Emily." This martial stress and circumstance is rather overwhelming— and artificial. And "Wuthering Heights," whatever its naïveté of construction, its signs of inexperience, does not suggest the artificial. It is like a grim and elemental outcome of nature, not meant either for human enjoyment or human opposition. It makes us, as it were, spectators in strange lands, where our word counts for nothing; we stand by pits of the passions. Had it been German-made to the degree Mrs. Ward imagines, instead of being virtually a creation of impersonal and independent genius, it would not have its, on the whole, decisive imaginative justification.

Were it possible for Emily Brontë to have been dominated by book impressions and such casual experiences as her critic supposes-in short, were she an artist of the receptive order-she would surely have reproduced more of her every-day life, in the manner of Anne, the frail "little one," in "Agnes Grey" and (more gloomily) in "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall," or in that of even Charlotte in her more personal and argumentative moments when the compelling new self was not active. Emily was too original for that. She obeyed that inscrutable and overmastering spirit of imagination which, as Charlotte said in a well-known preface, "strangely wills and works for itself." Mr. Swinburne rightly finds in her "a dark, unconscious instinct, as of primitive nature-worship." "Unconscious instinct" contains more essential truth than the Germanic dissertation of Mrs. Ward. And, strangely enough, if we may touch again the question of Emily Brontë's ancestry, in the oldest known fragment of Celtic poetry, handed down for hundreds of years in Irish tradition, there is the unconscious instinct, not only of worship of, but absolute identification with, nature. There is a gleam as well as darkness, and the sug

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gestion of a fierceness of spirit that the strenuous and conquering Emily would have understood and sympathized with readily. The singer is "the wind which breathes upon the sea," "the vulture upon the rocks," "the ox of the seven combats," "the fairest of plants," "a wild boar in valor," "a salmon in the water," "a lake in the plain"-everything in his sheer primeval world, as Emily Brontë's spirit was everything in the great moorlands. The singer before the dawn of Celtic history expressed the dark, unconscious instinct; in the novelist and poet, after sophisticated ages, nature again stirred and spoke the nature below books and beyond race. Eventually, of course, as we see by later poems, the unconscious instinct gave place, in a measure, to a conscious and considered philosophy.

The

This "Haworth Edition" contains, besides the novels and poems of the sisters (and the "Cottage Poems" of their father), their portraits and the original title-pages and prefaces in their due places. Mrs. Gaskell's "Life," with an introduction and notes by Mr. Clement Shorter, will conclude the series. style of the six volumes already issued is worthy of the house so honorably associated with Haworth, though occasionally the printer has neglected quotation marks. We have left to the last a reference to a feature which some will regard as special-illustrations, from photographs, of places indicated in the works. They are, of course, interesting in their way, though the way is too literal. They would bind the genius that speaks for many scenes to too local and particular ones. For instance, the description of Lucy Snowe in London is accompanied by a picture of Ludgate Hiil and St. Paul's Cathe dral in 1848. The pages have as much to do with Ludgate Hill of 1828 or 2048. They are concerned with a state of soul much more than with a local habitation.

When Mary Cardross first saw Jethro he was six years old, and still wore petticoats. He was not particularly small for his age, and his appearance was, to say the least of it, peculiar. A cotton frock, made with skirt and body like a housemaid's morning dress, reached to his ankles; and he seemed to have very little underneath, for this outer garment hung limp and straight from waist to heel, except on Sundays, when, fresh from the hands of his aunt, it stuck out all round like a lampshade. His hair, cropped very short round the edges, was several inches long on the crown. Mrs. Gegg, by courtesy his "aunt," did not even put a basin on his head by way of guide in the shearing, but brushing all the hair forward from the centre of the crown, laid the scissors against his forehead, and cut the hair close to the skin all round. grew again quickly, and stuck out above his temples like a new straw thatch.

It

"Isn't he rather a big boy for petticoats?" Mary asked, as her landlady removed the supper, pausing at intervals to explain Jethro's presence under her roof.

"Yes, 'e be a biggish boy, but I baint a-goin' to be at no expense for 'im as I can 'elp. 'E can wait cum Christmas for 'is trowsies. 'E ought to be thankful as 'e weren't tuk to the workus, an' me only 'is mother's cousin, though 'e do call me haunt. 'E be a great expense, and I've 'ad 'im this two year. The most onandiest nothingly child you ever see-always ascribblin' and a-messin' and moonin'. I don't set no store by Jethro, I can tell you, miss! 'E's got to be brought up 'ard to hearn 'is own livin'"-and Mrs. Gegg paused breathless. Mary

said nothing, but she felt rather sorry for Jethro.

