Cathy and Heathcliff can be found in

Emily Brontë was one of three sisters—all of them writers—who lived in the first half of the nineteenth century. Their father was a clergyman and their home was Haworth Parsonage, a bleak, rather forbidding house with the gravestones of the churchyard on one side and the wild, desolate Torkshire moors on the other.

Their lives were spent in this lonely little village of the West Riding, and the York- shire character and landscape colour all their writings. Emily, particularly, loved the windswept, moorland country which surrounded their home, and Wuthering Heights, her only novel, owes its sombre, fascinating atmosphere to the background of her life. Of the three sisters, Charlotte, Emily and Anne, only the work of Charlotte gained recognition in the author's lifetime; but now, a century later, we recognise the true genius of Emily. The beauty of her poetry, and the power and dramatic quality of her novelfar excel anything written by her sisters (even Charlotte's masterpiece, Jane Eyre).

Wuthering Heights relates the histories of two neighbouring Yorkshire families, the Lintons and the Earnshaws, through three generations; and the changes of fortune brought upon both of them by the chance action of Mr. Earnshaw, which is described in the excerpt from the book which follows. The strange little foundling boy grows up to be the principal actor in the drama. This is Heathcliff, a character drawn with a power and assurance which at once mark Emily Bronte as a great English writer.

J. K.


(The story is told in the first person, and is taken up in turn by minor characters in the book. Here Nellie Dean, an old family servant, is telling the story.)

Before I came to live here I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; because my mother had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hare ton's father, and I got used to playing with the children; I ran errands too, and helped to make hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody would set me to. One fine summer morning—it was the beginning of harvest, I remember—Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came downstairs dressed for a journey; and, after he told Joseph what was to be done during the day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me—for I sat eating my porridge with them—and he said, speaking to Iris son, "Now, my bonny man, I'm going to Liverpool to-day; what shall I bring you? You may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!" Hindley named a fiddle, and then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly six years old, but she could ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip. He did not forget me; for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe sometimes. He promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and then he kissed his children, said good-bye, and set off.

It seemed a long while to us all—the three days of his absence—and often did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw expected him by suppertime on the third evening, and she put the meal off hour after hour; there were no signs of Iris coming, however, and at last the children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then it grew dark; she would have had them to bed, but they begged sadly to be allowed to stay up an...

This is only a preview of this story. The site administrator is evaluating methods to bring it to you.