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TitleA History Of English literature
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Page 1

History
of

English Literature




Article From


Microsoft ® Encarta ® 2008. © 1993-2007
Microsoft Corporation






Compiled by:

Masoud Abadi


[email protected]




And

Iman Kiaee


[email protected]
























http://entrance86.blogfa.com/
http://entrance86.blogfa.com/

Page 199

199

Lockwood, Heathcliff‘s tenant on another farm, recounts a visit to the Wuthering Heights estate

and his encounters with Heathcliff and the other members of the household. Heathcliff provided no

hospitality to his guest when a snowstorm struck. Zillah, the servant, offered to let Lockwood sleep

in an unoccupied room in the house.

From Wuthering Heights

By Emily Brontë

While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make
a noise, for her master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, and never
let anybody lodge there willingly.
I asked the reason.
She did not know, she answered; she had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many
queer goings on, she could not begin to be curious.
Too stupified to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The
whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out
near the top, resembling coach windows.
Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-
fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the
family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window,
which it enclosed, served as a table.
I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure
against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else.
The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it
was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a
name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there
varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.
In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine
Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a
glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres—the air swarmed with
Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle wick
reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted
calf-skin.
I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up,
and spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling
dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription—'Catherine Earnshaw, her book,' and a date
some quarter of a century back.
I shut it, and took up another, and another, till I had examined all. Catherine's library was
select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a
legitimate purpose; scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen and ink commentary—at least, the
appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left.
Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an
unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page, quite a treasure probably when first
lighted on, I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph, rudely
yet powerfully sketched.
An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began, forthwith,
to decypher her faded hieroglyphics.

Page 200

200

'An awful Sunday!' commenced the paragraph beneath. 'I wish my father were back again.
Hindley is a detestable substitute—his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious—H. and I are going to
rebel—we took our initiatory step this evening.
'All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so Joseph must needs get up a
congregation in the garret; and, while Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a
comfortable fire—doing anything but reading their Bibles, I'll answer for it—Heathcliff, myself,
and the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take our Prayer-books, and mount. We were
ranged in a row, on a sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would
shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain idea! The service
lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us
descending—
' 'What, done already?'
'On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a
mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners!
' 'You forget you have a master here,' says the tyrant. 'I'll demolish the first who puts me out of
temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances, darling, pull his
hair as you go by; I heard him snap his fingers.'
'Frances pulled his hair heartily; and then went and seated herself on her husband's knee, and
there they were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour—foolish palaver that
we should be ashamed of.
'We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened
our pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph, on an errand
from the stables. He tears down my handywork, boxes my ears, and croaks—
' 'T' maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath nut oe'red, und t'sahnd uh't gospel still i' yer lugs,
and yah darr be laiking! shame on ye! sit ye dahn, ill childer! they's good books eneugh if ye'll
read 'em; sit ye dahn, and think uh yer sowls!'
'Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we might receive, from the far-off
fire, a dull ray to show us the text of the lumber he thrust upon us.
'I could not bear the employment. I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the
dog-kennel, vowing I hated a good book.
'Heathcliff kicked his to the same place.
'Then there was a hubbub!
' 'Maister Hindley!' shouted our chaplain. 'Maister, coom hither! Miss Cathy's riven th' back off
'Th' Helmet uh Salvation,' un' Heathcliff's pawsed his fit intuh t' first part uh 'T' Brooad Way to
Destruction!' It's fair flaysome ut yah let 'em goa on this gait. Ech! th' owd man ud uh laced 'em
properly—bud he's goan!'
'Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of us by the collar, and
the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen, where, Joseph asseverated, 'owd Nick'
would fetch us as sure as we were living; and, so comforted, we each sought a separate nook to
await his advent.
'I reached this book, and a pot of ink from a shelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me
light, and I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is
impatient and proposes that we should appropriate the dairy woman's cloak, and have a
scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion—and then, if the surly old man
come in, he may believe his prophesy verified—we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain
than we are here.'
I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject; she
waxed lachrymose.

Page 397

397

Page 398

History of English Literature



Microsoft ® Encarta ® 2008. © 1993-2007
Microsoft Corporation


May 28, 2010









Compiled by:

Masoud Abadi


[email protected]






And


Iman Kiaee


[email protected]


































http://entrance86.blogfa.com/
http://entrance86.blogfa.com/

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