age
churchyard and visits the eternal resting-place of her heroes, the
grass grows green alike over grave of tyrant and martyr; and she
wonders how "any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the
sleepers in that quiet earth."

102. I am well aware that here we are dealing with a woman of genius;
but genius only throws into bolder relief all that can, and actually
does, take place in the lives of all men; otherwise were it genius no
longer, but incoherence or madness. It becomes clear to us, after a
time, that genius is by no means confined to the extraordinary; and
that veritable superiority is composed of elements that every day
offers to every man. But we are not considering literature now; and
indeed, not by her literary gifts, but by her inner life, was Emily
Bronte comforted; for it by no means follows that moral activity waits
on brilliant literary powers. Had she remained silent, nor ever grasped
a pen, still had there been no diminution of the power within her, of
the smile and the fulness of love; still had she worn the air of one
who knew whither her steps were tending; and the profound certainty
that dwelt within her still had proclaimed that she had known how to
make her peace, far up on the heights, with the great disquiet and
misery of the world. We should never have known of her--that is all.

There is much to be learned from this humble life, and yet were it
perhaps not well to hold it forth as an example to such as already
incline overmuch to resignation, for these it might mislead. It is a
life that would seem to have been wholly passive--and to be passive is
not good for all. She died a virgin in her twenty-ninth year: and it is
sad to die a virgin. Is it not the paramount duty of every human being
to offer to his destiny all that can be offered to the destiny of man?
And indeed we had far better leave behind us work unfinished than life
itself incomplete. It is good to be indifferent to vain or idle
pleasures; but we have no right almost voluntarily to neglect the most
important chances of indispensable happiness. The soul that is unhappy
may have within it cause for noble regret. To look largely on the
sadness of one's life is to make essay, in the darkness, of the wings
that shall one day enable us to soar high above this sadness. Effort
was lacking, perhaps, in Emily Bronte's life. (In her soul there was
wealth of passion and freedom and daring, but in her life timidity,
silence, inertness