e, who was there, and who drew behind me at his approach, he
added, half sneeringly: 'Will _you_ come, chuck? I'll not hurt you. No!
to you I've made myself worse than the devil. Well, there is _one_ who
won't shrink from my company! By God! she's relentless. Oh, damn it!
It's unutterably too much for flesh and blood to bear--even mine.'"

It is Heathcliff's susceptibility to this immaterial passion, the fury
with which he at once sustains and is consumed by it, that makes him
splendid.

Peace under green grass could never be the end of Heathcliff or of such
a tragedy as _Wuthering Heights_. Its real end is the tale told by the
shepherd whom Lockwood meets on the moor.

"'I was going to the Grange one evening--a dark evening, threatening
thunder--and, just at the turn of the Heights, I encountered a little
boy with a sheep and two lambs before him; he was crying terribly; and I
supposed the lambs were skittish and would not be guided.

"'What is the matter, my little man?' I asked.

"'There's Heathcliff and a woman, yonder, under t' Nab,' he blubbered,
'un' I darnut pass 'em.'"

It is there, the end, in one line, charged with the vibration of the
supernatural. One line that carries the suggestion of I know not what
ghostly and immaterial passion and its unearthly satisfaction.

* * * * *

And this book stands alone, absolutely self-begotten and self-born. It
belongs to no school; it follows no tendency. You cannot put it into any
category. It is not "Realism", it is not "Romance", any more than _Jane
Eyre_: and if any other master's method, De Maupassant's or Turgeniev's,
is to be the test, it will not stand it. There is nothing in it you can
seize and name. You will not find in it support for any creed or theory.
The redemption of Catherine Linton and Hareton is thrown in by the way
in sheer opulence of imagination. It is not insisted on. Redemption is
not the keynote of _Wuthering Heights_. The moral problem never entered
into Emily Bronte's head. You may call her what you will--Pagan,
pantheist, transcendentalist mystic and worshipper of earth, she slips
from all your formulas. She reveals a point of view above good and evil.
Hers is an attitude of tolerance that is only not tenderness because her
acceptance of life and of all that lives is unqualified and unstinting.
It is too lucid and too high for pity.

Heathcliff and Catherine exist. They justify their existence by their