To my ear they had also a peculiar
music--wild, melancholy, and elevating.
My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, nor
one on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those nearest
and dearest to her could, with impunity, intrude unlicensed; it
took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days
to persuade her that such poems merited publication. I knew,
however, that a mind like hers could not be without some latent
spark of honourable ambition, and refused to be discouraged in my
attempts to fan that spark to flame.
Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own
compositions, intimating that, since Emily's had given me pleasure,
I might like to look at hers. I could not but be a partial judge,
yet I thought that these verses, too, had a sweet, sincere pathos
of their own.
We had very early cherished the dream of one day becoming authors.
This dream, never relinquished even when distance divided and
absorbing tasks occupied us, now suddenly acquired strength and
consistency: it took the character of a resolve.
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