Had Mrs. Gegg lived anywhere but in the lovely lonely Coteswold village, perched like a smiling fastness in the midst of beech-clad hills, reached only by the loosest and worst of roads, she would hardly have dared to dress a six-year boy in such extraordinary fashion. Public opinion would have been too strong for her. But Nookham, with its dozen cottages, lived and let live in easy apathy, and Jethro, in bitterness of spirit, wore his cotton frock. Two years ago Mary had discovered Nookham. Friends had driven her over to have tea in the woods, and to gather the wild strawberries found there in such abundance. She fell in love with the place, and came again on a private exploring expedition, when she discovered that lodgings were to be had at the post office, in the house of one Mrs. Gegg. There she spent a most delightful fortnight sketching. Never was more attentive and honest landlady, never cleaner, more orderly house! It is true that Mary's painting tackle greatly distressed her hostess, partaking, as it did, of the nature of things "messy and slummicky," which her soul abhorred. Otherwise, she liked Mary, as did most people; and she had in her way great toleration for the "curus ways" of the "gentry" generally, expecting less of them in the matter of common sense than she exacted from people of her own class. And now, after two years in Italy, Mary found herself once more in the dear Coteswold country, in the very middle of a perfect June. Nookham generally was unfeignedly pleased to see her again. Few strangers came to stay there, and the roads were too bad

and too hilly for even the ubiquitous cyclist. The squire's house was three miles from the village, the vicarage two, and the tall lady with the abundant wavy gray hair, and strong, kind face had made a very distinct and pleasant impression.

Mary did not catch a glimpse of Jethro during her first day until, happening at post-time to want a letter she had left in her bedroom, she ran upstairs to fetch it.

The room, with door flung wide, faced the narrow staircase. In the very middle of the floor stood Jethro, in rapt contemplation of a large photograph of Giovanni Bellini's Madonna-the one in the sacristy of the Frari at Venicewhich Mary had placed on the little mantelpiece.

The day was well on in the week, the cotton frock hung in limp and draggled folds about the childish limbs, and the queer little creature's attitude was almost pathetically boyish as he stood, legs far apart, his hands grasping the lilac cotton where pockets ought to have been.

For a full minute Mary stood watching him. He made no attempt to touch the picture; in fact-and afterwards the circumstance seemed significant-he stood at some distance from it, that he might see it whole.

Mary must have moved, for the stairs creaked. Jethro jumped, did not even turn his head to see who was coming, but darted under the bed with the instant speed of a startled squirrel. She came into the room, shut the door, and sat down on her trunk, remarking, "If you come out I'll show you some more pictures!" Dead silence for five minutes, while Mary sat patiently waiting. She was determined that she would in no way frighten or constrain the timid child, for it seemed to her that the little Coteswold peasant who stood gazing with absorbed interest at her favorite Madonna must be worth knowing. 385

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VOL. VII.

"I can't think why you stay under there, Jethro," she said, at last; "we could have such a nice time together if you would come out, and I must go directly to finish my letters."

But, like Brer Rabbit, Jethro "lay low and said nuffin," so Mary was fain to go and finish her letters, determined to play a waiting game. From time to time she stopped writing, looking pained and puzzled. "It is dreadful that a little child should be so afraid of one," she said to herself; "what can they have done to him?" Presently Jethro rushed past the open door, and, later on, there came from the direction of the back kitchen a sound uncom-monly like smacks.

Mrs. Gegg laid the supper as though she were dealing cards with the angry emphasis indulged in by certain whist players after a series of bad hands. Mary ventured on a timid remark to the effect that Nookham had changed but little during her two years' absence. Mrs. Gegg replied that "Squire didn't encourage no fancy building," and that, therefore, it was likely to remain the same for some time to come. Conversation languished, and she went into the garden to "take in" certain exquisitely white garments still spread upon the currant bushes, while Mary stood at the front door waiting for the nightingale to "touch his lyre of gold," when another and very different sound broke into the scented stillness-a breathless, broken sound of sobs-a child's sobs. She listened for a moment, then turned and went back into the house to follow the sound. From the landing window she noted with relief that Mrs. Gegg was engaged in converse with a neighbor (Mary stood in great awe of her landlady); she mounted a ladder leading to the attic, and there, under the slates, lying full length on the outside of his clean little bed, was Jethro, sobbing with an abandon and intensity that left Mary in no doubt as to what she

should do this time. Bumping her head violently, and nearly driving it through the slates in her haste, for she "could by no means stand upright, she climbed in and reached the side of the bed.

Her entrance was so noisy that the child had plenty of time to vanish, as he had done in the afternoon; but he was evidently so astonished by her appearance that no thought of flight occurred to him; he even forgot to be frightened, left off crying, and asked, eagerly:

"Did you 'urt your 'ead?"

"No, not much. I heard you crying, and came to see what was the matter."

Jethro looked queerer than ever. He wore a voluminous unbleached calico nightgown, several sizes too big for him; the big tears on his cheeks shone like jewels in the soft June twilight, and the thatch of tow-colored hair was rumpled into a quickset hedge above his great, grave forehead.

"I've been beat," he whispered.
"Why, what had you done?"

"I thrown a stwun at Earny Mustoe akez 'e did call oi 'Jemima,' and it did break 's mother's windy."

"Is he bigger than you?"
"Yes, 'e be noine!"

"Then why didn't you go for him and hit him? You couldn't break any windows that way, and it would teach him better manners."

Jethro stared in astonishment at this warlike lady.

