wild imagination. The Brussels visit|ment. She loved them with a deep, was her last absence from the parson- passionate love; they informed her age. The few years that remained with their own strong, wild nature; were spent quietly at home, for a pri- their dreariest, gloomiest aspects found vate school scheme long cherished by harmonies in her stern spirit; their the sisters never came to anything. purple heather glowing in the autumn Her last days have been described by sun stirred her with full, rich joy. her elder sister in words that reveal to Charlotte has written of her sister's us her stern, unbeuding character. A notable fact not, however, recorded by Charlotte is that, like her brother, Emily died standing.

and cloudlessly.

love for the moors, and in Emily's novel, "Wuthering Heights," a striking passage reveals the pleasure Emily derived from the scenery about HaEmily Brontë is described as having worth. "He said the pleasantest manhad, like Charlotte, a bad complexion; ner of spending a hot July day was but she was tall and well-formed, while lying from morning till evening on a her eyes were of remarkable beauty. bank of heath in the middle of the Her mental gifts were of a high order. moors, with the bees humming busily In spite of her imperfect culture, this about among the bloom, and the larks is abundantly proved by her writings, singing high up overhead, and the blue few as they are. Her temperament sky and bright sun shining steadily was such that to strangers she rarely if That was his most ever unbent, while even her own rela- perfect ideal of heaven's happiness; tives stood in some awe of her. At the mine was rocking in a rustling green same time she was capable of strong tree, with a west wind blowing, and affection. She was deeply attached to bright, white clouds flitting rapidly her sisters, and passionately fond of above, and not only larks, but throsdumb animals, insects, and flowers. tles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and As might be supposed, Emily did not cuckoos, pouring out music on every favorably impress outsiders. Mrs. side, and the moors seen at a distance, Gaskell says that all she could learn broken into cool, dusky dells; but close about Emily tended to give an unpleas- by great swells of long grass undulatant impression of her; but, as she ing in waves to the breezes, and woods properly points out, Emily has been and sounding water, and the whole portrayed for us in "Shirley," by her world awake and wild with joy." The sister Charlotte, who knew her as no same feeling finds expression in her stranger could ever have known her. poems, as in "The Bluebell," and in In Shirley's character we find not only the piece beginning, "Loud without such traits as other observers have the wind was roaring.' Another pownoted in Emily's, but also character- erful influence was her father. istics hid from the outer world-joy- is described as a passionate, self-willed, ousness of heart, kindly, womanly vain, cold, and distant man, stern and sympathy, warm, deep emotions.

From the sketch given of Emily Brontë's life, one can readily see that she could have owed little to influences outside Haworth, and little more to reading; for, situated as she was, she could have had access to only a comparatively small number of books. The question then is, whence came the influences that helped to form the powerful character that confronts us in her writings? One potent influence was the moors. They were to her more than objects of sensuous enjoy

He

determined, ever eager to maintain his opinions, whether or not they harmonized with the popular judgmenta man, indeed, whose instincts were soldierly rather than priestly. This description is so far supported by Charlotte's presentment of him in the Mr. Helstone of "Shirley." Mr. Brontë had many wild stories and traditions of his native Ireland, and he delighted, by means of them, to excite terror in his children. We may be sure that, despite their terrifying effect, these tales of danger and dread appealed strongly

to Emily's bold and fearless mind. | incarnation of cruelty, when he is ravSimilar stories were told to the children ing in the very delirium of passionate

