From: Heir of Frankenstein, by Mary Wollstonecroft Shelley, Richmond, Virginia, 1847

Do you not, with each word, each embrace, create a monster? Not only the child of your body who may destroy you with unkind words or unjust deeds, but do you not see the monster looking out at you from the eyes of every man you kiss? Do you not hear his roar in the words of contrition from every servant you upbraid? I curse Frankenstein not for creating me; I curse him for being a man, for men create things, and women beings. Were I of a woman created, no one could call me a thing.




The fear in the man's eyes was a sight familiar to me; yet, where others had fled with this fear, or attacked me with it, the black-skinned man did neither. He fell to his knees before me. "Oh, help me, help me", he cried, over and over. In the woods there appeared first a straw hat and a musket tip, and presently a man bearing both appeared from behind the briers. The black man turned; the fear was obviously directed at the newcomer. The latter unslung his musket and aimed at me. I looked back, unafraid. Having been wounded before, with less reason, the musket-ball tearing my flesh held no terror for me.

From: ESCAPING DARKNESS, by Edgar Allan Poe, Richmond, 1850

1848, Bronte household, Branwell's funeral

Upon the curate a frightening change had come. He held a hunting gun with hands as firm and as implacable as his face, his stance speaking of intimate familiarity with the weapon. It occurred to me that, as targets, we were far larger than grouse, and far less mobile.



"Next one who moves is dead," Mr Bronte said. "I buried my son today. You'll not be taking my daughters."




We stopped. We stood in silence for what seemed an eternity. Then Pushkin raised his hands and stepped forward. "You only have one shot, Patrick," he said gently, "Yet with it you could take four lives. Look, sir, at your daughters. Look: what pale, thin, barely living wraiths they have become upon these pestilent moors; they'll not survive the winter. If slake you must your anger, shoot me, sir; I'll gladly join your son in Yorkshire ground, if such is my destiny, but I pray, sir: let thy daughters go. I see in every one of them such greatness as few dream of.
Shoot me, and let them have...a little bit more life."