Of late years, I say, an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England but in eighteen-hundred-eleven-twelve that affluent rain had not descended. It is not positively affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps towards the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic - ay, even an Anglo-Catholic - might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week: it shall be cold lentils and vinegar without oil it shall be unleavened bread with bitter herbs, and no roast lamb. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you something unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm your expectations reduce them to a lowly standard. If you think, from this prelude, that anything like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. But not of late years are we about to speak we are going back to the beginning of this century: late years - present years are dusty, sunburnt, hot, arid we will evade the noon, forget it in siesta, pass the midday in slumber, and dream of dawn. Of late years an abundant shower of curates has fallen upon the north of England: they lie very thick on the hills every parish has one or more of them they are young enough to be very active, and ought to be doing a great deal of good.

Shirley by charlotte brontë illustrated