by their aunt, Miss Branwell, who had love for Catherine Earnshaw, when he brought from Cornwall a goodly store is wandering by midnight among the of such weird narratives as Mr. Hunt graves out on the moors, haunted by a has brought together in his "Romances feeling of the presence of the dead Cathand Drolls of the West of England." erine, when he is calling on her spirit Tabby was an authority on Yorkshire with wailings of intensest agony, or traditions, and had strange things to when in the last days he moves like one tell of old-world doings in the county. in a dream, seeing some vision that The effect of all this was early seen. gladdens him and yet robs him of all While still in the nursery the little power to live, till the morning comes Brontës were writing romances, and when he is found dead, with fierce and all Emily's stories reflected the wild, staring eyes. A repulsive creation, and creepy tales she had become familiar yet it may safely be said that the imagwith. ination that conjured up a monster like On a larger scale the same influence Heathcliff, and developed his character is at work in Emily's extraordinary with such force, was equal to high crenovel, "Wuthering Heights.” For ative work. But there is more than extraordinary it is, whether we regard potential merit of character-drawing. the form or the substance. There are The younger Catherine has some charmfaults of expression and of treatment; ing traits; her light-heartedness and but in "Wuthering Heights we have fearlessness, if at times they seem to the first novel of a young woman with verge on recklessness and careless delittle knowledge either of literature or spair, are at other times exceedingly of life, and yet the story is told with attractive. Isabella Linton, though an compactness and force, scenery is de- inconsistent and somewhat sketchy scribed with marvellous vividness and conception, shows glimpses of a noble sympathy, characters are represented dignity when face to face with the with amazing individuality, while, dreadful life she has to lead at Wutherthough incidents and characters are at ing Heights. Edgar Linton, if cast in times so appalling that many readers too weak a mould, is yet in many return from the book in horror, there is spects well drawn. Gentleness, coursuch power, both of personality and of tesy, deep and true affection, treatment, as positively fascinates even scholarly tastes, make him a strong while it terrifies. But it should be contrast to the wild and uncultured noted Emily Brontë had no conscious Heathcliff, that "arid wilderness of intention of exciting terror. It is true furze and whinstone;" and if at times that, as Heathcliff reveals himself in all his character is allowed to become ighis savagery, one stands aghast at his nobly unmanly, enough of excellence wolfish ferocity; yet one can plainly remains to show that Emily Brontë see that the author is not seeking for could conceive a refined and cultured means of affecting her readers, but, mind. Probably the strongest assurheedless of readers, is working out her ance that her genius was capable of altogether astounding conception. careful, steady work as well as of wild The promise of the book is found not flights is to be found in the two serin the story (though what story there is vants, Nelly Dean and Joseph. Both is clearly told) but in the delineation of characters are well conceived, but Jocharacter. Heathcliff is a wonderful, seph is admirable. His faithfulness if repulsive, creation. His wife asks to the family he had served so long, questions that the reader often asks: his rugged nature, his unbending and "Is Mr. Heathcliff a man? If so, is repellent Calvinism, his certainty as to he mad? And, if not, is he a devil?" his own sanctity and his doubt as to It is difficult to say when he is most every other body's—all these are well terrible — when he is behaving like the set forth. Joseph is interesting in

and

another way he gives Emily Brontë | as what is to be found in "Wuthering opportunities of showing that she can Heights." On the contrary, its feelhandle the ludicrous with considerable ing for nature, its pensiveness, above effect. There is genuine humor in all the grandeur of thought and the some of Joseph's appearances, all the strength of soul in the finest passages, more that his efforts as a humorist are are in themselves attractive. The fatal quite unconscious. defect is the want of form; only now and again is the expression worthy of the conception. Something, too, might be said against a certain gloom in the poems, due to their renunciation of hope and love and joy, were this not fully redeemed by their passion for nature and their lofty resolution. If joy leaves us, never to return, we are not to despair.

In strong contrast to the gloom cast over the story by Heathcliff is the beauty of those passages that tell how Catherine Linton does all she can to soften the ruggedness in Hareton Earnshaw's disposition, and to raise him above the degraded level to which Heathcliff had depressed him, and of those that reveal the author's susceptibility to nature under all aspects. She is alive to the beauty of darkening moors and bright blue skies, of bare hillside and wooded valley, of carolling birds and whispering trees and murmuring streams. Her love of nature carries her into veins of thought that recall the imaginings of Shelley. Lockwood had gone to visit the lonely churchyard where lay Heathcliff, Edgar Linton, and Catherine Earnshaw, and he thus concludes the story of "Wuthering Heights:" "I lingered round them under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for sleepers in that quiet earth."

