CHARLOTTE BRONTË.
65
interest, so tenderly and studiously built up, has never, to speak truth, given me one passing thrill—in the exquisitely fit and faithful phrase of a great living poet, one 'sweet possessive pang'—of the tender delight and pity requickened wellnigh to tears at every fresh reperusal or chance recollection of that one simpler page in 'Bleak House' which describes the baby household tended by the little sister who leaves her lesser charges locked up while she goes out charing; a page which I can imagine that many a man unused to the melting mood would not undertake to read out aloud without a break. But this inability to feel with those who have been most deeply moved by the earlier design of the same great master—sovereign over all