"But 'e be ever so much bigger nor me," he exclaimed, "and I be allays beat aterwards;" then, remembering his woes, "and it do 'urt so, it do," and Jethro began to wail again.

Mary gathered the woe-begone little figure into her arms, and sat down on the floor, saying cheerfully:

"Cheer up, old chap; I'll pay for that window, and you mustn't throw any more stones; and don't cry any more, and we'll have ever such nice times while I'm here."

It was evident that Jethro was not used to being cuddled. He sat stiff and solemn on her knee, staring at her with great puzzled eyes. She talked to him as tender women talk to children, and finally put him to bed, tucked him in, kissed and blessed him, and climbed down the ladder again. Much to her relief she saw that Mrs. Gegg was still in the garden.

Jethro lay awake, staring at a patch of moonlight on the whitewashed wall. Hazily, vaguely there arose in his mind a recollection that at one time some one always tucked him into bed-some one who looked kindly at him. He couldn't remember the face, but the eyes were like the tall lady's-like the lady's in the picture downstairs; and again Jethro wanted to cry, but not because he had been "beat." However, he would not cry; she had asked him not to, and she had such sharp ears, and she would come to see him every night, and she had lots more pictures. Here the tall lady and the lady in the picture became inextricably mixed up, and Jethro slept that blessed sleep of childhood which is oblivion.

"I'd just like to show you, miss, a present as I've 'ad from my nephew down Cubberly way. 'E's on'y fifteen, and 'e's that clever with 'is fingers-”

Mrs. Gegg held up for Mary's admiration a frame made of fir-cones which had been varnished and squeezed together till they looked like a hollow square of highly polished brown sausages. "There, Jethro, if you could make summat like that!" "I likes 'em better a-growin'," said Jethro, softly.

During the scornful scolding that followed, Mary watched Jethro. His serene gray eyes under the square, peaceful forehead looked a trifle weary, and he sighed as his aunt harangued him, but he did not seem greatly disturbed. After all, whether people scolded or not, gracious gentle things

continued a-growin', and Jethro, through the sweet uses of adversity, had early learnt that "Nature, the kind old nurse," never refuses consolation to such of her children as seek it in sweet, solitary places with an understanding heart.

Mary found Jethro very difficult to get at. He followed her about, and would sit watching her paint for hours in silent, absolute absorption, but he very seldom spoke himself. One day, as they were walking together down the steep stony road leading to the woods, he suddenly clasped her round the knees, exclaiming, "You be such a dear 'ooman!"

Mary stooped hastily and kissed the little upturned face. In a life compassed about with much affection and many friends, no one had ever spoken to her with such a rapture of appreciation, and she fell to thinking how little she had done to deserve it. Two days after she got a letter.

"The mater cannot write herself," it ran, "because she is busy with a big chest in the attic upon which the dust of ages has hitherto been allowed to rest in peace. From time to time you may hear her murmur, 'Six, and an average size. Poor little lad! What a shame!-this will do, I think.' So you know what is going on. Do you remember the bundles? All neatly docketed-To fit boy of twelve,' etc. A regular trousseau is coming, so tell that kiddie to cheer up."

Three days later Jethro appeared at school in all the glory of jacket and "trowsies;" and the very boy who had most grievously tormented him about his petticoats chastised another on his behalf who made derisive remarks about a "gal in trowsies." Thus the chief misery in Jethro's life was removed, and he felt that he bid fair to become a social success.

His aunt manifested no objection to the new clothes. A thrifty soul, she

believed in taking what she could get, and remarked, quite good-naturedly, that Jethro did look a bit more like other folk now.

"Of a Saturday" Mrs. Gegg "hearthstoned" the whole of her back kitchen, till its spotlessness rivalled that of the whitewashed walls. The placid expectancy of Saturday evening had settled on the village. Mary, tired by her long day's painting, was resting upon the slippery horsehair sofa, and meditating on the impossibility of reproducing on canvas the brilliant transparency of young larches, when her landlady burst into the room, positively breathless with passion.

"Just you come here, miss, and see what that there mishtiful young imp o' darkness been and done. I'll warm 'im so's 'e sha'n't forget it in a 'urry!"

Mary hastily followed the woman into the sacred back kitchen, and there in a corner near the pump crouched Jethro, one arm curved above his head to protect it from the rain of blows that had just fallen, while the floor was decorated by a monochrome landscape painted by Jethro with Mrs. Gegg's blue-bag.

Mary gazed at it with astonishment. With strong certainty of touch the child had splashed in, by means of the coarse blue, the stretch of hills that met his eyes every time he went out at Mrs. Gegg's front door. The queer impressionist sketch had atmosphere, distance and, above all, perspective. "Oh, Mrs. Gegg!" cried Mary, holding back the angry little woman with her strong arms as she was advancing across the picture to wreak fresh vengeance upon Jethro, "leave it! leave it till Monday, and I'll give you blue and whitening to last you a twelvemonth. It is a wonderful picture! Some day you will be proud of him. He couldn't help it. We none of us gave him anything to draw on. Why didn't you tell me, child, that you could draw like this?"