A bereavement of this kind gives one a glimpse of the feeling those must have who have seen all drop round them, friend after friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone.
But tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine." During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in writing a story.

Some fragments of the manuscript yet remain, but it is in too small a hand to be read without great fatigue to the eyes; and one cares the less to read it, as she herself condemned it, in the preface to the "Professor," by saying that in this story she had got over such taste as she might once have had for the "ornamental and redundant in composition." The beginning, too, as she acknowledges, was on a scale commensurate with one of Richardson's novels, of seven or eight volumes.
I gather some of these particulars from a copy of a letter, apparently in reply to one from Wordsworth, to whom she had sent the commencement of the story, sometime in the summer of 1840.
"Authors are generally very tenacious of their productions, but I am not so much attached to this but that I can give it up without much distress.

No doubt, if I had gone on, I should have made quite a Richardsonian concern of it.

.

.