160 Mr. J. H. Balfour Browne [June 1, 



Heights," a book -which has some of the force of the plaj-writers of 

 the great age of Greece in its terrible pages — although slowly recog- 

 nized in her greatness, although tardily accepted bj a certain intelligent 

 public — was, in my opinion, a greater genius than her sister, and has 

 made such a deep mark upon the fictional literature of England that 

 it cannot be erased or obliterated. 



That her intellectual stature was higher, that her genius was 

 greater, can be seen not only when they stand side by side in their 

 novels, but when you compare their poetry. Much that Charlotte 

 wrote was good, but none of it was great. Much that Emily wrote 

 is above praise, and goes straight to our acceptance and belief as the 

 work of the highest genius. 



Let me, although it is a mistake to patch a lecture with a piece 

 of such supreme merit, for " it taketh away from the garment and 

 the rent is made worse," quote a verse or two : 



No coward soul is mine, 

 No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere. 



I see Heaven's glories shine, 

 And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. 



Vain are the thousand creeds 

 That move men's hearts ; unutterably vain. 



Worthless as withered weeds. 

 Or idlest froth amid the boundless main. 



With wide-embracing love 

 Thy spirit animates eternal years, 



Pervades and broods above. 

 Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears. 



Though earth and man were gone. 



And suns and universes ceased to be, 

 And Thou wert left alone. 



Every existence would exist in Thee. 



These are gems of " purest ray serene," from that cavern of the 

 Haworth parsonage. And these, it may be said, like one swallow, do 

 not make a summer ; but they are certainly the heralds of the coming 

 clement season. A girl who could write Hke this before she was 

 twenty-six years of age, and with only the starved experience of life 

 to her intellectual credit, could have written in time even better ; 

 but what one feels about the crudest of her writings is that they were 

 decisive work, not tentative effort; we feel that, with all their defects, 

 and some of these are glaring enough, there was an obvious strength 

 which did not leave you free to agree or disagree, to acquiesce or 

 withhold your critical assent, but which commandeered your admira- 

 tion and made a slave of your attention. But even her l)est poetry, 

 which does not bulk large, is not so supreme as the rugged prose in 

 which she has spoken of " Heathcliff and Cathy " in the shuddering 

 pages of "AVuthering Heights." Ko weirder work of genius ever 

 came from a woman's pen. 