Charlotte Brontë compares her sister's novel to a figure rudely carved from a granite block: "There it stands, colossal, dark, and frowning half statue, half rock; in the former sense terrible and goblin-like, in the latter almost beautiful, for its coloring is of mellow grey, and moorland moss clothes it, and heath, with its blooming bells and balmy fragrance, grows faithfully close to the giant's foot." Rude "Wuthering Heights" is, but it has power and it has beauty, and when its

author died our literature lost a novelist of great promise.

There should be no despair for you

While nightly stars are burning;
While evening pours its silent dew,

And sunshine gilds the morning.
There should be no despair-though tears
May flow down like a river:
Are not the best beloved of years

Around your heart forever?

They weep, you weep, it must be so ;
And Winter sheds its grief in snow
Winds sigh as you are sighing,

Where Autumn's leaves are lying:

Yet, these revive, and from their fate,
Your fate cannot be parted:
Then, journey on, if not elate,

Still, never broken-hearted!

Of Emily Brontë it may be truly said she was never broken-hearted. Even sorrow and deadly sickness could not subdue the unbending firmness of her soul. When death was coming very near, she wrote in her wonderful last lines:

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!

Life that in me has rest,
As I-undying Life-have power in thee !

Here is what supremely fascinates the admirers of Emily Brontë's poems Emily Brontë's poetry is equally full-the brave, strong spirit that, even of power, but is perhaps equally un- when cabined and confined by convenlikely to find readers. This is not tional verse-forms, flames and dances because of anything in it so repellent in its bounds.

I'll walk where my own nature would be | author had achieved in the way of pure melody is fairly represented in these lines:

leading;

It vexeth me to choose another guide, she cries in proud independence, and echoes the prayer of "The Old

Stoic : ""

Careful reading of Emily Brontë's poetry deepens the regret that, after perusing "Wuthering Heights," one feels for her early death. She passed away before her rare powers had time fully to reveal themselves, though not before she had written enough to indicate the richness of her promise. How rich was not recognized in her lifetime, though of this she never complained. She complained, indeed, of nothing. Yet appreciation would doubtless have given her pleasure, selfcontrolled and self-reliant as she was. Praise of the highest kind has been freely bestowed on her work, but too late to gratify her, for, in her own fine

The softer qualities of the poems are seen in compositions like "Remembrance" (though it contains a characteristic note of strength), " The Outcast words: Mother," "A Death Scene,' "" "The

Wanderer from the Fold." What the

The dweller in the land of death
Is changed and careless too.
A. M. WILLIAMS.

bully appeared, it was so arranged that the gate was opened by Fray G― (the usual crowd had collected in the road to see the

A MUSCULAR CHRISTIAN. -Burton had been transferred from Fernando Po to the consulate at Santos and Sao Paulo, where there was a seminary of Capuchins, French-fun), who looked at him laughingly and men, and Italians, which contained some said, 'Surely, brother, we will fight for God curious specimens of muscular Christianity. or the Devil, if you please.' So saying, the For example: "One of the monks was a friar tucked up his sleeves and gown, and tall, magnificent, and very powerful man, told his adversary 'to come on,' which he an ex-cavalry officer, Count Somebody, did, and he was immediately knocked into whose name I forget, then Fray Ga cocked hat. 'Come, get up,' said the Before he arrived there was a bully in the town, rather of a free-thinking class, so he used to go and swagger up and down before the seminary and call out, 'Come out, you miserable petticoated monks! come -out and have a free fight! For God or the Devil!' When Frey G- arrived, he heard of this and it so happened he had had an English friend, when he was with his regiment, who had taught him the use of his fists. He found that his brother monks were dreadfully distressed at this unseemly challenge, so he said, 'The next time he comes, don't open the gate, but let the porter call me.' So the next time the

friar. 'No lying there and whimpering ;
the Devil won't win that way.' The man
stood three rounds, at the end of which he
whimpered and holloaed for mercy, and
amidst the jeers and bravos of a large
crowd the village cock' retired, a mass of
jelly and pulp, to his own dunghill, and
was never seen more within half a mile of
the seminary. Richard rejoiced in it, and
used to say 'What is that bull-priest doing
in that galère ?''

The Life of Captain Sir Richard F. Burton,
K.C.M.G., F.R.G.S. By his Wife, Isabel Burton,
Chapman and Hall.

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