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When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he
did pull out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me
up the causeway, calling, as we entered the court,--“Joseph, take
Mr. Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.”
“Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I
suppose,” was the reflection suggested by this compound order.
“No wonder the grass grows up between the flags, and cattle are
the only hedge-cutters.”
Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man: very old, perhaps,
though hale and sinewy.
“The Lord help us!” he soliloquised in an undertone of peevish
displeasure, while relieving me of my horse; looking, meantime, in
my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need
of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no
reference to my unexpected advent.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling.
“Wuthering” being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of
the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy
weather. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all
times, indeed; one may guess the power of the north wind blowing
over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the
end of the house; and by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching
their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Happily, the
architect had foresight to build it strong: the narrow windows are
deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting
Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of
grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the