But not only was Emily’s style sinless; it is on the whole purest, most natural, and most inevitable in her dialogue; and that, although the passions she conceived were so tremendous, so unearthly, that she might have been pardoned if she found no human speech to render them.

What is more, her dramatic instinct never fails her as it fails Charlotte over and over again.  Charlotte had not always the mastery and self-mastery that, having worked a situation up to its dramatic climax, leaves it there.  A certain obscure feeling for rightness guides her in the large, striding movement of the drama; it is in the handling of the scenes that she collapses.  She wanders from climax to climax; she goes back on her own trail; she ruins her best effects by repetition.  She has no continuous dramatic instinct; no sense whatever of dramatic form.

These are present somehow in Wuthering Heights, in spite of its monstrous formlessness.  Emily may have had no more sense of form for form’s sake than Charlotte; she may have had no more dramatic instinct; but she had an instinct for the ways of human passion.  She knew that passion runs its course, from its excitement to its climax and exhaustion.  It has a natural beginning and a natural end.  And so her scenes of passion follow nature.  She never goes back on her effect, never urges passion past its climax, or stirs it in its exhaustion.  In this she is a greater “realist” than Charlotte.

* * * * *

It is incredible that Wuthering Heights, or any line of it, any line that Emily Bronte ever wrote, should have passed for Charlotte’s.  She did things that Charlotte could never have done if she tried a thousand years, things not only incomparably greater, but unique.

Yet in her lifetime she was unrecognized.  What is true of her prose is true also of her poems.  They, indeed, did bring her a little praise, obscure and momentary.  No less she was unrecognized to such an extent that Wuthering Heights was said and believed to be an immature work of Charlotte’s.  Even after her death, her eulogist, Sydney Dobell, was so far from recognizing her, that he seems to have had a lingering doubt as to Ellis Bell’s identity until Charlotte convinced him of his error.

And only the other day a bold attempt was made to tear from Emily Bronte the glory that she has won at last from time.  The very latest theory,[A] offered to the world as a marvellous discovery, the fruit of passionate enthusiasm and research, is the old, old theory that Charlotte, and not Emily, wrote Wuthering Heights.  And Sydney Dobell, with his little error, is made to serve as a witness.  In order to make out a case for Charlotte, the enthusiast and researcher is obliged to disparage every other work of Emily’s.  He leans rashly enough on the assumption that her “Gondal Chronicles” were, in their puerility, beneath contempt, still more rashly on his own opinion that she was no poet.