equally struck by the resemblance. There might not be many to regard the
Brontes with affection, but those who once loved them, loved them long
and well.

I return to the father's letter. He says:--

"When mere children, as soon as they could read and write, Charlotte and
her brothers and sisters used to invent and act little plays of their
own, in which the Duke of Wellington, my daughter Charlotte's hero, was
sure to come off conqueror; when a dispute would not unfrequently arise
amongst them regarding the comparative merits of him, Buonaparte,
Hannibal, and Caesar. When the argument got warm, and rose to its
height, as their mother was then dead, I had sometimes to come in as
arbitrator, and settle the dispute according to the best of my judgment.
Generally, in the management of these concerns, I frequently thought that
I discovered signs of rising talent, which I had seldom or never before
seen in any of their age . . . A circumstance now occurs to my mind which
I may as well mention. When my children were very young, when, as far as
I can remember, the oldest was about ten years of age, and the youngest
about four, thinking that they knew more than I had yet discovered, in
order to make them speak with less timidity, I deemed that if they were
put under a sort of cover I might gain my end; and happening to have a
mask in the house, I told them all to stand and speak boldly from under
cover of the mask.

"I began with the youngest (Anne, afterwards Acton Bell), and asked what
a child like her most wanted; she answered, 'Age and experience.' I
asked the next (Emily, afterwards Ellis Bell), what I had best do with
her brother Branwell, who was sometimes a naughty boy; she answered,
'Reason with him, and when he won't listen to reason, whip him.' I asked