ame, Heathcliff!' said I. 'It is for God to punish wicked
people. We should learn to forgive.'

"'No, God won't have the satisfaction that I shall,' he returned. 'I
only wish I knew the best way! Let me alone, and I'll plan it out: while
I'm thinking of that I don't feel pain.'"

It is very like Heathcliff. It is also pathetically like a child.

In Hareton Earnshaw Emily Bronte is fairly on the earth all the time,
and nothing could be finer than her handling of this half-brutalized,
and wholly undeveloped thing, her showing of the slow dawn of his
feelings and intelligence. Her psychology is never psychologic. The
creature reveals himself at each moment of his unfolding for what he is.
It was difficult; for in his degradation he had a certain likeness in
unlikeness to the degraded Heathcliff. It was Heathcliff's indomitable
will that raised him. Hareton cannot rise without a woman's hand to help
him. The younger Catherine again was difficult, because of her likeness
to her mother. Her temper, her vanity, her headstrong trickiness are
Catherine Earnshaw. But Catherine Linton is a healthy animal, incapable
of superhuman passion, capable only (when properly chastened by
adversity) of quite ordinary pity and devotion. She inspires
bewilderment, but terror and fascination never; and never the glamour,
the magic evoked by the very name of Catherine Earnshaw. Her escapades
and fantasies, recalling Catherine Earnshaw, are all on an attenuated
scale.

Yet Catherine Earnshaw seems now and then a less solid figure. That is
because her strength does not lie in solidity at all. She is a thing of
flame and rushing wind. One half of her is akin to the storms of
Wuthering Heights, the other belongs to her unseen abiding-place. Both
sides of her are immortal.

And they are of that immortality which is the spirit of place--the
spirit that, more than all spirits, inspired Emily Bronte. Two of
Charlotte's books, _The Professor_ and _Villette_, might have been
written away from Haworth; Emily's owes much of its outward character to
the moors, where it was brought forth. Not even Charlotte could paint,
could suggest scenes like Emily Bronte. There is nobody to compare with
her but Thomas Hardy; and even he has to labour more, to put in more
strokes to achieve his effect. In four lines she gives the storm, the
cold and savage foreground, and the distance of the Heights: "One may
guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by