It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, to acknowledge one exception
to the general rule of criticism. One writer, endowed with the
keen vision and fine sympathies of genius, has discerned the real
nature of 'Wuthering Heights,' and has, with equal accuracy, noted
its beauties and touched on its faults. Too often do reviewers
remind us of the mob of Astrologers, Chaldeans, and Soothsayers
gathered before the 'writing on the wall,' and unable to read the
characters or make known the interpretation. We have a right to
rejoice when a true seer comes at last, some man in whom is an
excellent spirit, to whom have been given light, wisdom, and
understanding; who can accurately read the 'Mene, Mene, Tekel,
Upharsin' of an original mind (however unripe, however
inefficiently cultured and partially expanded that mind may be);
and who can say with confidence, 'This is the interpretation
thereof.
Yet even the writer to whom I allude shares the mistake about the
authorship, and does me the injustice to suppose that there was
equivoque in my former rejection of this honour (as an honour I
regard it).
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