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“They clung to the purple moors behind and around their dwelling - to the hollow vale into which wound between fern-bank first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of grey moorland sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs: - they clung to this scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment. I could comprehend the feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I saw the fascination of the locality. I felt the consecration of its loneliness: my eye feasted on the outline of swell and sweep - on the wild colouring communicated to ridge and dell by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brillant bracken, and mellow granite crag.” — Charlotte Brontë