Her very style, so uncertain in its rendering of human speech, becomes flawless in such passages as this:  “It was three o’clock; the church-bell tolled as I passed under the belfry:  the charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and pale-beaming sun.  I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose.  If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path.  Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves about to drop.

“This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay....  I then turned eastward.

“On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening momently; she looked over Hay which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys; it was yet a mile distant, but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life.  My ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could not tell:  but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks threading their passes.  That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough of the most remote.

“A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far away and so clear:  a positive tramp, tramp; a metallic clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground, efface the aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and blended clouds, where tint melts into tint.

“The din sounded on the causeway....”

Flawless this, too, of the sky after sunset:  “Where the sun had gone down in simple state—­pure of the pomp of clouds—­spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven.”

And this of her own moors:  “There are great moors behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet.  The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads:  they stretch out east, west, north and south—­white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge.”

She has given the secret of the moor country in a phrase:  “I felt the consecration of its loneliness.”  In that one line you have the real, the undying Charlotte Bronte.