To a Smart Girl (Prose Poem)

On an evening several fortnights past, you may recollect, as it remains vividly in my own memory, that there emerged in conversation between us the recognition of a mutual high regard, perhaps even higher in you than in myself, for a certain novel which we both had eagerly read, I once and you even twice, ere we made each other’s acquaintance. I mention its title purely for the sake of formality, not doubting that you have at once discerned the work of which I speak, being none other than Jane Eyre, written last century by Miss Charlotte Bronte, alias Currer Bell. I recall with equal vividness your admiration excited by its plot, the resolution of which left you thoroughly satisfied, yet also by its elegant diction, notwithstanding the mildly archaic nature thereof, or indeed, perhaps as a result of it; whereupon I immediately resolved, and further, made my resolution known, to write to you a letter in which I strove to emulate for your amusement the aforementioned style. You and you alone shall judge whether my all to limited powers have succeeded or failed in this undertaking; if the latter, I beg that you meet the humble attempt not with disdain but with recognition of the sentiments that inspired it. I must needs also express my sincerest regret that this letter has been delayed, owing solely to my own deplorable dilatory habits, for so long that your expectations of receiving it may have dimmed, nay, faded altogether. Yet I am consoled by the hope that its unexpectedness may now add to the pleasure of its reception. Any time I have spent upon its composition, any pennies I have spent upon its postage, I shall consider an exceeding small investment if it bring to your lovely countenance even the faintest glimmer of a smile. I remain, sincerely, your obedient servant,

J. B.