoot me.

These things I do not care about, but I do care for
the life of the one who suffers even more than I do.
Her Coachman said that it was a pity to see her, for she
was only able to kneel in her bedroom in bitter tears and
prayers. She has worn herself out in attendance on him,
and his conduct during the few days before his death,
was exceedingly mild and repentant, but that only distressed
Note: 76 146

her doubly. Her {consience} has helped to agonize
her, and that misery I am saved from.

You, though not much older than myself, have
known life. I now know it was a vengeance -
for four nights I have not slept - for three days I
have not tasted food - and when I think of the state
of her I love best on earth, I could wish that my
head was as cold and stupid as the bust medallion
that lies in your studio.

I write very egotistically but it is because my
mind is crowded with one set of thoughts, and I long
for one sentence from a friend.

What I shall do I know not - I am too hard to
die, and too wretched to live. My wretchedness is not
about castles in the air, but about stern realities; my
hardihood deleted text lies in bodily vigour; but, Dear Sir, my mind
sees only a dreary future which I as little wish to enter
on, as could a martyr to be bound to the stake.

I sincerely trust that you are well, and hope that
this wretched scrawl will not make ⟨me⟩ appear to you
a worthless fool, or a thorough bore.

Believe me,
Yours, most sincerely,
P B Brontë. Note: 156 84
Sketch of a chained man in profile, looking upwards.
Figure 1. Myself
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