cheek frozen against hers."

Emily Bronte was no student of books. It was not from among the fruits
of any other author's labour that she gathered these eminent words. But
I think I have found the suggestion of this action of Heathcliff's--the
disinterment. Not in any inspiring ancient Irish legend, as has been
suggested, did Emily Bronte find her incident; she found it (but she
made, and did not find, its beauty) in a mere costume romance of Bulwer
Lytton, whom Charlotte Bronte, as we know, did not admire. And Emily
showed no sign at all of admiration when she did him so much honour as to
borrow the action of his studio-bravo.

Heathcliff's love for Catherine's past childhood is one of the profound
surprises of this unparalleled book; it is to call her childish ghost--the
ghost of the little girl--when she has been a dead adult woman twenty
years that the inhuman lover opens the window of the house on the
Heights. Something is this that the reader knew not how to look for.
Another thing known to genius and beyond a reader's hope is the
tempestuous purity of those passions. This wild quality of purity has a
counterpart in the brief passages of nature that make the summers, the
waters, the woods, and the windy heights of that murderous story seem so
sweet. The "beck" that was audible beyond the hills after rain, the
"heath on the top of Wuthering Heights" whereon, in her dream of Heaven,
Catherine, flung out by angry angels, awoke sobbing for joy; the bird
whose feathers she--delirious creature--plucks from the pillow of her
deathbed ("This--I should know it among a thousand--it's a lapwing's.
Bonny bird; wheeling over our heads in the middle of the moor. It wanted
to get to its nest, for the clouds had touched the swells and it felt
rain coming"); the only two white spots of snow left on all the moors,
and the brooks brim-full; the old apple-trees, the smell of stocks and