About this time the Reverend Arthur Nicholls, Mr. Brontë’s assistant, asked Charlotte to be his wife. Her father was bitterly opposed to the marriage; the daughter obeyed him; and Mr. Nicholls left Haworth. It was not until 1854 that Mr. Brontë could be induced to give his consent. On June 29th of this year, Charlotte was married to Mr. Nicholls. They visited Ireland, and on their return took up a happy and useful life at Haworth. The future seemed full of promise, the only cloud upon it being Mr. Nicholls’ lack of sympathy with his wife’s literary pursuits. But the story so sad till now was to be soon and sadly ended. On the 31st of March, 1855, Charlotte died at Haworth. “Alas,” sings Matthew Arnold:[8] “Early she goes on the path To the silent country, and leaves Half her laurels unwon, Dying too soon!” But in turning to Emily Brontë, his voice takes the accent of wonder: “She (How shall I sing her?) whose soul Knew no fellow for might, Passion, vehemence, grief, Daring, since Byron died.” * * * * * [Sidenote: Haworth.] The village of Haworth stands, steep and gray, on the topmost side of an abrupt low hill. Such hills, more steep than high, are congregated round, circle beyond circle, to the utmost limit of the horizon. Not a wood, not a river. As far as eye can reach these treeless hills, their sides cut into fields by gray walls of stone with here and there a gray stone village, and here and there a gray stone mill, present no other colors than the singular north-country brilliance of the green grass, and the blackish gray of the stone. Now and then a toppling, gurgling mill-beck gives life to the scene. But the real life, the only beauty of the country, is set on the top of all the hills, where moor joins moor from Yorkshire into Lancashire, a coiled chain of wild, free places. White with snow in winter, black at midsummer, it is only when spring dapples the dark heather-stems with the vivid green of the sprouting whortleberry bushes, only when in early autumn the moors are one humming mass of fragrant purple, that any beauty of tint lights up the scene. But there is always a charm in the moors for hardy and solitary spirits. Between them and heaven nothing dares to interpose. The shadows of the coursing clouds alter the aspect of the place a hundred times a day. A hundred little springs and streams well in its soil, making spots of vivid greenness round their rise. A hundred birds of every kind are flying and singing there. Larks sing; cuckoos call; all the tribe of linnets and finches twitter in the bushes; plovers moan; wild ducks fly past; more melancholy than all, on stormy days, the white sea-mews cry, blown so far inland by the force of the gales that sweep irresistibly over the treeless and houseless moors. There in the spring you may take in your hands the weak, halting fledglings of the birds; rabbits and game multiply in the hollows. There in the