The date is September 5, 1857. I am at Haworth, whither I had walked from the Bradford Station, some ten or twelve miles distant. This Haworth--a place but a few years since quite unknown to any but the few residing in its immediate vicinity--is built upon the side of a hill, and, with its long line of grey houses creeping up the slope, seems like a huge saurian monster, sprawling along the hill-side, his head near the top and his tail reaching nearly to the vale below. At the summit, in the very head of our saurian, stands Haworth Parsonage, and the church near by, with the square old tower rising above the houses that cluster about it. I well remember my first view of this place. It was an autumn afternoon, and near sunset. The sky had been cloudy, but as I stopped to take my first long look at the little village, so hallowed by the memory of the Bronte sisters, the declining sun sent through a breach in the clouds a few spears of dazzling light, that played about the old church and parsonage with an ineffable glory. It lasted but a few moments, the sun went down, and darkness and night gradually settled over the scene. The little incident seemed almost like a type of the life of the gifted woman chiefly to whom Haworth owes its fame; for her life, like this very day, had been dark and wearisome, overshadowed by clouds of cares, tears falling like rain-drops upon new-made graves, until near its close, when there came a sweet season of bright domestic happiness, that lasted too shortly, and then gave place to the darkness and night of death.