The originals lived and died, acted and were acted upon, in Louth and Down; but on the steeps of "Wuthering Heights" they strut again, speaking the Yorkshire dialect, and braced by the tonic air of the northern downs. None of the stories betray their origin so clearly as "Wuthering Heights," just as none of the novelists were so fascinated with their father's tales as Emily. But the stories are all Bronte stories, an echo of the thrilling narratives related by old Hugh, and retold, I believe, a hundred times by Patrick. Of course, all the stories are made to live again under new forms, each writer giving the stamp of her own character to the new creations. Artists of the Bronte stamp are not portrait painters, nor mere reproducers. They never were content to be mere lackeys of nature. They were above nature, and everything without and within themselves they placed under contribution. Even the rough and rugged characters that have come from the hand of Emily show the work of the artist. She added to the repulsive Heathcliff qualities of her own. She is perfectly serious when she says: "Possibly some people might suspect him [Heathcliff] of a degree of under-bred pride. I have a sympathetic chord within me that tells me it is nothing of the sort. I know by instinct his reserve springs from an aversion to showy display of feeling, to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No! I'm running on too fast. I bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him." Knowing the model from which Emily Bronte worked, there are few passages which throw more light on the artist than this. Catherine Linton was modelled on the lovely Alice McClory, who bequeathed to her clever granddaughters all the personal attractions they possessed; but here again Emily bestows attributes of herself and sisters on her stately and lily-like grandmother. "She [Catherine] was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood. An admirable form, and the most exquisite little face I had ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible." The picture is neither that of a Bronte of the Haworth vicarage nor is it a portraiture of the flower plucked in Ballynaskeagh by Hugh Bronte, but it is Alice McClory diluted with a dash of the Penzance Branwells, and the effect is a perfect and beautiful picture, more pleasing, indeed, than a life-like portrait, with all the radiant beauty of the charming Alice, when she rode off to Magherally Church with the dashing Hugh Bronte. IV. HUGH BRONTE AS A TENANT-RIGHTER.